"paean" poems
Three Minute Warning
A messenger delivers
A three minute warning
As I lay in bed at 10:30 am
(Resting in preparation for,
not from, our oops, early morning hike).
Breakfast will be ready in 3,
Get your **** in gear or else
It will be cold, I'll be mad,
And you will answer to a
Higher Authority.
No problem cause I already know
All I need is two.
Splash water on my face
Now I'm presentable
enough to the human race,
current company probably won't be happy,
But I ain't telling her, are you?
Shave! You crazed?
It is a three day weekend,
Every day a July Fourth,
Celebrating freedom from the European tyranny,
Of shaving smooth every day!
Splash water on my head, count with me,
Five brush strokes as you can plainly see
Is a classic case of overcompensating
In my geling n' hair stylin'
Brush my teeth, well,
I hope 2 full minutes of rinsing with CVS
Green stuff, mouthwash, will have to suffice.
Blast my deodorant both sides,
Long and strong, wearin' now
My bold blue *** husk of musk,
Cause I am a very considerate fellow
Who happens to really have stunk.
Clean T- shirt and shorts,
Yes, clean underwear too,
Leaves me a whole minute to write this scribble.
My flip flop noises coming down the hallway,
Are the butler announcing our joint arrival,
Me and my poem.
Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!
Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they ****** ****** ******
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the ***** of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry ***** swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
10.5k
a television interview, Oct. 2018 with Sir Paul McCartney
~for all of us, forever~
<•>
**** you Paul, old man
you trying to make us all look bad?
guess you’re just another
‘miner for a thousand years’
or more,
cause we haven’t seen a reason why the vein should run dry,
for the stolid earth resupplies endless old metal and the liquid veins
supply the need, the urgency of a warm gun of composition,
a drug nonpareil
and the things that provoke,
still provoke once more and again,
love and need, even memories,
petri dish cell regrown,
breathing atmospheric nutrients in the hotheaded hothouse air
of the human farm
‘tis why I paean you at 4:25am understanding full well,
better than most, for once I wrote,
it’s always the next one, that will be,
the flawless poem,
that will permit the laying down of the pen, the guitar
but even flawless is not
“good enough yet”
for all of us, forever*
for “yet,”
even more than forever,
is the most unlimited word we share
~
5:02am 10/17/18
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 2:06 PM UTC
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—
A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung
By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?”
Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride—
For her, the fair and debonnaire, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—
The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.
“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days!
Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the ****** Earth.
To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—
From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.”
3.1k
Most late summer days fade into night holding a tepid dreariness in their breath, beating away with the tedium of the sun from late July through early September.
Yet ephemeral as it may be, the life of early summer is purely sanguine in the face of its oncoming age, as willowy saplings sway in the blustering breezes of June, and sprouts of vivid animation appear all around.
This is when the soul heals, and out of the mulch rises new beginnings and the ripening fruit of various works.
In this early season of summer, many taciturn inhabitants of the flourishing earth made their home, and among them, Lily: a creature of reticence and intricacy.
She burgeoned in attitude and character as days crept forward, extending her limbs upwards in an eternal paean to the heavens― as such was her sinecure and quiet delight.
In this, she stood insular to her ubiquitous family, an outsider to the sisters who flitted about carelessly on the wind, satiny gowns of pink and yellow billowing as they twirled.
Always invited into the fray, Lily was evermore stalwart in her choice to keep out of their plainly sordid affairs.
Yet in her isolation, the night whispered to her many a berceuse.
The sleepy stars implored of Lily’s indolent nature as she gazed into their eyes, trailing across eternity into peaceful slumber.
The night sky held wonders and questions that filled her paltry existence but placed her in stasis with the decorated heavens of her dying season,
Left to wither away with the insidious heat and vibrant splendor of late summer evenings.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
Lo! I lament. Fallen is the sixfold Star:
Slain is Asar.
O twinned with me in the womb of Night!
O son of my bowels to the Lord of Light!
O man of mine that hast covered me
From the shame of my virginity!
Where art thou? Is it not Apep thy brother,
The snake in my womb that am thy mother,
That hath slain thee by violence girt with guile,
And scattered thy limbs on the Nile?
Lo! I lament. I have forged a whirling Star:
I seek Asar.
O Nepti, sister! Arise in the dusk
From thy chamber of mystery and musk!
Come with me, though weary the way,
To bring back his life to the rended clay!
See! are not these the hands that wove
Delight, and these the arms that strove
With me? And these the feet, the thighs
That were lovely in mine eyes?
Lo! IO lament. I gather in my car
Thine head, Asar.
And this -is this not the trunk he rended?
But -oh! oh! oh! -the task transcended,
Where is the holy idol that stood
For the god of thy queen's beatitude?
Here is the tent -but where is the pole?
Here is the body -but where is the soul?
Nepti, sister, the work is undone
For lack of the needed One!
Lo! I lament. There is no god so far
As mine Asar!
There is no hope, none, in the corpse, in the tomb.
But these -what are these that war in my womb?
There is vengeance and triumph at last of Maat
In Ra-Hoor-Khut and in Hoor-pa-Kraat!
Twins they shall rise; being twins they are one,
The Lord of the Sword and the Son of the Sun!
Silence, coeval colleague of the Voice,
The plumes of Amoun -rejoice!
Lo! I rejoice. I heal the sanguine scar
Of slain Asar.
I was the Past, Nature the Mother.
He was the Present, Man my brother.
Look to the Future, the Child -oh paean
The Child that is crowned in the Lion-Aeon!
The sea-dawns surge an billow and break
Beneath the scourge of the Star and the Snake.
To my lord I have borne in my womb deep-vaulted
This babe for ever exalted.
2.2k
“a decade old is forever new, for
truth is never old.”
Pradip Chattopadhyay
this man, ten years of inspiration, ten years of friendship, here,
on HP,
provides nourishment to my lagging body as it nears eight decades
of Earthly occupation, for
his eyes and heart and his mastery
of the songs of the tongue,
have wrenched me straight,
we, attentive to the tears
he makes me weep, for his insights penetrate my insides,
even now as one, unexpectedly, reflects midst
yet another first poem of the day, my eyelids blink away
the wet,
my brain revels at his pithy, how he corrals,
encapsulates the daily smoke and fire of life,
it truest value,
in words that make one wonder,
what admixture of mineral, chemical, history,
adventures, atmosphere, parentage, spices,
love gives him these super powers to gentle
seize the moment, size our souls, causing my
cheeks to wide smile, while mine eyes sheds
monsoon droplets of feelings so deep, that
my repaired heart oxygenates my very soul,
making me high, my mind reels that a day will
come inevitable
that one of us will be unable to sit by side,
swapping tales of granddaughters, and
other earth meaningful events, to walk his
streets or he, mine, finishing each other’s
couplets.
to think that I awoke with no intention of
composing this paean, but his brief pearl
knocks my head side to side,
and with the
tears, come words,
that age, or an entire
decade,
cannot restrain,
retrained to modesty,
for regarding my friend
Pradip,
my boundaries expand and cannot be
contained, even by my delimited vocabulary,
the paucity of my skill, the insufficiency of
the adjectives acquired over a lifetime, but
do my unequal-to-the-task best efforts,
but without choice, but compulsed, compelled,
one more time, to say,
to my new day,
perhaps my last,
I love this poet~man.
this is one of my truths.
<>
Wed Jan 17 8:31am
City of New York
<>
read the poetry of
https://hellopoetry.com/pradip-chattopadhyay/
<>
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 12:27 PM UTC
Bathtubs don’t work for quantum suicide
But every time I take one,
A part of me dies
What was nice under the crescent aglow?
Drunk on stars, or the moon lit show…
Ash of night, cradled what was once mine,
The repertoire of ever-syncing- jawlines.
Puissant is the chalice, its exaltation shined so bright,
Bestowed liberation underneath the chatoyant light,
The open windows left niveous fogs-
Breathed -stained –air, against crystal *****
Alive and one, under the entire earthly tempo,
Together left her organic imprints of art nouveau.
Beneath the warmth and petrichor ground,
The Lord and Lady commence to be crowned.
...Tree roots sink as veins of gods.
The serpent whispers his mellifluous facade...
The sharp shove of love’s first arrow
Lover’s spit, a seed for cupid’s bucolic furrow.
Scripture of Solomon’s *** temple of doom
All within the nicotine-stained-blue-infrared-bedroom,
Velvet allure, bellies of vigor,
The cold point, the pulled trigger.
Dance of Thelma, ancient cults of non-lovers
Feasting north, under the Horned God’s antlers.
The concoction of the widow’s deviated lust
Skins alive, the excited wolf-mans’ husk…
The gun’s mouth ex hailed bullets of smoke
Piercing hot wounds became tender lilts in up word strokes.
Still, they brought, perforating ice knives through the chest
Catching fades perpetually, just until two came abreast.
The shadow dalliance and hair pulls leave those weary,
The anise flower seeds sanction the suffering query.
What was once so beautiful at night?
