"offerings" poems
“Moby **** Herman Melville
<•>
~for the lost at sea~
after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining
the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls
sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality
I’m called to depart my beach shoreline unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming
god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion, nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties
my in-camera brain eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles
walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?
puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others
perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered
Memorial Day 2018
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
~.~.~.~
floating
on the breeze
swirling
in a swoon
laments in
blue and purple
are the
petals of the moon
waned a
crescent of a flower
waxed to
cabbage rose
now the
tight held tithes
sift down
in
airy
floes
lying in the grass
of a dark
wide-open
field
sweet
swanning
petals find me
moon's offerings
revealed
i inhale their
fragrance
their light sweet perfume
they cover me
with kisses
the
petals
of
the
moon
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows
cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak
We grow here
with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation
seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march
downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They move in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing,
Moving
wearing the city on our minds
like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet,
We'll wear their dreams at night
like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking
and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders
under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
sometimes when i'm asleep i hear whispers.
ghosts of all the men i let decimate my sanctuary
thinking they came to worship.
the men who came with flowers,
fragrances and exquisite offerings
who left with my sobriety.
many pieces of me are
somewhere in the world
being given as bounty to other women
expecting to be loved as i did.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 2:13 PM UTC
sunflowers lean in the direction of the sun
although this sunflower leaned in the direction
of the warmth that came from the moon
the mysterious light that attracted the flower
not from what it was familiar with
a new experience and a new way to bend
--
although the moon sung with the flower,
pampered its petals with faraway words and
danced through shadows that felt so close
the moon was in the sky
the sunflower danced, lone
in its own lonely patch
the sunflower was the sun of its own
danced to its own tune, smiled, laughed
was so sure of the world and its offerings
but the moon had its own tune
a slow, cautious, steady, unsure
dance.
the sunflower thought to please the moon
whenever it could with its own light
to dance as the moon's stage and to love
but the sunflower could only dance
for so long, until a petal fell
from its yellow petal crown
the sunflower could not evaluate why
it danced for its love. it simply had
to keep dancing
although the sunflower knew that
its petals were falling off
and the sunflower had bent too far
the sunflower had its own frustrations
but the moon hurt wherever it shined
the moon's songs were so achingly
tearful
the sunflower hardly had any petals left
when the moon began to shine its light in another direction
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
Darkness, it falls like a massive leaden shroud
Over this quiet valley as the dusk infects the sky
Pleasant faces fade into the shadows of the night
As the demons of the dead and dreaming come on out to play
Howling at the moon
Swarming through the streets
Lurking in the shadows
On this night of Halloween
Carve the faces, light the candles
Offerings must be made
In the cold October moonlight
To the Phantoms of Samhain
If you fail
If these ghouls are not appeased
You will be...
Taken
by the spirits of the dead!!!
The Tempter's Chosen
And kin to the Grim Reaper
Children of the Darkest Night
Steal mortal souls to feast on
Ghastly transformations
Amidst accursed corpses
We are possessed by the evil of tonight's demonic forces!
Carve the faces, light the candles
Offerings must be made
In the cold October moonlight
To the Phantoms of Samhain
If you fail
If these ghouls are not appeased
You will be...
Taken by the spirits of the dead!!!
By the light of the orange moon
In the dark of the purple night
We linger in these shadows
And wait there, until the time is right...
On this night of Halloween
We roam your city streets
And among the masks of plastic
We can finally be free
So carve those faces, light your candles
Offerings still must be made
In the cold October moonlight
To us Phantoms of Samhain
And if you do not heed these words
And refuse these simple deeds
Well then, my friend
You will be,
Taken by the spirits of the dead!
And if you do not heed these words
And refuse these simple deeds
Well then,
My friend,
you will be
Taken ...
Taken to the grave!
Taken...
Taken far away!
Taken...
Taken by we, the Phantoms of Samhain!!!
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
As this world wretches behind the piles of our institutional bones, I turn to look the other way.
When the beggars graze my pant leg, I don't stop mid stride and feign over their disparity,
For gaining the holy marksmen’s approval. When Judas kissed sanctity’s cheek beside the frames of broken-hearted men, I shook the feeling from my sleeve.
And I no longer feel guilt, shame,
Out of mere cerebral obligation.
