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wordvango Sep 2014
Every day I reveal
I give a little more
something special, so real to life
a different side of life
those pieces of me no one can steal
every night I'm where it takes me
to where I find that part of me
that needs no excuses
nothing to change
nothing to add to
But what if it isn't the truth? What if I am a product of fear? When I look at my keyboard, I remember things I cannot say aloud. That is the darkness.
nothing to subtract
the fairy of all things sharp and dangerous.
a day in the sun a light
That casts no shadow,
Pushing through all darkness
To reveal the only truth
a smackeral here,
a smidgen there
i stitch into the weave
as my truth
as i can bare,
leaving me naked
and bereft
but as a milliner of words
so fine
I stitch together a tapestry
of twine
upon a silken bed of shadow
the words, they matter
on the morrow
Twisted threads of golden thought
weaves crimson tears
that taught
the one that orates
as they weave
leaves a pattern
that can't deceive
cleft, my palette
of words, sacred,
alone but not forsaken-
created, awakened and tasted
and i stop for a while
to taste the silence between words
the echoes of my steps
roaming inside a dream
Chinese boxes with corners that
domino like the seals
of envelopes, they
stick to sticky
seals of words,
telling of straw earth.
sinkhole, the word frightened me as a child
even now I tread lightly
allaying the inevitable
i tread lightly, lightly... allaying
the inevitable
babble of...
"lustful gushing
of wordlove
that cascades
from my brain
enervated, regenerated
obligated
to explain
the gears
and cogs
of this
clockwork world
write....again
and again
the never ending
refrain
oh listen to the silence
listen
between the words
from
the death of one breath;
to
the birth of the next
I wish to make a poem  of community involvement. I have started it with the first four words. It is an experiment to see what may be created by many minds, many contributions. To add to this poem, place your words you wish to add in Quotations  in a comment . All contributions will be added in sequence. All will be added, nothing deleted. Help if you can. Let us see what many might create.

10/12/2014
Now I wish to acknowledge all who contributed in order:

I wish to acknowledge all the authors who contributed to Community poem. In order of contribution:

Ana Sophia
Venusoul 7
Vicki
wolf spirit aka quinfinn
Aussi Air
robert martin
Cheryl love
aivustianumus
Tryst
lizany
betterdays
Helen
r
irinia
Courtney Pruitt
patty m
betterdays
robert martin
Derick Smith
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
i can walk in the street with canned beer
and appear to be ******,
because alcohol gives me buddha eyes.

alcohol is always looking for a righteous expression,
it's abused all the time,
it burdens the n.h.s. all the time,
it has too many idiots succumbing to it,
it requires someone to drink
and be an intellectual, simply to pardon
alcohol in the conglomerate
of ****-ups, hangovers, puking in toilets,
et cetera et cetera.
when used with sleeping pills and a paracetamol
tab it's the perfected sedative,
i sedate myself, i don't drink to party woo hoo!
encountering a bunch of marijuana idiots
giggling over a pickled cucumber pimples
ha ha... pickled cucumber acne... ha ha...
enough about my drinking...
loving it anyway: it's holiday within a jolly
good day... passed a young blonde and an old ****,
they were having a therapy session in
the park... second time i pass them i end up
whistling as they pass, the old **** is telling
the young **** to look the part and assert
some for of happiness, marriage and security
and the dead man's dole to keep her interests
in perfumes and clothing afloat...
i tell the ancient oak it's required to be brown,
while the colts miscarry brown with penicillin green,
marshmallow and fungi, both squidgy,
the octopuses of the forest,
mush watered-fevered-of-shape for an umbrella
invented, latest the 18th century, with an aeroplane.
other than that?
i accuse the beatniks of desecrating sacred grounds / tool,
they invoked the use of words, they recorded their
experience of ancient indian / aztec shamanism...
carlos castaneda* quoted the shaman don juan
as saying: the experience is for you alone...
the beatnik poets started to write about the experience,
werther's original (butter sweets) turned sour,
they invoked recording their hallucinations,
**** them, **** them **** them **** them!
the mystical experience has been eradicated,
any more talk of neil armstrong and walking on the moon
parallels the desecration of these hallucinogenics
with words, these american poets desecrated the one
single dimension that could not be written about:
they walked on the moon and wrote about it...
i know nostalgia and all that, but give us a break!
the only people taking peyote these days
are rich white girls who end up injecting the concentrated
version of the natural, the essence, into their arms...
god said analysis... man said: synthesis (and analysis)...
although i dare to add the fact that there are two
strands of poetry: one that looks like a morning hangover
haircut... and one that looks like the taj mahal
of rolling marbles...
for example: ezra pounds' and ginsberg's poetry
looks great, and i mean great, they write like
they telling you to use a microscope...
but they don't have the voice to orate...
whereas gregory corso's poetry doesn't look that great,
actually it looks like ****, too simple,
but when he orates it... HE ORATES IT!
maybe his life gave him the power,
i wish i could orate like him, in fact, i never had,
the most i orated was impromptu
and it was never noted down...
but the point is: those who orate perfectly
write a simple aversion to the other strand of
poetics that is relegated / more interested in optics:
rather than a stage, a crowd, a voice "in the wilderness;"
all in all, my affiliation with hades.
wordvango Oct 2014
I want to thank all who contributed, viewed, commented, shared.