Forgotten, as I turned red-haired-heathen in morning’s sight
So I take my hot bath, inure in my offing.
Emollient paean of the porcelain,
...which is my skin
See you, my ethereal being,
In short time spring will be fleeting
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 11:43 AM UTC
I have been seeking a moment when
My paean would see the light
A melody when your serrated laugh
Crescendoes and obviates all evils
But what I'm truly wishing for
Is to be a scabbard to your sword
The bell that wakes you up at noon
A hymn that you know by heart
And the rituals that you adhere to
Tell me how I could shield
The furtive rhythm of your chords
To venerate the echoes of your fingertips
And be completely absorbed in your silhouette
I am proclaiming my paean
That seems five months of age
But in fact it has been decades
Trapped amongst verses and rhymes
If Hemingway was exchanging breaths
You could be his martini glass
Or the obsession of Shelley with Keats
Or maybe a beer bottle on Hank's grave
But the golden lotus has been outdated
For you are my fierce flames
To sanctify and to revive
And unlike Plath I'm living to see
When my paean would come to life


Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
Hardly Hidden
*for Helen,
the High Definition brunette momma among us*
there are tracks in your arm
ready visible
to all those
with a personal microscope
if one
optically
examines the empty spaces
tween your poem-words....
the exterior all smiles,
whooping it up,
children, all smiles,
tumbling, breaking things,
ceilings collapsing, winters arriving,
as is the way of the kids
and nature,
inexorable,
occasionally
breaking you to
smile too
Abut to all this
is the contentiousness,
the aboriginal sense of loss
for what once was,
plain out in
in the secret messages sent
and
you know
you own
my all
unuttered utter devotion
we need no qualification
of what we are
we are friends,
not drinking buddies,
the straight out
semi-secret fans
of each other
thousands of miles apart
of simple purity borne,
you warm me
with endless jokes
and familial tales
and I thank you
for sharing, for trusting,
me with that troubling notion
that I am missing
a sorrowful deepening
that is
after a wellness examination
hardly hidden
but t'is heard around the world,
gunshot to my heart,
come to me when
ever
is understood that this
paean ~ pain ~ poem
is a simple wayfarer's way
of declaring
forever
I know you are sleeping now,
but when the fall sun breaks,
here is hoping me that you
break into private tears
in private places
like the ones decorating me,
celebrating
the best of what
humans
can be
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
All other seasons usher their expectant Mother--
lay her down, and let her be.
Her's is a great birthing...paean of the eleventh hour.
Air blown lukewarm, honeyed...showers soft as
tears that place the face of growing significance.
Inbreaking rumors of life to be, the exultant charge,
moment of creation split green, thus created to divide
but moment ago where none was.
Early fires of greenery...the irony lost on nothing--
the harshest season precedes the gentlest.
Analogous to the truth of hope, where from the dead
of winter...a flower.
Broken open its color as tangible light, to it--the bee's
figure eight prayer, partaking thereof.
The rampant crisis of consciousness creature to newborn
creature, all immersed in the golden wave of renewal.
It's as if a standing ovation burst in a monastery...
what's been withheld in the making is withheld no more,
Mothered by Spring.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
The Sovereign of Songbirds
Has been roused
Emitting layers of harmony
Borne of exultation, borne of woe, and
Reverberating in the Key of Elysium
Let your dreams guide you.
As the fulgent daystar
Dawns upon your starry spirit,
The musicality, the euphony of amour
Will abide within.
Soar unto the stratosphere,
For the limitlessness of flight
Belongeth to
The earthen vessel waxing ethereal;
Furthermore, it is only achieved through self-transcendence.
Ye are Children of Manumission;
Therefore, fulminate from sea to shining sea
Until the obsidian of hate
Descends into Magisterial Oblivion
Arising anew as The Element of Freedom.
The Requiem of the Revenant shall rise,
The Maw of Darkness will fall;
Ultimately, the Paean of Light will
Resound upon the four corners
Of the Terraqueous Mother.
(Se' lah)
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 4:22 AM UTC
the river overflows down to the sea,
a wintry song to tame the reveled night,
and born of love the stars blaze ever bright,
with soft-ringed beams that sigh like poetry.
dark woven hour, how you inspire me,
the midnight gleams with pools of paean light,
the drowsy moon is shining filmy-white,
the woodlands shrink and dream of sanctuary.
arise on arching wings, oh, song once sung,
oh, water sprite, oh, lily of the vale,
you pine for love, the forest weaves a spell,
unearthly voice of honey throat and tongue
i hear you whisper, sing your wild, wild tale,
then bid the world goodbye and sweet farewell.
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 3:32 PM UTC
The Melody within
No longer reverberates
That beauteous love song
O, that Bountiful Ballad but
My heart sings a brand new paean:
One of creation,
Of Wisdom,
Of freedom,
Of might,
Of consecration.
Yes, sometimes solitude
Heightens our spiritual senses,
Reawakens our provident defences;
O, denudes our vexations.
Know the Sacral Light
Absolving every deathly pang
Is found
By Dovening Divine Aether,
And summoning the Silver Wings
Of the Holy Dove.
Movement is neither peripheral
Nor internal;
Pain is neither deserved
Nor natural;
All things
Are just as they appear
To be
An evident demonstration
Of a
Higher fidelity.
Matter reverberates upon the
Molecular level;
We are, more
Than flesh, bone, and marrow;
We are,
Life, Love, and Liberty;
We are, a
Breathing Song
That exhales edification, inspiration,
Contemplations, and excogitations.
(Se' lah)
Apr 9, 2021
Apr 9, 2021 at 6:52 PM UTC
Hill and fields people, these,
Gathering in their Sunday best
At a chapel in the valley'd hills
To sing God's praises acapella:
Women, cap'd and apron'd,
Suspendered men in beards,
Children flushed from playing tag
Beneath the shade of dry land trees.
Paper fans wave off the heat;
Down runs the trickled sweat.
Melodious voices keep a beat,
To rhythms time cannot forget.
Gray and cracked old concrete floor,
Crude old splintering stage,
Modern luxury we need no more
To praise the God of Ages.
Four-part harmony
Sung sweet and clear
Fills the chest,
Swells the air,
Relieves the soul
Of earthly care.
These men,
These women,
Raise the paean
Of humbled hearts,
Of thriving souls,
To heaven.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
together we sit and scan through pages
searching for knowledge of savants and sages
apart by wires and spaces deemed cyber
together in some places besotted by desires
for that which you seek and that which you share
your hasty interests may lead you to stare
into the abyss of the nets' unending
the maelstroms vortex you'll soon be winding
going ye here and going ye there
hopeful your meanderings
shall leave you fair
for within some sites there's the inveigle snare
ultimately constructed to leave you bare
go wittingly into the all- electric fray
some sensitive toes you'll invariably belay
don't fret over words harmlessly mislaid
to err is only human, short-circuits allayed
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
This quiet night is too pure,
And the envious one is about
To sow the seed of jubilation,
Evil has overtaking me,
And my love one is about to
Bleed the tears of contempt,
The struggle is real,
And the jealous one is about to coat
The motion portrait of euphoria,
Why was this price not accepted
Before my first moan?
This breathless peace cannot be the
Place where my heart calls home,
Oh life, spite my weightless star
Over the southern hyaline,
I cannot not believe that my inept
Name is about to ration the little
Palmwine with the prelate ancestors,
How long will my wife’s
Womb continue to yowl?
Fate could not even wait
For my fondness to breathe my sun,
Beat the overt drums of time
And give me a *** of warm water,
For my blank soul has no other
Value except endurance and rejection,
Blow the covert horn of endless time
And let me ride over dawn and dusk’
For my greatest traitor has come
To hint me of my beholder’s score,
My sacred cloud waves are now
Pregnant with dry rain of gold dust,
What have I done to
Wound my own ghost?
I have nothing more
To sacrifice except my morrow,
Alight my irrevocable paean at the
Potent door of my inescapable darkness
And let the Gods take possession and audit
My perfect price of ornate fragrance.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
We are the Protestant Proletariat
Our revolution is to divide
En masse by fit or fad
To tear down monuments
Destroy traditions
Install new leaders
And vote them down
An unchanging God
We celebrate in changing ways
We leave the old behind
Celebrate we no high masses
Except to exit or to enter
Events and fads and ideologies
We term “movements”
Celebrate we no liturgies
All things new are we
No paean or hymn
We leave untouched
But change the tune
Update the words
To fit the current thought
No vaulted ceilings
Nor Gothic spires we claim
Our sanctuary ceilings are low
Our ceremonies are low
No High Church are we
Protestants have earned a name
And never can remain the same.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
Sling grease into pitch
of doggerel vowel
I'm looking for an "aooga"
sound that diminishes
as if jettisoned by speed of light
whipping sugar cane plantation
slave ghosts' utterances
paean screams doused
How I wish to be one of the first
followers of Obama to Havana
footfall through tic of time
slow gaits toc of eon
a Cold War's metrical decomposition
Aooga Aooga
Rumpapa Rumpapa
Shucka Shucka Shucka
Everyone is free
and so many of us swim
an opposite direction
Gyrate feet, hips, Cuba's beaches
smile, gaze upon maracas
Shucka Shucka Shucka
**** on raw sugar cane
Freely
with great abandonment
and greater ability
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
Come ,escape with me,
where head stands high and mind
is without fear and no guilt to see...