So, have me for a worthless sinner. I will fall to the dust before I bring myself to stand beside the husks of humanity that so many have become; spewing their filth on unfortunate blindfolded men, expecting me to follow suit.
Well, **** off, kindly.
I’m living for the god that answers to no titles, and parsonages none of these black suited scumbags. I’m living for the god that inspires harmony, and lifts my fingers to dance for liberation, and pleasure, and hopeless longing. I’m living for the god of progress who shakes pieces of enlightenment from his gray beard, and swallows up the offerings of his every wounded child.
I’m living for the god of no religion,
Never saying
“God,”
For this name is tainted by old customs.
Cheapened by the misguided nature of man.
May 29, 2012
May 29, 2012 at 1:15 AM UTC
Aimless devotion to discontent deities*
sacrificial offerings crucial for good juju
Altar boys and pages kissing feet for wages
Praying to relics
punishing heretics
Burning,knifing,shooting
Oh for the love of god!
Don't believe
Do believe
Maybe just for acceptance
Penance repentance
Breed a way of thinking
and get many precious berries
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 3:00 AM UTC
Year after year
purity of fire
is challenged by evil,
appeased with offerings
A full moon looks on
as winds stoke embers,
flare flames
to a flickering dance
Right in the center
of crimson blaze
sits Holika,
Prahlad in her lap -
her arms a circle of heat
White sparks fly from her hair,
eyes smolder in fury;
her mouth ***** in air,
engulfs rice and wheat
Wood chars,
coconuts splinter,
flowers singe
smearing earth with ash.
Year after year
faith survives.
Holika burns to death.
By Unknown
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
Hades,
God of the dead
King of the underworld
And all of its shades
The Unseen,
Giver of Wealth
Keeper of the hound Cerberus
Brother, one of a grand trio
With sisters of wonder
The renowned wealthy one
Judge of the dead
Mighty ruler is he
Keeper of mortal souls
Great is he
Upholder of the balance
In the kingdom below
Mortals, how they tremble
At his sheer power
His word is his command
Strong is he, astounding among the gods
God of peace for the deceased
Upholder of funeral rites
Defender of burial rights
Due onto the dead
Regal is he
The all-receiver
Blessed is the abundance
Of wealth he bring
Mysteries of the dark
Oh great one
Whom mortals hold
Both honor and fear
Whom many indeed revere
Divinely dark
Hands upon the earth
Reaching far below
To his realm, his domain
Sacrifices to him,
Offerings to the King
Whom ride in chariot of gold
Drawn by four horses immortal
From his kingdom below
The legends that did grow
Carrier of the scepter
To guide the shades
With his power and mystery
Thousands know his name
The God Hades
- Jay M
October 5th, 2021
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 1:28 PM UTC
When his eyes first fell upon her
She was choosing avocados
In the fruit and vegetable aisle.
And he watched how her thumbs lingered
On the base of the alligator pear
And pressed, maternally.
He feigned interest in the cabbages
Whilst sensing her delicate architecture
Through his peripheral gaze.
He thought that somewhere,
In real or imaginary life,
They would soon bathe together.
And when they did,
They soaked for years in secrets,
Details suffusing through their lips and arms,
Water-hole satisfaction and moonlit deserts
To make them feel they might have transcended cabbages
And be pervading a rhapsodic realm
They forgot their friends watching in greenery,
Subsumed by each-other,
They felt no need
To live in a world of relativity and apples.
Their love-traced sphere tightened around them,
Until it ****** at the edges of their skin
And wailed when they parted.
Tighter it grew, elastic dug into their humid thighs
Contorting their once harmonic bodies
That used to fit like crosswords.
And they each became ugly to the other
As the seconds ingested their perfection
And they bickered like flailing urchins
In a deep sea soiled darkness.
Decisions were made and paroxysms detonated
And they were taken back by their
Fungal friends with tissue offerings
And ethanol.
Time passed, and memories were binned
Periodically on tuesdays
Until neither knew the other
And they would pass in the supermarket
With no more than a quickened gait
And a silent thud in each ribcage.
But neither could buy avocados.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 12:18 PM UTC
Teammates supplement for family
Black and white pentagons are the walls around me
Studded shoes fit snug as skin
Practices beg for offerings
We give them Blood
Wanting more, we give sweat
Arguments with my family bring tears
We fight for every moment
Our pulse pumping with the seconds on the scoreboard
The score is never important
All that matters is our sisterhood
We are one
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
Shackled by whims and desires.