Community poem

Every day I reveal
I give a little more
something special, so real to life
a different side of life
those pieces of me no one can steal
every night I'm where it takes me
to where I find that part of me
that needs no excuses
nothing to change
nothing to add to
But what if it isn't the truth? What if I am a product of fear? When I look at my keyboard, I remember things I cannot say aloud. That is the darkness.
nothing to subtract
the fairy of all things sharp and dangerous.
a day in the sun a light
That casts no shadow,
Pushing through all darkness
To reveal the only truth
a smackeral here,
a smidgen there
i stitch into the weave
as my truth
as i can bare,
leaving me naked
and bereft
but as a milliner of words
so fine
I stitch together a tapestry
of twine
upon a silken bed of shadow
the words, they matter
on the morrow
Twisted threads of golden thought
weaves crimson tears
that taught
the one that orates
as they weave
leaves a pattern
that can't deceive
cleft, my palette
of words, sacred,
alone but not forsaken-
created, awakened and tasted
and i stop for a while
to taste the silence between words
the echoes of my steps
roaming inside a dream
Chinese boxes with corners that
domino like the seals
of envelopes, they
stick to sticky
seals of words,
telling of straw earth.
sinkhole, the word frightened me as a child
even now I tread lightly
allaying the inevitable
i tread lightly, lightly... allaying
the inevitable
babble of...
"lustful gushing
of wordlove
that cascades
from my brain
enervated, regenerated
obligated
to explain
the gears
and cogs
of this
clockwork world
write....again
and again
the never ending
refrain
oh listen to the silence
listen
between the words
from
the death of one breath;
to
the birth of the next

I wish to make a poem  of community involvement. I have started it with the first four words. It is an experiment to see what may be created by many minds, many contributions. To add to this poem, place your words you wish to add in Quotations  in a comment . All contributions will be added in sequence. All will be added, nothing deleted. Help if you can. Let us see what many might create.

10/12/2014
Now I wish to acknowledge all who contributed in order:

I wish to acknowledge all the authors who contributed to Community poem. In order of contribution:

Ana Sophia
Venusoul 7
Vicki Bashor
wolf spirit aka quinfinn
Aussi Air
robert martin
Cheryl love
aivustianumus
Tryst
lizany
betterdays
Helen
r
irinia
Courtne­y Pruitt
patty m
betterdays
robert martin
Derick Smith
Mariyam Ridha Dec 2020
Oh,
my dearest,
Humans ain't even enduring,
then how are we envisioned to
have endless instants.

Moments,
treasure and worship,
such that it prevails eternally,
It's the only way it abides.

isn't it so outlandish to lament on
past moments by neglecting the present?.
Live in the moment,
grasp devotion, yearning, enchantment
and sparks.

only those moments get you
lessons,
not what a triumphant businessman
orates.