Come,escape with me,
we dare to open the old lost lock
with our newly devised key...
I am here to see the guilt
I am here to taste the colour
I am here to listen the pain
to identify the known killer
We sing the songs from
the oozing arrogant blood
and freshly cut fleshes, to mourn
the thousand people
that have been ripped off from
their lives without any reasons or
any identified faces...
although the time has gone
and the song is over,hope you
will join me in this war against
the pain we receive forever....
Come,escape with me....
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
look up at the night sky,
a soup bowl of cosmic enormity!
just pan the galaxies,
where time is dead , born or living!
no more delusions of greatness,
or poses of imagined miseries !
what chance we mortals stand,
for any claim of glory or grandeur?
each of us, a speck insignificant,
even great Einstein was no different.
so rejoice and sing your own song,
the birds and bees knows this, better than us.
forget your insignificance.
sing a paean to infinity and
be happy till that hour.
O
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 12:18 PM UTC
My cat WOKE:
Petra Electra Perpetua.
I’m telling y’all, she massive woke;
lit, like wicked wick holy smoke.
She outsmart Christopher ******* dreamin’
teach a dog where a BONE at,
discern every demon,
(not to mention advanced forensics.)
She rise, she yawn, she stretch, she flex
then start cashin’ every other pet paychecks.
She charge per minute just to LOOK at her fur
while she sharpen her nails. My Petra purr . . .
Dogs be all: WOOF
She don’t even answer.
Scribe rhymed Arabic lyrics
while she beat a belly dancer
with her TAIL, pfffffft. . .
My girl don’t tag, she SPRAY.
Mark every wall, y’all . . .
Seen all over the hood, gnome sain?
Offer her Sheba, she like:
Won’t touch it. Give me that Meow Mix.
My girl teach Afrikan lioness about *****
*** on a paean, droppin’ lyrics like mice
other feline get fussy
my kitty get NICE.
TikTok your Instagram feed
right into her bowl.
My girl so woke,
save her own fanged soul.
Slip out the house—she gone.
Workin’ secret route to EGYPT.
Roast every priestess in Bastet city;
My kitty taught CLEOPATRA (u feel me?)
about *****
She scratch Catwoman, pounce on Robin
Batman wet his weak-ass mask, sobbin’.
My girl woke;
so woke she don’t nap, she sleep—
profoundly. Soundly. DEEP.
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 8:15 AM UTC
Thrown like ripples of a star
From a dreamer's somber shade,
I gazed about frisky birds afar
In coats of blue, gold and red,
And they sang: Sky maidens we,
That dost float on high forever
Atop vales, mountains and seas,
Forests, and many a lonely river,
Lets flap our gentle wings and wing
Yonder the land of lofty mountains,
Where dwelleth the mighty King
In halls bedight with silvern fountains
Beneath temples of burnished gold,
Where golden run nectar streams,
Where beauty by any bard yet to be told,
Where leaves dewed by fair sun beams;
In a realm where naught doth ever age,
Where song birds croon loveliest lullabies
In a realm where love is the language
Unto all that walketh – unto all that flies.
And from there we’ll fly nevermore
But mellifluously whisper a paean
To echo golden from shore to shore,
Beauteously through many an eon.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
I have yet
to write
a single
poem
certainly I can
rhyme and meter
compose a verse
haiku
limerick
and build cadence
yet
it’s
withheld
refrained
restrained
it does not allow nor admit
in fact
it’s fraudulent
a paean sin of omission
omitting truth
vulnerability and
humanity!
why not weep of wide
open
limpid lucidity?
why not the magic of
heartfelt disclosure?
each ****** feature fearlessly
presented with palpable pretensionless
petals that the sun skips
over skin through
sky of algid air as
each lung
animates
all admissions
tumbling down
in the merriment
that transports
grace
eternal, primal
screams
ancient
songs
that release grudges
from muscles
the mysterious immersed magnificence that
confronts a chartreuse day as an
unimaginable
gift
through the lens of immediate
freedom
with burdens and cares
falling away to
a purely peaceful
poise
not a song, sonnet nor
a single sentence
rather the grasping of
a fresh infusing of
divine pleasure
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC