"obeisance" poems
So many words are being spent everyday
Each of them, used to construct a bridge
Where communication can take place
And meet half-way, to greet each other
Wondering, if that what is to communicating
Only based on words and the verbose
Have we bothered to see the many layers
Which makes up the fragile ecosystem
Yet, so often we go on eroding the surface
Leaving it bare and exposed to threats
That communication will be wiped off
Not long, with the undermining of feelings
Communication will have borne the brunt
Of our callous attitude and lost forever
Not only waves of words that washes away
The beauty of meaningful communication
It's time, we also listen to each other's heart
And pay obeisance to the silence that speaks
Communication will have a fair chance to survive
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
1317
Abraham to **** him—
Was distinctly told—
Isaac was an Urchin—
Abraham was old—
Not a hesitation—
Abraham complied—
Flattered by Obeisance
Tyranny demurred—
Isaac—to his children
Lived to tell the tale—
Moral—with a Mastiff
Manners may prevail.
6.8k
I last saw her in Santiago
******* drunkenly in a Sub urban taverna
parading conceited pride in a twisted union
with that ******** heinous maniacal harlequin
each in vainglorious throes of their imagined septic mindfuck
Debauch celebration of collaboration of succubus and incubus
Some days she is saying Haloa in Hawaii
adorned as Sainti Maria the ***** now as Madonna
spewing words like a dove acting like a Nun in a Convent
the fiendess with two faces hiding her ****** like the ace in lace
the malignant serpent crawling in the duality of her neurosis
I last saw her in Santiago
In a sanctity of the poisoned insecures with exiguous minds
consumed with flaming fears she begs acceptance for inclusion
******* for percieved reflected glory from her fathers' jailers
The subjugated souls of chai wallah lives on in grandchildren
So when Santi Maria flirts from honey to beehive
Ready to ***** and part thighs and brain for minor pointing gun
Feel sorry for a damaged child devoid of a prime core never made
only obeisance to past rulers whose discarded cast-offs she wears
Her poems enchants but its virulent tools she takes in her body
I last saw her in Santiago
A slaved two-faced pretender who sings like a nightingale
In sub urban dives she postrates to friendly pats and gropes
Melting creeps and hot tigers begging subs for a heady drink
Brilliant yet blindsided to **** on knees as her children will too
Copyright@LaurenceA20thSept2018Allrightsreserved.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC
Masters of the Universe,
three and some,
nearly four
months tween
me and you
that words
interchanged,
prayers,
asking for the answering job
which was handily God-to-Man
transferred, transfused
tween you and
me
a/k/a
Job...appropriately
you may recall
I was the bloke
who immodestly spoke,
asking any and all
circulating deities,
to tender
their resignations
post-haste,
immediately
for failure to do
the appointed rounds
well enough to this
human's satisfaction
now don't go high hopes expecting
a large confession
about how hard,
ya see it really is
tending the flock be...
nope
I ain't here to beg of you,
take this onerous
from my shoulders!
no, no, capitulation,
my track record
maybe not much better
than what went before,
but you know what I'm about to say,
cause you are perfect
well I still don't like
what satisfies your perfection definition
for my fellow humans,
so I'm keeping this job/Job,
for another few months,
cause I am.
Human
enough to know
that humans keep on trying
and you just gave up
and said let them do what they want
between human to human,
as long as they pay us obeisance
I put sins of
man to fellow man
as my número uno priority
and if the number of prayers diverted
back to you,
in your inbox receiving,
are just the
dues paying kind,
keep'em,
I got more important things to do...
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
left brain, left brain
logical and literal
logarithms and lessons
long nights with little light
left brain sees the one
we love
and stays away
because it's the right thing to do
right brain, right brain
romantic and ridiculous
poetry and promises
dreams and darlings
yet to be killed
right brain sees the one
we love
and shrivels up dead
because being so close and so far
is too much for one to bear
when your heart is impaired
left brain, left brain
sees sights of soaring smiles
sees sights of somber sorrow
and squashes it with seas of cynicism
because left brain knows better
those people hurt us before-
why let them hurt us some more?
right brain, right brain
silly and sentimental
attaches arbitrary attributes
to objects of ominous obeisance
because right brain is impulsive
in this moment, they are everything
so they will always be everything-
right?