We gotta glorify the misery,
idolize the brokenness,
embrace the solitary,
endear the faithless souls,
because all this is what,
take you somewhere in the sky,
to thrive,
to grin,
and to live.
live in the moment
Brent Kincaid Nov 2017
He has little sense of sorrow,
He thinks of fond tomorrows.
He’s a fabulist, a dreamer.
Not quite a true schemer
That would be too hard.
More like a half-awake bard
Making up poetic outcomes
For a reality that never comes.
Mostly he’s a ***.

He’s a moonbeamer,
Sliding down colorless rainbows
That he paints himself daily
Proclaiming about how gaily
The emptiness of his canvas
Has so sadly missed us
And somehow we are to blame
For not managing to be the same
As he is by appreciating
That which is not there.
He has daydreams to spare.

He shares his hopeful possibilities
That are not always practicalities
Made of unborn actualities
And fanciful surrealities
Painted over his shortcomings
Hoping nobody will see them
And talk too badly against them
Ahem-ing and coughing phlegm
When he orates and pontificates
On his latest boilerplate stories
Of his imagined future glories.
Lost in his own thought stream,
He’s a totally hopeless dreamer.
Deja la procesión, súbete al paso,
Íñigo; toma puesto en la coluna,
pues va azotando a Dios tu propio paso.
Las galas que se quitan sol y luna
te vistes, y, vilísimo gusano,
afrentas las estrellas una a una.
El hábito sacrílego y profano
en el rostro de Cristo juntar quieres
ron la infame saliva y con la mano.
Con tu sangre le escupes y le hieres;
con el beso de Judas haces liga,
y por escarnecer su muerte, mueres.
No es acción de piedad, sino enemiga,
a sangre y fuego perseguir a Cristo,
y quieres que tu pompa se lo diga.
No fue de los demonios tan bienquisto
el que le desnudó para azotalle,
como en tu cuerpo el traje que hemos visto,
pues menos de cristiano que de talle,
preciado con tu sangre malhechora,
la suya azotas hoy de calle en calle.
El sayón que de púrpura colora
sus miembros soberanos te dejara
el vil oficio, si te viera agora.
Él, mas no Jesucristo, descansara,
pues mudara verdugo solamente,
que más festivamente le azotara.
El bulto del sayón es más clemente:
él amaga el azote levantado,
tú le ejecutas, y el Señor le siente.
Menos vienes galán que condenado,
pues de la Cruz gracejas con desprecio,
bailarín y Narciso del pecado.
En tu espalda le hieres tú más recio
que el ministro en las suyas, y contigo
comparado, se muestra menos necio.
Él es de Dios, mas no de sí enemigo;
tú de Dios y de ti, pues te maltratas,
teniendo todo el cielo por castigo.
Vestido de ademanes y bravatas,
nueva afrenta te añades a la historia
de la pasión de Cristo, que dilatas.
¿No ves que solamente la memoria
de aquella sangre en que la Virgen pura
hospedó los imperios de la gloria,
el cerco de la Cruz en sombra obscura
desmaya la viveza de su llama
y apaga de la luna la hermosura?
La noche por los cielos se derrama,
vistiendo largo luto al firmamento;
el fuego llora, el Oceano brama,
gime y suspira racional el viento,
y, a falta de afligidos corazones,
los duros montes hacen sentimiento.
Y tú, cuyos delitos y traiciones
causan este dolor, das parabienes
de su misma maldad a los sayones.
Recelo que a pedir albricias vienes
desta fiereza al pueblo endurecido,
preciado de visajes y vaivenes.
Más te valiera nunca haber nacido
que aplaudir los tormentos del Cordero,
de quien te vemos lobo, no valido.
La habilidad del diablo considero
en hacer que requiebre con la llaga,
y por bien azotado, un caballero;
y en ver que el alma entera aquél le paga,
que capirote y túnica le aprueba,
mientras viene quien más cadera haga.
Y es invención de condenarse nueva
llevar la penitencia del delito
al mismo infierno que el delito lleva.
Desaliñado llaman al contrito,
pícaro al penitente y al devoto,
y sólo tiene séquito el maldito.
Dieron crédito al ruido y terremoto
los muertos, y salieron lastimados;
y cuando el templo ve su velo roto,
el velo, en que nos muestras tus pecados
transparentes, se borda y atavía,
de la insolencia pública preciados.
Considera que llega el postrer día
en que de este cadáver, que engalanas,
con asco y miedo, la alma se desvía;
y que de las cenizas que profanas,
subes al tribunal, que no recibe
en cuenta calidad y excusas vanas.
Allí verás cómo tu sangre escribe
proceso criminal contra tu vida,
donde es fiscal Verdad, que siempre vive.
Hallarás tu conciencia prevenida
del grito a que cerraste las orejas,
cuando en tu pecho predicó escondida.
Los suspiros, las ansias y las quejas
abrirán contra ti la negra boca
por el llanto de Cristo, que festejas.
¿Con qué [razón] podrá tu frente loca
invocar los azotes del Cordero,
si de ellos grande número te toca?
A los que Cristo recibió primero,
juntos verás los que después le diste
en competencia del ministro fiero.
A su Madre Santísima añadiste
el octava dolor, y en sus entrañas
cuchillo cada abrojo tuyo hiciste.
Acusaránte abiertas las montañas,
las piedras rotas, y a tan gran porfía
atenderán las furias más extrañas.
Y presto sobre ti verás el día
de Dios, y en tu castigo el desengaño
de tan facinorosa hipocresía.
La justicia de Dios reinará un año,
y en dos casas verás tus disparates
llorar su pena o padecer su daño.
Cristiano y malo, irás a los orates;
al Santo Oficio irás, si no lo fueres,
porque si no te enmiendas, te recates.
Y, crüenta oblación de las mujeres,
vivirás sacrificio de unos ojos
que te estiman, al paso que te hieres
y te llevan el alma por despojos.
Serán videntes demasiado nadie
colindantes opacos
orígenes del tedio al ritmo gota
topes digo que ingieren el desgano con distinta apariencia
Son borra viva cato descompases tirito de la sangre
Un poco nubecosa entre sienes de ensayo
y algo mucho por cierto indiscernible esqueleteando el aire
dados ay en derrumbe hacia el final desvío de ya herbosos durmientes paralelos
son estertores malacordes óleos espejismos terrenos
milagro intuyo vermes
casi llanto que rema
de la sangre
Sus remordidas grietas
laxas fibras orates en desparpada fiebre musito por mi doble
son pedales sin olas
huecos intransitivos entre burbujas madres
grifosones infiero aunque me duela
islas sólo de sangre
When knowing a man who emigrates through the hemispheres, who dialogues with his senses, that he gets tired as if marasmus were overtaking him, contravening his health, and his odorifying need leads him to balance, but an insane frenzy stigmatized any reasoning by not enjoying his style of life. It is continually said that he wants to be a witness to his existence but does not approve of leaving him, subdued by his psychiatric condition. Let hatred remain numb, and perhaps I will not let go of having a living companion close by. What God Make his power trustworthy, and not only in misfortunes go to the union of forces, in the worrying mutuality of help, of the nascent good of the origin and not grant it in administration to the wealth of weak and innocent brains. And I, who still sharpen my flooded will, who more defensively underlies his aneurysms, barricading the escapes towards a worse evil, perhaps relentlessly I will prosecute myself or ****** me away. Motivated is my perfection and not the contraction of the wandering humanities. This world of orates is an aesthetic world of theirs, now that I know not to belong to the singularity, I will calmly know how to alienate myself more, and if I am to be evil, I will ride the Leviathan or the enemy of Ahab's wooded foot, so that together with them in the confinement he goes in search of stimulation and thus appears among them before the same madness. I raise my neck in fear to see the frightened rabbit, fleeing by the fire emanating from the dragon shotgun, as if he saw myself reflected in him so defenseless and unable to wander through his extensive and own habitat, clean of the superior beasts, delaying the greatness expressive of my freedom, of my recognized and predictable meaning, because if my legs feel like thin rows, I can use my arms with confidence, just like the dog run over in the Prehistoric Park.

After a few nights of wakefulness and being immersed in a ****** battle, he makes a preamble to the pain, which is his physical lumbalgy and lithiasis. The psychological pain makes his fingers entangle as if holding them back so as not to bind the fork to his eyes and not also incur in cooling his brain with high doses of alcohol. Because Libídine's troops are ready to set sail and dilate and cause baseness rage, and confusion, which reveals nothing other than being very vain, like discarding the feces. Dizzy is the drunk, destroying neurons with the saline dendrites circulating in his adult body, taking the healthy infantile body away from him. In a strong need to open his eyes, he abruptly comes out of the animistic scholastic dream, where his patriarch the subconscious shares in the awakening and retaining operation of learning. He finally woke up alive and last night if he slept. The morning light spontaneously passed the sclera, and like a very light feather, it rose with its usual companion leaves on his back; calling them ... my sheets!

Another majestic and sunny day greeted him, and the birds that fled to the south, came back inviting rejoicing, inviting happiness, the immortal joy of not being locked in loneliness and bitterness for a long time, but that this hommo in its violence will depend on nature and what each bird carries around the world in Mission of Peace. I know that within the captivity that I endure my conscience has experienced, the same hell enveloping my whole being on the edge of the cliff, where I will fall and float in the burning breath of the flames.I know well that neither countless myths nor superstitions will elucidate the torrent of guttural and non-guttural voices, and those that come from the nucleic experimentations of the origin of the voices that seek outlets to expel them. When he ate with great vigor, he felt his super-manhood emerge, which made his yearning for freshness and power arrive, as if only knowing that he was very strong in every way and very perceptive. Ludwig says that there is nothing to hide, so he will take advantage of going out, and this time he will do it in the direction of Lake Calypso, where he recreated the view of him, and why not, he will share with another homogeneous to his intentions. This will shorten the time left to see his Antoinette, and that her sculpture will hydrate the emotions vexed by Debra's ingratitude, even though she was a passenger on his trip. Her stay at the Lake was serene and with an even climate, that is, the legacy of a good Christian was transmitted by the light of the lights that illuminate the planetary Earth. Ludwig shortened time and at the same time the possession of his spirit, which was the multivalent relic that reached wherever his thought wanted to go because he was gifted in projecting beyond his borders; his consistent body and feeling comfortable with himself and what surrounds him in that beautiful Lake. In the lakeside places of the Earth, none of them should cause him the same pleasure, as has happened with his pupils that, ticklish with laziness, fall into a sleep that he did not expect ...:

The Dream

“The high dome of the Abbey, where the symbolic cross dominates with ******* and authority, is the panorama, where the date or the day is not known. This Abbey can be seen from any point of the Orb, where its architecture delivers the grandiose mystical profile, full of wonder and exaltedness. He is walking along the bay, almost in the final twilight. The night is the darkening stain that suggests relaxation shock, and fatigue; a Mystery of the same feeling of shelter, of the sea cold that also suggests the multiple verbal messages of the Sea and the sky. Where Selene's sparkles bring millions of messages to the plasma, and that it receives them gracefully with dilated and flabby pores. He continues to walk among the crowds that perhaps throw themselves at the brights of the Moon or the stars, or at the artificiality of their belongings. When suddenly the Abbey reddens from the base to the cross, radiating light beyond its profile, until in a short time it became flaming ripples --- Ludwig said What heat ... it's impressive ...!, but something has to be done, I can't stay like this. Not very high from the cross, a few meters away, a pale light turned, with great force that was supposed to have some connection with the burning fire of the holy Abbey. And that light always revolved with the tendency to go out of its orbit, and with unequaled evil to incinerate the Ecological City, his beloved city, where for the first time he saw the light. And so the evil sleeping pill happened, an unknown light left its orbit in the direction of the sea, falling on the dense aquatic mantle. While Ludwig ran without direction, others did it with panic and tremulousness, they were right because from the dense water a ship emerged with crew members who were only exterminated and nobody could escape, not even the most pious, nor the strongest, nobody escaped from the radios exterminating shots. But Ludwig remained unharmed, he saw that the Abbey did not burn, on the contrary, it was reestablished. Looking at the sea he watched the slaughter of those beings, exterminating everything, absolutely everything. Through the middle part of the hills of the city he was still running, perhaps as the only survivor. Saying ...: “I must have caught some baseball bats lying around. Who knows if I would ****** some moment of death and fight with him to save myself, but that was not, and what I carry in my hands is the invisible weapon, the hopeful weapon, or the surprising luck. But the inhabitants of the Photoprism continued their destruction, and the nocturnal black was seen as the hemochrome of callous bursts of dread. Only some voices said what only the pain allowed them to say, placed in the center of the suffering with the unknown of not understanding death and all the derivations. Today the deadly Photoprisma, killed the lives of those who possessed it, as if wanting to ambition the bay and the Abbey, and it seems that these are not the only ones in the Ecological City, but that there is more than the land itself that the light did not disintegrate. Later it dawned, leaving the ravages of the Photoprism drag. It vanished as it appeared, threatening to appear in another magnetic field ... Ludwig walked confused, but safe and sound ... "

When in the dream he became light, in the Calypso Lake the air-cooled that later awakened his dream. Upon coming out of sleep and lying very relaxed in the lake that nurtured him, he was able to contain the murderous attitude that lived in him, and that greatly confused the love he felt from him towards others whom he would smile and caress him. Even his being forgave the men of the Photoprisma, but no matter how affectionate he felt, he would still be lost, and like everyone who is self-esteem he wanted to tell someone what he had dreamed of. He says ...: Debra, Debra ... Where are you ...? Why do I like to see you ...?, I think his body is beautiful, his beautiful lineage, his proportionate *******, they are of a true muse. And now that I try to communicate with her and with my philosophy, I see that by the long or short way I will reach her, and even if it is simplistic Debra, I will want to visit her and extend my hand with everything the heat accumulated towards her, like that of the puppies and her owner.

So the motionless waves keep her passionate love a secret and do not lose position so I will always have a wish in good anathemas to deliver. Perhaps the messenger that I look for in myself will be the thought that manages to bring Debra closer to subtract her true humanity from me and me from her. And the resignation spirit that exists in me today is how she died indefiniteness. It is the spell of man to men who do not forget what is important.
Weirdly Emigrate Chapter V
kate Jan 2021
acuity soon softens, fermented by a sapid surf singing of elusive green tides and driftwood epiphanies left to litter dulce shores

each sun bleached body is fissured and crumbling, our freckled limbs akimbo across coquina terraces of fossilized froth, we trace the

speckles of sunburnt kisses between collarbones, as the scathing day's paramours, our bronzed shoulders are branded with mermaid embraces

at the calves of palm branches' sapless colloquy detailing tangy, cloven skies and the velvet undulations of acerbic white sands that tangle with infant foam

the ocean orates in guttural, white capped hymns which crescendo on shivering sand, sirens draped in cerulean blue murmur their tidal magic

and across our suntanned faces, the shadows of intumesced clouds rest, as wind carries the fragrance of droves of sea bitten fruits into salt-weary nostrils

our nomadic conversation shies and shimmers, surfing vagabond currents, the afternoon's tidal effervescence purses these escapades

in shivering boughs of sea mist, the ocean swathes shore-ridden limbs, the promised praxis of the sea as she croons from her maritime confines
Hands down the most dramatic change ever needed to make the most profound impact awoke from helping beget the first offspring. An internal paradigm shift reshuffled priorities such that the helpless newborn necessitated immediate attention.
     Whatever task held my attention at a given time, the cry of said progeny triggered and quickly trained an obligation to become a first responder of sorts.
     Yes, I readily admit that at first blush selflessness grudgingly accepted, but quickly an avid enthusiasm became manifest.
    Matter of fact (and much to the surprise to this chap who never served as caretaker for infants, nor young children), an instinctual natural protection arose concomitantly with attention, affection, and adoration as the ensuing years tending (to thine eldest daughter and approximately twenty six plus months later another heiress begat), this role of fatherhood entranced, galvanized, and inspired me toward increased selflessness.
     The overpowering raw emotional of first time fatherhood emotional, financial, and spiritual impact shook my entire corporeal being to experience supreme tenderness, which set me to step up affinity to write (poetry seemed a natural modus operandi de jure, which sample seems apropos to share at this juncture.    
     Though thee empty nest syndrome long since elapsed, I happened upon thee following verse while scrolling along memory lane recording incipient onset of parenthood, when the missus underwent routine planned parenthood in College approximately two score and eight earth orbitz ago late March/early April ninety ninty six.

December 22nd 1996 bundle of edenic joy

Twenty seven years plus ago
faux cap’n Matthew Scott
twittered n burst with ahoy
on account of thine first borne –
unbeknownst to us then if a girl or boy
so an unusual assortment
of gender appropriate names –
(some brazen others coy
others an utter embarassment
verbal remonstration our offspring

especially when older, would deploy)
filled pages of our journals, viz
newly minted parent’s endless employ
though of Semitic ancestry choices
per namesake reflected more ova goy
which genealogy less significant
than precious progeny healthily fused
vis a vis via being masterfully charged
two sets regarding
twenty three pairs of chromosomes
that did miraculously alloy

into a healthy genetically whipped miracle –
crème of the crop
that only imaginary dragons
reigning over a vampire weeknd
with fiery red hot
chili peppered lyrics could drop,
whereby flute tour ring notes
induced crowdsource to hip hop
calisthenics that emulated
swishing brush strokes of a mop

which if attempted by myself,
would witness one culled sic pop
so, he sticks with ranks, viz his literate
*** spur ray shun to confess
those thermostatic and
temperature controlled emotions more or less
extolling occasions that held poignancy,
though as a first time father
my state of managing a newborn
felt chaotic and a sorry mess

though words resonated less
gifted with beautiful daughter,
she most likely happened
to be oblivious asper YES
mine hand felt hogtied,
yet over ensuing years –
the integration characterizing  
Rites of (aiding) spring  
our suite firebird
did indelibly impress

an invaluable psychic ring,
whereby initial awkward role
no longer on par
to foster teaching child
autonomy for her existence,
(albeit demanding at times –
synonymous with any other
infantile pang), thine essence
acquired an acute attentiveness
to her basic needs and wants

likened and linkedin to pay obeisance
per a special offering,
whose absence and permanent separation
as a responsible grown woman
makes mine heart didst grow fond
(and psyche doth twinge
with nostalgia) asper
those long day's journey
into night, when I could attest
she declared  and constituted

daddy's girl, yet mandatory
to let go of this biological offshoot
part of me (within human league
to the  babyhood, childhood,
and emerging adulthood
attended, mollycoddled, pampered
she extruded, and had me
wrapped around her little finger
cuz, now perhaps happiness sprung
from within herself

she sought guiding light
as days of our live sped by at lightspeed
now, a mixed bag of emotions wrestle and roil
inside mine corporeal being,
I praised and prized accomplishments
(rarely admonished)
spurred by natural borne desires
for potential Atalanta,
(who loved running until an injury
brought said passion to screeching halt),

nevertheless she became independent
rather than shutter herself up
as exemplified by das papa,
who still writhes, seethes, and orates
many forfeited explorations
of natural self discovery thwarted
renting my psyche asunder
with lightning mailer daemons
still on the prowl
and trawling like bot size internet trolls

within the windmills of my mind
essentially futilely explaining
mein kampf and hard times
impressionable years of emotional,
financial, interpersonal and social toil
repercussions forever unfairly induced
upon the darling lass
pronounced upon this star student,
who suffered sheer agony
when asked – by classmates -  
the vocations of me “Herr father

or Frau mother,” neither gainfully employed,
which vicarious taboo
(county assistance still evokes stigma,
particularly for outliers like us
living social along MainLine)
zapped, tortured, inflicted
crisis nearly destroyed yours truly,
cuz of utter embarrassment, misery,
writhing really vociferously
within genetic blend, whose love
not asked for nor sought unequivocally.

— The End —