The selfless and the selfish, Danse Macabre.
Who holds the key to these manacles?
Is it me?
Or is it you?
You are the spider and I dance through your tangled web of desire.
But your desires cannot be sated by my sacrificial offerings.
Do you desire at all, my dear?
You skitter through the woven webs, devouring the innocents trapped in silken tombs.
I beg of you master, please, show your mercy to your subservient.
Release me so I may release you.
******* is not becoming of you.
1/1/2016
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
A lump of eminence
Swells in her throat,
But she swallows it down
Flashing a shiny, humble smile.
This wild dandelion grows in the sun
and dances to the beat of the wind,
Scattering seeds of peace
And songs of love
In every corner of the world.
She floats among the stars
Crashing perfectly into
Every illustrious constellation.
As she shakes the stardust from her hair
And dusts her glitter-speckled shoulders,
She reaps the benefit
Of her selfless, meaningful offerings.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
If ever I thought I was
worthless
useless
an empty vessel to hold the blame of the world, I was ignorant.
In the shadow of others I did not realize I was outgrowing the limited social garden bed of my ‘friends’ and companions. Friends would be an overstatement and a title many of them have never and will never earn. As a Scorpio my trust is not easily gained, and one lost, it is gone forever. Something in me, though, always forgave, but kept the trespasses against my trust cataloged, loaded, waiting to fire across my synapses is self destruction.
If ever I took your interest as a sign of friendship, I was a fool.
If ever I opened my heart to you, if ever I extended an almost maternal hand to you I was an idiot.
My body has been run ragged with its attempts at pleasing all and apologizing for its darker nature. My narcissism has become a survival mechanism that I once thought needed you.
My soul is weary of your needy hands, your open-bird mouth that I keep feeding more and more of my soul. Compassion has an end with me. In this game of survival, I will always be the fittest and you’ve stopped entertaining the animal within me.
I am worth so much more than being drained of my entirety. I am manifest energy as you are, as the earth is. Like the Earth my resources have been tapped and I can give no longer. Like the Earth I shall strike with ground shattering vengeance.
If ever I thought friendship was giving you everything for nothing in return, I was blind, for I am a Goddess as you are. I am a Goddess as you are a God, and your meager offerings of passing interest and constant need are insufficient. My inner patriarch has fed of your male-centric patterns of thought, and the women of my past lives are too loud in protest for this to continue.
I deserve much more than “friends” like you.
& most of all
If ever I thought my thighs were a sufficient reason for me to hate myself, if ever I thought they were an excuse for you to disrespect me, then I was a *****
Because you are an *** hole.
And my body is rad
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
when i want inspiration to write poetry
i watch a heaving tempest of kisses
they have a better flavor
than cooking shows
what's prettier than pretty pretty
in pigtails
shaking her delicious
derriere whipped Soufflé?
i'm kissing butter princess
witchy ****
spread lickity splits
eating her
with a big wide **** eating grin
like an open face dagwood
whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring
of
Adonis's plumper in paradise
filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue?
ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy
merciless, pa-leazze
fluttered big wet talking eyes
like pools of blue honey
getting it zigged zagged
hard against a redraw mouth
throttling fluted gullet
while eager throat gasps
a symphonic music of the spheres
in relentless staccato chokes
lovin her big devil **** splashing
all gym built wonder-boy
a litter of ****** and tongues
licking pig greedy
rapturous milkshake waterfalls
whimpering
mmmmmm
oooh big daddy
oh my ****** god
pillar of colossus
you Tunisian donut you
pierce me like a spoon
through summer guava
who screams like that eating lunch
but a half ate apricot?
better than a football game
I'd rather take her greek
more fun than math or small talk
preferable to a pat on the back at work
or a ridged procession at a funeral
oh beautiful dark fig
squatting crotch candy
bubbling tapioca ***
queen of
spun sugar ****
all pyrotechnics
and fluttering sinews
if you asked most
do they watch ****
they'd grow smug like a senator
or punch you in the mouth
outwardly high-minded
refusing the blessing of a
video **** parade
of pirouetting vaginas
and glistening areolas
for the glory
of the secret ************ ceremony
the *** moralists
only good for a secret ******
living their lives
with passions submerged
and nothing to confess
except for guilty offerings
as they wander through dreamland shopping malls
wanting to know
Victorias ***** little secret
seduced
but not caressed
by
a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
Tech tonics and honesty following repeated offerings to beings I don't think, think that I belong anymore.
Not that it bothers me I'm used to feeding apologies to cretins who'd like to think they walk on water
I dropped the scene along with anyone I met that shed a tear or was met with fear at the thought of me in harm I think
I can't love again
And what's worse is that you couldn't care less
I'm not a monster, but you treated me just like the ones in your head, yet I told you things to doubt when you never should've
You had no business saying you loved me in the first
I fell after, I can't handle my emotions, thoughts, I've lost my confidence and I don't care enough to get it back.
Your now engaged to a guy you introduced me to. **** you.
I wish I could even hate you, but I only hate myself. WHY.
I wish for death, or destruction, or cataclysm, or flood, or plague
I'm an empty vessel, ready to become
Undone.
Hooray.
(Update I’m getting better)
May 3, 2022
May 3, 2022 at 2:13 AM UTC
Sprang forth with no branches or leaves. Small roots.
Bore mangoes, papayas,guava and bananas. Hybrid, mid limb grafting.
The trunk is a figment but it stands non less. You see
my family tree never was and always will be.
A roadside shade with low hanging fruit.
Was never planted.It was a deposit from the bowels of an exotic bird
of the jungles that sampled at leisure the offerings of the rain forests.
The Hardtack and marmalade came on ships with the kings business
Mixed with the Nigerian Fu-Fu ,the Aztec maize the Mayan legumes.
and all points of the compass.
Old Joe Denegri, The Blancaneaux , The Cattouse, The Melado, The Pinks
The Flowers,The Orozco and more. And boundless from the ***** of opportunity.
Piecemeal and untethered. But it is the tree that I must cling to.
However rough the bark.
The sap runs heavy and slow in the humid Belizean heat.To meet the earth.
Cool breezes blow a haunting disharmony. A sweet unity in chaos.
The soil is rich,pungent and forgiving. Soon, A bell tolls in the distance.
The Sea mists my dreams.
A stairway of coconut fronds to azure skies.
Nighttime smells like creation.
The still slackened pace.
The small rat race.
Tempest in a teapot.
Urban-rural.
Coolie gal.
Creole boy.
New Chinese.
Old African.
Ubiquitous Espania.
Garinagu. Mosquito coast.
Children of Mennon.
Old Basque faces.
Things we call races left with small traces
of what?
My tree, her tree, histree.
I am you and you are me.
I see me in your face and you see me.
We are and will continue to be.
Blended.
a hybrid. An orchid wild.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
I remember marble that wanted heels,
clip-clop echo of women who belonged.
I wore slip-ons with socks,
easier for those of us who come to scrub
other people’s lives.
The elevator was a box of mirrors,
infinite versions of me-
I bent my head to escape them.
His office door ajar,
his voice stretched thin across a phone.
The girlfriend cooks,
spicy food,
_place a ******** he said.
I had seen much worse-
houses where mold clung to the ceiling,
where grief leaked through the wallpaper.
The vacuum hummed its G-note spiritual.
I worked the nozzle into the skirting boards,
let my mind braid song and ritual,
a drop of lavender for closets,
labels straightened like soldiers on parade.
No one asked for these offerings-
I gave them anyway.
But he winked at me
while telling her _love you, babe,_
mouth syrupy with lies.
A twenty left on the hall table-
a tip that branded my palm.
Later, the bin bag tore,
Madras red bleeding into cream carpet,
pears bruised soft in their sweating wrap.
The stain spread like a hand
that gripped too long,
that would not release.
I cursed the ceiling,
the word **** echoing like prayer.
was only twenty,
scrubbing strangers’ luxury
to keep myself alive.
That day I left more than lavender-
a fragment of myself,
pressed into the carpet,
silent as the stain.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC
Halfway between Malta and Saco,
Highway 2 stops a minute
To look back...
Beside the road
A little shrine waits
The traveler:
A stone, naturally shaped
To form a sleeping buffalo,
But etched with lines to emphasize
The dozing buff's back and sides
And drowsing head.
Nearby, a 1920s entrepreneur
Saw money to be made...
Set up a happenstance hotel
Beside the hot and sulf'rus spring,
And "Sleeping Buffalo" was born
To "heal" and to amuse
Odd tourists in their wandering.
Not much has changed...
The old buff sleeps,
But now inside a little pen
To keep the tourist vandals
Safely from his way.
The old resort is open still...
Same rusty pipes and yellowed walls
And rusty water
Warm enough to stain
Unlucky bathing suits.
(The smell's enough to force
The bather to the bath as medicine....)
On my way to other places
I have stopped along the road
To meditate beside the old stone bull...
I understand, a little,
Now that I am growing old,
Tobacco offerings left
Beside the sleeping stone.
Though not a Pagan,
I can feel the distant Ways
Before our Western ways
Made tourists of us all.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 10:43 AM UTC
I. TO DIONYSUS (21 lines) (1)
((LACUNA))
(ll. 1-9) For some say, at Dracanum; and some, on windy Icarus;
and some, in Naxos, O Heaven-born, Insewn (2); and others by the
deep-eddying river Alpheus that pregnant Semele bare you to Zeus
the thunder-lover. And others yet, lord, say you were born in
Thebes; but all these lie. The Father of men and gods gave you
birth remote from men and secretly from white-armed Hera. There
is a certain Nysa, a mountain most high and richly grown with
woods, far off in Phoenice, near the streams of Aegyptus.
((LACUNA))
(ll. 10-12) '...and men will lay up for her (3) many offerings in
her shrines. And as these things are three (4), so shall mortals
ever sacrifice perfect hecatombs to you at your feasts each three
years.'
(ll. 13-16) The Son of Cronos spoke and nodded with his dark
brows. And the divine locks of the king flowed forward from his
immortal head, and he made great Olympus reel. So spake wise
Zeus and ordained it with a nod.
(ll. 17-21) Be favourable, O Insewn, Inspirer of frenzied women!
we singers sing of you as we begin and as we end a strain, and
none forgetting you may call holy song to mind. And so,
farewell, Dionysus, Insewn, with your mother Semele whom men call
Thyone.
__________
The Homeric Hymns in the Hello Poetry collection are provided by:
Online Medieval and Classical Library.
Source site: http://omacl.org/Hesiod/hymns.html
4.2k
Oppression, a monarch with a crown,
Limits resources in every town.
No reason to hasten, no reason to strive,
Content with meager offerings, barely alive.
With corruption and barriers abound,
Progress is hindered, hope is drowned.
The bright minds, afraid to take flight,
Chained to the system, a slave to the night.
No greater malice than silence so deep,
Stifling progress, and secrets keep.
Perfection in negligence, light in the shade,
Obfuscation the art, truth to evade.
The God that troubles, the tyrants that bind,
Crushing brilliance, dulling the mind.
In quiet desperation, with hopeful elation,
This poem, a message, a call to liberation.
May it strike deep, may it shake the ground,
May it expose the corruption that's found.
May it pierce through the veil, and bring forth the light,
May it break the chains, and set things right.
The oppression, corruption, and silence enthralled,
May they all fall to the might of my words so bold.
May it be a catalyst, a spark that ignites,
A revolution, a change in sight.
I hope my poem strikes a mighty blow,
A wakeup call, for all to know.
The power in words, the power to call,
I hope my poem, I hope my poem kills them all.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
Sinking like a carelessly cosmic ****** on the 4th of J-U-L-Y, while a distressed young mountain lion lies on your feet.
Watch out for the cautious rubber shark inside the lines. It'd be something like Frank Zappa stuck on a deserted island with a dealer of his liking or disdain.
I believe in outlandish crazy industrialists in the distance between here and nowhere.
Lucifer has been infused with witchcraft and crack ******* Mindless ******* Thank your God.
Excellent nutrition is being presented as gluttony. Which in turn has caused your little sister to make daily offerings to a porcelain god.
Pleasure didn't invent rebellion but rebellion did however invent pleasure. Don't confuse the two.
A believer is magnetically drawn to immorality, much like man is to faith.
Inspiration simply radiates free energy and a smile should never be compared to a frown.
Dreaming can be mistaken for productivity. Dream big people, dream big.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC