"parchments" poems
तत् त्वम् असि
*for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons,
washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo*
(*the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute*)
Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the ***** water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots
Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight
Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day
Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.
Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now –
drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.
Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman –
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
THE MORAL:
(slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp)
Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.
“This is God –worship Him, worship Him –
this is God – let us worship Him now…”
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
Winter Love, never did last till spring ,
Who knows what the year , is fated to bring;
And yet i say , somethings are meant to last,
Unlike petty parchments of our past .
We are separated by worlds ,
Of the same **** city ;
But even parallel lines ,
Do meet at infinity.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 2:34 AM UTC
Even if
nightmares, cats, leaders, *** beauty, hugs, feelings, melodies, technology, communication, life, abandonment, longings, mornings, electronics, kingdoms, followers, humiliation, darlings, hyperventilation, depression, Alonedom, ghosts, trundles, Hell, gravity, tickling, hearts, unicorns, twins, education, lost ones, ink, medications, pavements, thoughts, souls, suicide, walls, hatred, alcohol, oceans, soles, music, misspellings, transportation, buses, guts, Heaven, time, attractions, ***** hands, blindness, organs, dreams, bodies, distances, understanding, currency, energy, love, spaghetti, contentment, happiness, tears, fire, people, oxygen, tongues, children, peace, death, papas, zombies, homicide, blood, kisses, drugs, families, caffeine, mamas, space, parchments, baked goods, economy.
didn't exist,
I would still wish you would
But you don't anymore
so nothing matters.
Apr 22, 2012
Apr 22, 2012 at 2:20 PM UTC
At least I would be a poet if not you’re eyes i see ,
Or dance in the twilight when you haven’t given you’re heart to me .
Yet only in darkness do I see you where there is no twinkling fire light ?
The Mail coach approaches don’t let it be late ,
out of the darkness two minutes to wait ,
mail for the court ,
mail for the King ,
the fear of God awaits for those when the carriage runs late ,
for bread and mutton awaits in the morning .
A smile for summer for it has nearly passed,
Oh please don’t judge me for what far tales I tell ,
or if my pen is not swift ?
For the girls in the garden when the roses were in bloom ,
a debt of blood flowed from their veins into the pale light of the moon.
sorrow for a tin of soap .
For in the end in church pews lies ,
can ever cleanse our minds ,
or what we think and do ?
The weary traveller who enquiries at you,re door at night
requires you’re bed ,
and meat soup and broth .
Look,,
the watcher looks ever on ,
casts his lot into the fire ,
scroll after scroll on parchments of peace ,
day after day.
For all the roses and tins the mail coach waits and waits until ,
It’s too late and our souls find eternal flame cast out into hell .
A smile for summer now Autumn is near and darkness its mistress
Scuttles ever near .
Spare a thought for the silver moon and the light it shines when darkness creeps
on it only light is found it’s silver gown ..
For where truth and love abound man shall fill their buckets and quench its flame ,
and Jesus Christ shall reign again .
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 1:57 PM UTC
Half formed shallow glances across the dawn
Breaking in crisp spring
a hunter means harm
(say it back)
Precious slanted words in crushed song
Landing slowly, raindrops cling
The sidewalk is long
(breath we lack)
Slaughtered bouquet petals in Central Park
Burning acidic in the winter light
Our sun is victim to the dark
(Gilded armor cracks)
Aimless gallivanting learns to command the heart
Inspired: the reckless wilderness can ignite
villains and matchsticks to spark
(Absence means love lacks)
and if all letters are to crash like hailstorms
why write and feel and fill
the blank parchments with potential eardrums
whose souls we make anxious- ill?
and still
the alive will die or ****
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
I think it's beautiful
The way your hands are sturdy and calloused
Not the gentle softness illustrators are known for
These hands have felt real art
Built from the ground up
Days of mixing, moulding and texturing
Breathing life into deathly white parchments
I think it's beautiful
The way your arms are slender yet firm
Dusky brown skin holding rippling strong muscles
Strengthened slowly
through years of bullying and soul searching
Their unsymmetrical realness known not
For their harshness
But for the gentle notes they strum
Weaving elegantly with the quiet moving pictures on screens
I think it's beautiful
The way your shoulders always stand strong
A declaration demanding the eyes of every being in sight
Their angled rigidity know to be surprisingly nimble
An immovable pillar for the melting of your body
A constant transformation into unknown characters
The hidden bumps of tired hands
The rough ridges of calloused skin
The angled sharpness of chiseled bones
Hidden works of art
Flitting secretively under the armor you wear
The priviledge of their appearance
But a few can bear
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
Bloodstained parchments.
Broken oaths.
Chiseled granite
with
promises
weightless as shadows.
But still we lie.
Wading in the great nothing,
waist deep in murky inks,
wandering
sightless, senseless,
I feel my way.
Memories of grey skin,
black blood.
******* wrapped in ropes,
cherry blossoms
and alcohol.
Still we love our bruises.
Blind and cold
in the nothing,
we feel our way.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
{ “Awareness : He began to decipher the instant that he was living, deciphering as he lived it, prophesying himself in the act of deciphering the last page of the parchments, as if he were looking into a speaking mirror.” -
Gabriel Garcia Marques }
_________________
Mirrors of Mercury
Who is Shams and who Rumi
is like asking who is fork and who
knife when apart they sing not
a single song to nourish blood
with versal love
mercurial reflect
Who is mirror and who reflection
Is that me ? I ask you
watching your slender bones
move in soiled leather boots
wild slow eyes reflecting YES !
when maiden across the room
gives wicked laughs of NO !
mercurial translate
Who is this dissident beret
alongside the chair ?
Is it self ahead on a future road .....
will someone stroke my back
give ear, lip or cheek
urging body to be young in
takkies and snazzy jacket ?
mercurial question goals
Aah ! Poetic Mirrors !
inking reciting assessing
give respite from a million
images of Self as I circle an
unveiled Flow of Fate
fully awake to naked
poet
mercurial observe
catalytic soul
Copyright © Ghairo Daniels | 2017
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 4:59 AM UTC
when i cordoned you off
with Gorilla Tape and lilac vine
once i was done attaching encrypted files
of pearls upon that sultry salt of your inner-thighs
once i’d borrowed bonds
off my favorite banker’s portfolio
so i could waste myself in their earned interest
ratios
of blood bourne by centuries of
hapless gathering oppression
so i could use them in mosaics of swollen sand
that i could lay
like sea-glass shards under your
ebbing feet as useless parchments
i swallowed you in all your swollen spasms of fragile oblivion
until that bottom of this tongue lept amidst surfacing juices
obliterating and obligating all that ever decayed amidst obelisks
your whispers
(hatched from your
breathy endorphins)
shook me into
mine own
desperate shudders
astride our gathering humidity
and i gathered in
your needle-nosed
plier
eyes
-rust encrusted grey
incisors-
wrought from melted andirons
mixed with slug
trodden
soils
of hinterlands i was
never
to penetrate
as if i ever slammed
you
with yore spinning flails
into night’s emerging chasm
of charcoal sprinkled
with inner-orange peels
and their attempts toward
all that is illuminating, wistful, brief, and
precious—
i am your son, i am birthed from your sal i vations. i am twisting, still, amidst these rudiments of brine...
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 2:20 AM UTC
In empty airports, farewell to thee.
Farewell the clouds awaiting forever,
As a blushing skyline is wasted, on
Concrete cracked with dreams of poets.
On empty parchments, farewell to thee
Farewell the quills dipped in open wounds,
As hopeful mornings are wasted, on
Neck-scarves scarred with cigarette stubs.
From empty mansions, farewell to thee
Farewell the bricks of sweat crusted crumbs,
As the shining glasses are wasted, on
Men blinded with acid burns.
But,
From bursting heartbeats, welcome to thee,
Welcome the branches of the jasmine's smile,
As the three paragraphs above will be wasted, on
Love smiling at the cusp of dusk.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
Myths die in the mist of time
a legend will be lost within ancient script
parchments will no longer hold it's name
written in a forgotten tongue
so many jars filled with sand
grains without number
are as the centuries that will pass
before it has a remembering.
Memories of it's misfortune will be as a fleeting dream
the myth rose from the barren mute land
bleeding out a fiery history
telling the death of the innocents
and as it finally takes to the earth
and eon will pass for the blind land
it's last breath is death itself.
Sheol is where it resides
and in hades it finds it's resting place
no grass will take root nor tendril will take hold
the air a noxious fume
barren blind mute wastelands
there will be no consolation or solace
for the ground
for it will suffer along with its residents evil.
And as the centuries pass
a time will unfold
where all that have lived
will have been lost
and an unlikely soul will whisper
his eyes alight
*"Let this time be past
let this be a time for all that find need
for all that have want
to rejoice
the time is now
for a new remembering"*
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 5:54 AM UTC
I charge thee therefore before God, and the Lord Jesus Christ, who shall judge the quick and the dead at his appearing and his kingdom;
2 Preach the word; be instant in season, out of season; reprove, rebuke, exhort with all long suffering and doctrine.
3 For the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to themselves teachers, having itching ears;
4 And they shall turn away their ears from the truth, and shall be turned unto fables.
5 But watch thou in all things, endure afflictions, do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry.
6 For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.
7 I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith:
8 Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.
9 Do thy diligence to come shortly unto me:
10 For Demas hath forsaken me, having loved this present world, and is departed unto Thessalonica; Crescens to Galatia, Titus unto Dalmatia.
11 Only Luke is with me. Take Mark, and bring him with thee: for he is profitable to me for the ministry.
12 And Tychicus have I sent to Ephesus.
13 The cloke that I left at Troas with Carpus, when thou comest, bring with thee, and the books, but especially the parchments.
14 Alexander the coppersmith did me much evil: the Lord reward him according to his works:
15 Of whom be thou ware also; for he hath greatly withstood our words.
16 At my first answer no man stood with me, but all men forsook me: I pray God that it may not be laid to their charge.
17 Notwithstanding the Lord stood with me, and strengthened me; that by me the preaching might be fully known, and that all the Gentiles might hear: and I was delivered out of the mouth of the lion.
18 And the Lord shall deliver me from every evil work, and will preserve me unto his heavenly kingdom: to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.
19 Salute Prisca and Aquila, and the household of Onesiphorus.
20 Erastus abode at Corinth: but Trophimus have I left at Miletum sick.
21 Do thy diligence to come before winter. Eubulus greeteth thee, and Pudens, and Linus, and Claudia, and all the brethren.
22 The Lord Jesus Christ be with thy spirit. Grace be with you. Amen.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC
I want that lampshade in the corner to cast away the ghosts by my side
I want your hand to be intertwined with mine at every possible point of time
I want to feel like the waves day and night with rising tides
I want to hold that photograph that captures you in the perfect light always
I want to have that imperfect love when everything is simply perfection
I want the winds to blow through my hair like I'm as carefree as it is
I want to expunge the tornados and hurricanes trapped under my skin
I want to be held like preserved fragile parchments from ancient oaks
I want to be taken like a possesion while being loved like an enthralled being
I want to feel the confidence of the flames in your eyes that still burn
I want to see the swirl of the myriad of colours labelled by digits undefined
I want to live and breathe like hummingbirds in the forest
I want to be wild and in danger; constantly threatened and protected
But most of all
I want you to find me
To cut through every hedge
that stands in between us
Find me
(m.e.)
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
The day I craved you
When the sunlight was accurately positive.
When the world was beautifully discussing your handsomeness with all the curious gardens,
I gave up on my parchments for the sake of admiring your features more and being blessed with you every day; despite it taking up my words, my ancient quill, and my beauty. I’m still a believer in your magic. I’m no longer a mermaid; I’m the betrayer of the ocean.
Sep 8, 2023
Sep 8, 2023 at 5:59 AM UTC
Atticus Fife plundered his tomes and fondled his books with his milky eye. A shade of grey has crept into his blue, and The Help is more helpful as of late. He shuffles, having lost his gait, but never does he wander off... Atticus Fife glissandos over the parchments and leather-bound lungs. He inhales the Past; elated. His limp eyes galloping over the deserts of his un-simple mind, past the creekbeds of his revery, and the unspoken Hopes of his Frailty.
Atticus Fife, leads a very fine Life... Like a Destiny.
Or a lamb to the Doubt.
Happily.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 12:20 AM UTC
red pen in hand....
i critique people's thoughts
and dreams
six years at university,
to become a god....
who moulds minds
and delivers future prophecies, ready for unwrapping.
who creates bell curves,
of fail to high distinctions.
that the undergrads,
follow like dancing, pavlovian dogs...
the posts...have slipped
the leash and ...
leave thoughtful piles of...extruded work, in the academic yard.
six years at uni...as a dog
nine years at uni ...as a god.
it is amazing,
how the garnering
of parchments
and strange hats,
can transpose a person's world.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
I packed my bag
and stuffed some clothes
good for a week or two.
A camera for photos,
A book for company.
And pieces of hungry parchments pressed between the leaves
all screaming your name
demanding your scent
and making me restless.
You must be the sound of the train wheels
scraping against the railings
before it ceases.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
to a summer of metamorphosis you feasted my soul
and in copious embraces melted my icy roots
withered the nectar of warm tender kisses
the bitter grip of my white winter’s solitude
to call of seasons you uncaged my spirit
joyful flights into spring skies I made
parched soil of mine regaled thick grey clouds
monsoon rains I drank from the cup of my palms
on net of fragrance of flowers that laced my way
sprouted verses from kernels of my dormant seeds
petals of rose, lilies, jasmine and chrysanthemum,
the parchments where I etched lines of my poetry
stagnant waters had moved past cold mute stones
with luminous force of lightening in a dark sky
breaking boulders of obstacles gushed a stream
with solutes of emotions and ecstasy
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 8:08 AM UTC
ink spilled
over papers or parchments
by the devoted disciples,
to govern for the unseen holy authority
never imagined that their devotion,
would be so misunderstood
that the rivers would be full of blood,
crusade would be full of cries of children
and a symbol or a petty face
would conjure fears
in generations to come
when a smile can't guide to us love
but a scripture can guide us,
to hate that is when you know
that the world is doomed not due to lack of love
but due to ignorance of it.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 2:04 PM UTC
An eye, wondering of desires
already imagined,
poisoned Love by the bedside.
Love withdrawn, gratefully dying,
a beauty falling fast
from hundreds of stars…
Alas, is gone.
The eternal moon comes
to deliver hope and contentment,
for a heart deserted in oblivion.
A weary, veiled spirit left
laying in the stars,
soul strewn on parchments.
A lamp of knowledge is lifted
to spread the interpreted light,
and touch the eyes of the poet
with the blessed fingertips of Life.
The mystery of the holies
falling on a noble stranger,
who, breathing in understanding,
is salvaged.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
i spilt tea on my floor
tonight
and it reminded me of you
the way the sticky sweet
coated each tile
the way it stuck to my skin
like an undeniable sin
like you
suicidal tendencies
with starved remedies
breathe me in like a camel ninety nine
i parch your mouth
and chap your lips
like a deceitful crime
i am the sound of silence
that plasters your room
you sit there like it's your
self-proclaimed tomb
and i sit here awaiting
a silent conversation
to resume
my thoughts are absurd
and obscured
and they twist and churn
rarely settling
as though they are waters post stir
i do not like being less than
and i am afraid i am never more than
and i'm always settling
for less than
because i am
less than
hot tea sticks to my lips
and i can feel a death sentence on
my tongue
and it tastes like ***
mixed with ***** and wine
and i cannot comprehend why
i would make such a drink
but i cannot comprehend
why i do much of
anything
you say i am thunder
that you love the sound of me
but in my wake you blunder
and i realize
how i am a horror story
that you shoved with the rest of
the skeletons in your closet
and i realize
i reek the most
instigated arguments
tearing parchments
isolated little girl
i am alone
i am alone
i am alone
i am surrounded by people
but i am alone
do you hear me screaming
for you to look at me
and see me
for all you see is
sticky sweet
like i am spilt tea
you could lap up
on your charcoal tongue
cancer smells good on you
it smells like lilac lullabies
like lavender daydreams
and lily sighs
you are a nightmare
lost in a fantasy
of being something real
and i am alone
lost in a reality
of wanting adventure and fantasy
but nobody could foresee
the greenest of envies
that sat in my fragile mind
all i could feel anymore
was blind
for i cannot see
i cannot feel
i cannot breathe
help me
my heart is not beating
and i can feel it rising
to the ceiling of my throat
i'm afraid i will choke
each of my organs have shifted upwards
i cannot think
my tongue is not in my mouth
rather it sits in your hand
and you dip it into spilt tea
before asking if i would like a drink
i am smoke
sifting down your throat
chasing all of the memories
of happiness that no longer
sit in your chest
instead they dance
and adhere to the floor
as hot tea sticks like glue
and holds you hostage
and my thoughts run rampant
and spill onto my floor
with the black tea
that suppresses my urge to breathe
and it is like it is spilling into my lungs
and you ask me
if this is fun
but you hold my tongue in your fist
and my lips still feel smothered
by your kiss
because your lips feel like
your fist
and my blood oozes
like spilt tea
and you want to take a drink.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 6:11 AM UTC
Fill the hole with nothing
Not the concepts that you hold dear
They could betray you
Into traps of torn parchments and holy relics
Binding. Entrancing fascinations
Keep you gounded on parables. Freezing real hope
And when you crack the mirror
Egotistical graven image
You will begin to see the truth beyond
Sights you're shown by the elders
Who've invested so much
Monopolized love and ****** it
For power's sake alone, they grasp at straws
For God's sake, they created him
To frighten and ******* all thought
Contrary to the maleable mold
On the bottom of progress' feet
Atlas scrawled his secret to releif
Don't give up. The whole world rests on the shoulders of honest men
Work diligently. Work nobley. Look out for others
It's the calling of the strong to protect the weak
Without this system of brothers, the weasels will feast
But the world pushes back and it doesn't seem worth it
After all, what's the point?
If not for anything else, then for the joy of being
Able to discover and learn
It may feel tedious and painful
Just to exist for the purpose of spreading
Life needs persist its unstable reaction
You can put it off 'til tomorrow
And live in yesterday's safety
Gaze at the horizon unblinking
Focused
Feral
Integral gear
Turning perpetually into itself.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
My heart died before me,
so They bury my thoughts in
with the worms in the ground.
As the first nail shuts the lid,
I gained my consciousness.
I gazed into the impenetrable darkness
of that ancient and complete fear.
A chill burns along my nerves' edges,
As my thoughts clash against my teeth,
of all those words I have not said
I could have said I should have said to you.
As soils shift in and rain seep through
These words rattle in my throat
while you are already away,
thinking not of me.
Blood draining and eyes dilating,
I found new strength in the splinters
of torn skin-- breaking in--
into a world that wants me not
Reborn into a languor of midnight rain,
there I see you kneeling--
eyes teeming with hatred, regret, agony
So we pulled each other in
as the mantle layers above
centuries past, heavens frown,
grounds encased
were our Love in Amber,
our story on parchments,
our hearts pressed
in sedimentary stones.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 3:31 PM UTC