left brain, right brain
dynamic dichotomy
different and drastic
secure and stubborn
too strong-willed to back down
too lonely to break apart
disagree as we may
we know we might as well stay
for everyone in life needs a friend
and left brain and right brain
will be together until the end
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 8:08 PM UTC
in ashes hidden, smoulders god of love
from matted dancer's focus conflagration purely come
continues still perhaps in empty homage
of a sa ta na ma
personage of ((Shiva))
white bones pierce the sky
in upward curtain-seethes of heat
beyond imagined burning hells...
the triad ventures into zero-zones of anti-life,
sands of absolute defeat.
shadow trust imparts
a silent teacher's mantras;
soothing psychic words,
"Bala" and "Adi-Bala"
carry over dunes of morbid thirst--
the gape of ancient serpent-maws
choking dust of frightened, elephantine skeletons
fissured by immobile sun--
their inner sound become cool water of a summer stream
in timeless desert, traverses strain of royal line:
god-fated tutelage of seedling savior,
lightning skill with bow and virtue sinew
shining arms horizon's arid form:
despite begrudging honor kings expect
when offspring given after years
in hard-earned sacrificial grace:
yet still obeisance ends in facing demonaic rage
to which is pitted youth to slay--
despite allay by symbol feminine,
as if to question her abode would conjure her
in dire storm and quake announce gigantic step and hairy gulf--
with arrow sprays destroy Thataka's trident, curdling throat
the slitting of, rejoicing pantheon proclaims heroic,
forever railing under epic breath of tacit page theodical:
"we gave you progeny, now grant us our theocracy;
before your son our asthras lay their weaponry"
.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
The creator of the universe
Our whole existence
Our tradition and way of life
The beginning and the end
The divination and religion
Of our people
Odu Ifa our literary corpus
The grand priest of Ifa
The mantle of Olodumare
The builder of the Ifa Oracle
Ile-Ife your city of abode
Orunmila,
Orirun ile Yoruba
The master of Aseda and Akoda
The Aalafin of Yoruba land
The Ooni of the Yoruba mantle
Our spiritual system of existence
Orunmila,
The supreme being
The Orisa of all orisas
Esu bows at your feet
Obatala trembles at your voice
Ogun makes an obeisance at your sight
Osun lays down at your coming
Yemonja proclaims your might
The divination of Ifa
The prophecy of the Yoruba heritage
The founder of earthly beings
The Ese Ifa
Orunmila
The principal Odu
Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 12:26 PM UTC
The Allusionists (Mary Winslow and Jeff Steir)
these two allusionists (not illusionists!)
composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.
I am a career criminal. I know.
these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.
for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.
the allusionists.
the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.
I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.
I do so admire their tapestries.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC
~for Steve R. & Stephen Y.~
*"two regrets are mine -
not finding you earlier in life when...words would have carved for me a better road, and...not hand-ing you a touch, the perfect tightness-shake of one's hand reserved for fondest friends and the light press on one's back deserved for dearest brothers!"
~~~*
the light press surety of five fingers on one,
oh, what messages it composes, oh, what duty weighty it transmits
dear brothers:
tho this hands-on handoff, this fly-over, is still a
mission unaccomplished,
yet no regrets, please!
men don't overuse superlatives,
what you lovingly uncover in my rocket-verbal Mars probes,
is more telling, more revealing of who you are,
than any hand-tightness shake,
any touching grasp, could e'er convey
yet I promise, forsworn upon the cross
of the north west Pacifico latitude and longitude
a latitude that just happens to intersect
my olden, new english state,
knowing that Interstate 90
a straight transcontinental shot,
and the car keys just an impulse grab away
to tell your arms, your face, your back, our hands,
that when you love my poetry,
you love me,
you friends,
are an affirmation of Pablo Neruda's words:
***"whoever discovers who I am
discovers who you are"***
fondness is not distance constrained,
touching grasps pay no obeisance to time,
the honor of your affection permanent
affirmed and enflamed,
all mine, sublime, to lead my heart,
where to lay hands upon your back,
to realize even more
our single united rhyme
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
Unknown Variables
The phrase pokes me the eye,
demanding obeisance and a
poem,
My compliance is required,
not demanded, but required,
for the “unknown variables”
conundrum, roots around in
my brain cells necessitating a
cleansing,
Walking down the street is
fraught, unknown variables
everywhere, popping out like
cutouts on a law enforcement
shooting course, requiring
instant delineation between
killing not good guys and only bad guys,
no hostages, civilians and no them,
poets,
Can you test for unknown
variables?
Of course not.
Unknown is a condition,
that you cannot drop in
to ascertain what condition
your multiple conditions are
in,
Then there is you.
You,
reader, are an unknown
variable, ripe with nearly
nuclear reaction potential,
you are fissionable material,
capable of destruction of
my explosive
creation,
Assessing the poem,
do you conclude,
keep/discard, remake?
now,
poem a known variable, asking
that it becomes a parcel of
your multivariate inputs,
a familiar variable, that can
charm, destroy, mislead, or
even, fulfill a need, make a
reckoning, modify your brain;
all those dangerous things
that are permissible when
first you read a newly constant
known variable,
a perpetually reborning
poet?
postscript
-------------
my name is brandy channing
and once upon a time,
I was e STEM major
Dec 1, 2023
Dec 1, 2023 at 2:41 PM UTC
Flummoxed,
In labyrinths of
Baleful forests with
eyes of gibbet makers
and buried undertakers
through gloaming sights,
hobbling towards the light.
The silver teeth of
obeisance sundering will,
plundering peace,
blazoning smiles of
malicious beings.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
~
<>
*nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees
Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)
poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence
compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...
the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.
a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious
the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty
bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips
a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example
listen, see!
silently presenting,
this,
this!!*
a day that demanded perfection
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
Think you can walk on me?
Think you can walk away?
Think you can take me?
I know your darkness, honey.
I know your corners full of cobwebs and shadows,
The places within you.
Think I'm innocent and pure?
Sure.
I have not torn lace and tasted flesh,
Or sharped my fingernails on the ridges of a spine,
But I have been to hell, sweetness.
Been dragged below a grave,
Gouged wet dirt with mine,
Desperate hands scrabbling to pull me back
To rainy bitter nights.
I have lain bare and ****** on the cold stone floors, stained blue and black,
Burned beyond a breath, beyond thinking,
Beyond hope.
I've been brutalized and torn apart inside.
To compare evisceration to the blooming of a rose,
To say I've had the far away gentler time.
To think I am naive as you suppose,
That I couldn't possibly know the foreign lands
Traveled by your mute experienced hands.
Think because I ask for you I need you?
It is my nature to give, but not to take.
Not to take love when I am not offered it,
But also not to take any more ****
If you look into my eyes, do you see fear?
Of anything, in their depths?
Keep looking, search away-
You'll not find it here.
You'll see my rise and fall, my grand absurdity,
But you'll not see my obeisance
To someone who will not match me
Mile for mile,
Straight down.
I have seen hell, you see.
Gazed long and hard and deep.
Purred savage in its velvet caress-
The way you have unzipped a dress,
I have unzipped my skin
And stepped out.
So look on, look lust, look IN-
I am no white snowflake, glittering
Fragile and quick to melt and meld.
No sniveling child begging weakly to be held.
I am a rainstorm drumming on my own back,
A rhythm and reminder of the tenderness I lack,
I am a lightning strike,
Sudden focused and intense, the white
Hot touch of the phantasm immense.
I am the song of suffering and of love,
I need no substance to loose my demons,
No dizzy fiery nectar to lose my mind.
I am complete unaltered, and sublime.
I have known centuries beneath my skin,
If no one's touch,
And words of every meaning through my wanting veins
For wanting such.
And you, girl, are not worth my time.
Push her blushing into bed, raise her pulse to reeling heights,
For I have pushed the world beneath my kneading hands, and pulled the sun to night.
Ravage rashly through the silly schoolgirls that you find.
The way into a woman's soul
Is the seducing of her mind.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
*As the surface clouds cleared
and the sovereign sun arose
My perspective was no longer fixed
on what lay below
Yet on what awaits before me…..the unknown.
I fly, with the rocky shoreline behind me.*
Maria
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the emperor of the solar system
demands obeisance
but for half of our life
ceding us to the
super moon's sequestration,
a velvet coated, cosseted,
the other-half-of-a-lifetime
remainder reminder
of the divide no poet
can supersede
yet, even these planet pulling,
tide churning bodies
are eclipsed,
their torrented powers
have human
shortcomings
orbits prescribed, predictable,
they too can only look down
upon us and wonder
what if and what lays beyond
their lawful curves
but I can look up to you
watch you, human,
so powerful are you!
you, you, you
can reset your course,
irrespective of tides, gravity
I can watch you
rephrase your life,
knowing that my eyes
cherish what ere,
before in time,
what will be your
course selection
as I write,
I wonder if
my thoughts sufficiently
clarified,
do they require editing?
no matter,
the way they fall is
how they'll be served
I live with the same orbs,
and the winds that lifted your wings,
changelings of perspective,
now but the breeze that coats me,
were the hot air currents that lifted you,
now here, days later,
my genlest cloak,
as I inscribe to you
and the waters that I see,
not lapping today,
but modestly erupting,
the same Atlantic green
you have seen days pre-me,
but my shoreline sandy,
rocks removed,
for your comfort,
awaiting your arrival
the woman sends the seagull,
French Toast is ready,
(one piece, that talkative white bird's commission)
coffee hot n' salted
all ready, prepped to your taste
and for some reason random,
clueless why on, in my Long island offshoot sheltered isle
tears wave over my cheeks,
which I must erase/disguise,
before the repast begins
Surprise!
How came thee to be at our table?
How good the meal will taste,
now that you chosen to fly/stop by!
and this gibberish nonsensical
cup of words
is your welcoming present,
for here,
humans are the sovereigns,
and the celesetes bow to our wishes,
we select our own direction,
regardless of how the orbs try our souls,
we are most powerful human,
sovereigns of our selves
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
1000
The Fingers of the Light
Tapped soft upon the Town
With “I am great and cannot wait
So therefore let me in.”
“You’re soon,” the Town replied,
“My Faces are asleep—
But swear, and I will let you by,
You will not wake them up.”
The easy Guest complied
But once within the Town
The transport of His Countenance
Awakened Maid and Man
The Neighbor in the Pool
Upon His Hip elate
Made loud obeisance and the Gnat
Held up His Cup for Light.
1.4k
Festooned with the heraldry of doom,
a gilded, wainscoted room,
whose occupants drink ale in an oozing swarm
while harpers harp a solemn tune.
The lioness gives obeisance to the new king
with an offering
of suffering,
and warm droplets of water...
Two fates inseparably soldered
by misfortune,
on this, the longest night
then toward the light
and not beyond.
Again, backwards, repetition, turning.
A yule tide with no pull
from the heavenly orb, burning.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
A black maid enters.
Cowed, inarticulate,
she makes obeisance to her mistress,
our erstwhile heroine.
She is given a menial task
in a perfunctory fashion,
and you thrill at this splash
of historical colour.
But her mistress's command
is irrelevant. She is fully engaged
with two vital functions
with which I have entrusted her.
The first: she has bathed our heroes
in moral ambiguity -
she is a shortcut to complexity,
rendering the important characters
doubly fascinating,
bathing them in pathos.
The second: she has pleased you
as you recognise your own outrage:
"Why must she be black?
Why can't they treat her better?
Don't we live in finer times, you and I?"
And a happy reader
is a reader who will proceed,
enlivened, vindicated, affirmed.
And thus freshly enslaved,
she returns
to the sculleries of my imagination
as we press nobly on.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC
~~~
Testimony & Majesty: Oh God, Why Do You Inflict Me?
~~~
Morning dawning...
Thickened whitened whipped cumulus
come crossing,
no frenzied froth,
moving slow royal, stately,
as if they are the pride of a
celestial navy,
peaceful ships,
crossing from my portal to your port,
traversing from my shade
of the blues,
over to you, poet,
to your personal screen-adapted
CinemaScope version sights
This wind buffets,
re-directing my
morning~borning hallelujahs
this wind, nameless,
call it chipper, fulsome and volatile,
a proud pusher selling a waking up
near-chill pill,
to accompany the real+imagined
armada of nature
it, near and nearer
to you,
to the sky we inhabit+share,
its ***** stiffening energy,
makes some
hide inside,
not me,
I'm outed by the
harsh welcome~touch of this
realized reminder -
who is the master,
who is but
an obedient servant,
choicelessly writing his
psalmist morning devotions...
another poem of sky, cloud and wind?
*Oh God why do you inflict me?
with this time after time obeisance
when I am
metaphor drained and disabled,
abject of adjectives,
simile frowning upside downing,
have we poets not done our dutiful
illuminating your bountiful works?*
yet here I am,
a soul surviving,
incapable of resistance,
your frosted creatures persistent,
wrest my visions into prose,
to add to your overly full Facebook page,
with more fawning praise...
*Angered have I, you, for now nowhere,
tropical rain squall tells all,
humans are toys,
born to serve,
silence your complaining~explaining,
and from nowhere with
rapido intensity rising,
down pours drops of scornful
water whippings,
demarcating our
incoming existence inequality...*
and yet with your
yang and yang,
a reproach for me,
for as it waterspout pours,
it also pours sunshine,
a mystifying warning
to the put-upon poet,
that in the admixture
of nature and life,
all is conflicted,
all is tremulous beautiful,
and now is the
due time...
*due, you,
to complete this treatise as
testimony to majesty...*
~~~
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
Can we please have a moment of silence? shhh! That is for shame
The consciousness of impropriety and dishonour, a soul eating emotion, an inner burning flame.
Disembarked and render anaemic by a queen dark and evil, for with her, shame is non-existence
Blame her not, her wicked soul is the caprice of affinity with being an outcast and unlove
For before her heart became embroiled with dark powers and all the ingenious gore that accompany an unrepentant soul,
She had the lassitude of the perfect woman, a languid ease, the obeisance, lovable heart and knew nothing foul
But deep inside her aching heart, all that she suffered silently, she could enlighten no one, from her devastated childhood,
the sheer indescribable horror of neglect, unreturned love, the treachery, the villainy, melancholy motherhood
And castigation made her seek power even into the maelstrom of the blackest tempest of the darkest part of hell.
Her hunger for power and macabre mode of it acquisition, renders the thought of her been shameful, lilliputian
As she journeyed towards the castle, her conscience wasn't pricked by volatile outbursts of her sins from the angry crowd
she knew what she wanted, she sold her soul for this, she knew this was what she has to go through to get it.
A rite of passage stolen by lucifer from the Saviour of the world
Let them strip, beat, and mock you.Let them make you walk through there crowd disgraced,
but be rest assured that when all is done, you'll be the ruler of all
For too many a time, the story has been told,
be you good or evil, fortune only favours the bold.
The castle was her own Golgotha, the throne was her own cross
beyond that castle wall lies all that she needs to rule and have dominion
for there in that castle live the old man and others waiting to make her there queen
I was swift to condemn her for all, but after a retrospective thinking, my judgement became ambivalent.
wasn't it judgements and condemnations that made her felt sequestered, separated, segregated and all other equivalent?
To be continued......
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
#*Pay your obeisance to the Lord,
you'll be paid back with prosperity.*
The priest towers above the throngs of devotees.
Within the Lord's precinct is a rush for repentance
the arrogant bows down here
the wealthy falls on the ground
the poor renews plea.
The priest preys on their prayer
the Lord's coffer is full.
In that heavenly scene,
all sins are forgotten.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
The breeze is forceful, but not stiff,
it is the tropical storm's long lasting,
Arthur's lingering kiss goodbye,
(like the ones taken and given at airports and train stations,
volatile, wild passionate)
the breeze is anything but stiff,
it flexes, gusts, whipping sleeves,
coffee coolant excellent
the waves are rollicking,
revealing their white underwear,
but wise sailors say no thanks,
the bay pure, no vessels surface contaminant this morning
the sun apologizes for its yesterday absence,
claiming the aquifer cried out very thirsty,
so it took July Fourth off,
but now the water table rising,
the sand colored soil dark, rich, wet,
the grass cleaner, greener,
but the lawn, branch littered,
the wounded of the weather wars
the sun, a bit embarrased by his absence,
waits patiently for that odd fellow
by that dock, in that chair solitary,
to do his best poetic explanation well enough,
so that all summer rainy days will be
past and future forgiven
and the odd fellow taps and tends
to the living crowd surrounding him once again,
recalling he once wrote of leaves frothy waving
like cappuccino foam, and was that not
years ago and how could that be?
though the atmosphere is modest agitated,
the poets heart now, leavened and levitated,
for rain must have its due day,
purposeful, somber, serious, endless repeating,
(some say cleansing, but not he)
laughing at himself,
outdoors he writes
differently,
lighter than air, crafting careful
a single sonnet of suntan lotion odors,
and natural songs of bass drums in ear thrum,
and one thought alone,
criss crosses repeatedly,
yes, that one,
"wish you were here"
and he goes inside to get fresh coffee,
greet the woman sweaty fresh from yoga.
she delayed, the ferry captains paying obeisance
to the self same breeze,
but the seagull observer,
stands in place of the odd fellow's guard and watch,
during his temporary absence,
bulkhead posted, cawing in his stead and on his stand,
in seagullese,
which the poet speaks oh so well,
mantra chanting the poets
and the breeze's refrain too,
wish you were here
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
This anodyne morning *** of tea,
Is clearing the nebulous morning,
Plans that threatened to topple on me
Have muted much of their scorning.
Still there is reticence to put to the shovel
This mound of pending work-a-day tasks
They clutter my head, my week, and my hovel
Snoozing away days behind farcical masks.
Why do you mock me, oh gods of inaction?
What did I ever do to your ilk?
Did I once neglect to grant satisfaction
Tributes in gold, obeisance or silk?
Secretly though, I plan retribution
For what this torpor is stealing from me.
I'll wield hours of output and contribution
Office deliverables and domesticity.
But oaths and threats deliver poor solace,
Whilst I pontificate, not facing my work
The monster of time still tends to his malice
And here I yet sit, among the tasks that I shirk.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
everything else confines a
space between eyes an
informant, i, capitulation
finally breaches the wounded
water. you facilitate this,
with only a small clue. i
didn't write conviction down
my arms for nothing. at
least i hope not, this hopelessly
dawning i, this reality in
which we gravitate. find
a path to your palm. a
visceral obeisance you
may find in my eyes. a
low hiss, my heart leaks
to make space for you,
oh darling anew, the
inside of my chest
is snowing.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
Her tiny fingers
Commanded I live
And subsequent requests
Engendered her worldwide knowledge.
I am something
Times many somethings
And she is me
Cubed to the power of three.
My wayward wants and casual lusts
Taught her young of all the usual haunts
She would keep me in line
For a goodly time
But soon liquor and women would e'er undo me.
In deepest woe I'd approach
My young charge at her worst
Consume all throwables
Yet hug her tightly to my chest.
And toward my Mom I'd quake
Without even a choice to make
I'd offer some symptom of obeisance
Even as she waved off the cretinous.
My young love would
Magically invoke the same
And before I knew it
I was grovelling at my mother's grave.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
Eager to offer obeisance
To their heavenly preceptor Prajapati,
Gods, demons and humans,
His triple progeny and disciples,
Bowed before him with reverence,
Seeking his parting advice and guidance.
Pleased with their faith and devotion,
The divine teacher called them by turns
And uttered "Da" - a lone syllable;
Paused for a while
And asked the gods
To explain its significance.
"Great Sire, you say - subdue yourselves."
In a flash, the gods realized
Their powers needed great restraint.
"You advise compassion," said the demons,
Conscious of their nature, too cruel.
"It denotes - give, share your wealth" -
The humans said, for they knew
They were avaricious.
Though the same syllable all had heard,
In different ways, they thought and felt,
In tune with their innate traits
And the master said they were right.
"Da, Da, Da," - the voice of Thunder
Exhorts the world even now,
Be generous, merciful and self-restrained -
To ensure happiness for all mankind.
**** **** M.G.Narasimha Murthy,
Hyderabad, India. [email protected]
Copyright: MGN (author)
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 8:46 AM UTC