"partook" poems
When our tears are dry on the shore
And the fishermen carry their nets home
And the sea gulls return to bird island
And the laughter of the children recedes
At night
There shall still linger here the communion we
Forged
The feast of oneness which we partook of
There shall still be the eternal gate-men
Who will close the cemetery door
And send the late mourners away
It cannot be music we heard that night
That still lingers in the chambers of memory
It is the new chorus of our forgotten comrades
And the hallelujahs of our second selves
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
1651
A Word made Flesh is seldom
And tremblingly partook
Nor then perhaps reported
But have I not mistook
Each one of us has tasted
With ecstasies of stealth
The very food debated
To our specific strength—
A Word that breathes distinctly
Has not the power to die
Cohesive as the Spirit
It may expire if He—
“Made Flesh and dwelt among us”
Could condescension be
Like this consent of Language
This loved Philology.
4k
These hands have clawed with blind eyes
Chipped nails on fingers working on knots and ties
Fingers that recklessly point to reproaches and blames
Never to self, righteousness through arrogant claims
Now aware, these palms have covered my face in contempt
For they've partook in activities; indulgent and unkempt
Rubbed skin raw on life's coarse sandpaper
Ever searching for the coming of the unanticipated saviour
Broken flesh hopeful for newly formed skin
Like tattered souls pleading for absolution of sin
Only skin deep but unfavourable experiences do fester
Expecting the proverbial infection to blow over
Here they are, held unclenched and riddled with pocks
Weathered and sore from time's infinite mocks
Maybe thereafter, will be awaited healing
Perhaps soon after, I will be forgiving
See now... Hands faced up, parted as halves
Asking not for alms but instead your acceptance as salve
Take into yours, these knackered, gnarled up palms
Let your porcelain-like touch relieve like life reforming balm
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
I have always believed that it is possible to see through the defenses of those who keep secrets tucked into their back pockets like wallets with a little more cash than they are comfortable with, if one is willing to look closely enough. It is apparent in their heavy eyelids, as though the weight of what they are carrying is resting on their eyelashes. It is apparent in the curve of their lips, and the way they are not able to smile to their fullest potential. It is apparent in their hands, and the way they are not able to hold anything, as though their fingers are already full. However, I never realized that it was also possible to notice leaves clutching secrets to their chests like keepsake necklaces passed down by their great-grandmothers until one afternoon when I was walking between two bushes. My feet were carrying me lackadaisically down the sidewalk toward my dormitory when something to my right caught my eye. Among a congregation of green leaves, I noticed one blushing sinner. She sat in the center, as though she was attempting to blend in, but her pink cheeks made her stand out from the rest. When everyone stood in unison, she followed a few seconds behind. When everyone clutched hymns and bibles in their hands, she tied her fingers in knots to appear busy. When everyone partook in communion, she bit her lip quietly. But there was something about the way she held her hands in her lap, with her palms pressed together and her fingers interlocked, and the way she wore her hair behind her shoulders in curls that made me want to get to know her and every secret she kept tucked beneath the belt of her summer dress. But we don’t always get the pleasure of conversing with sinners, and we often are not even willing to have those conversations with ourselves.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
i'll admit it
i'm just trying to score some prozac;
something to supplement the steroids
that never seemed to ease the pain.
my body never
tolerated
anything they gave me:
all their alcohol distraction,
all their **** carelessness,
all their acid lifestyle,
none of it.
as for ecstasy,
i never got the dosage right:
i've been offered ersatz masterpieces
and turned them all down,
so they sacrificed their snatches to other gods,
who happily and hungrily partook in the
appetizing, dangerous bounty for which there is no cure.
i was once appeased for my lust
and committed love crimes,
so i learned not take ecstasy
until i tried the steroids.
i'll admit it
i'm just a pair of eyes
in a white ocean
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 1:46 PM UTC
The fasces in my heart calls for those,
who would poison the earth beneath me,
who would sully our blood and the blood ,
that God himself did give
who would call off the hunt,
that my father and fathers before me partook,
who would make that grand wolf a sheep,
who would try and satiate what we know is true,
who would try to commit nature's crime,
who would make things inequal, equal.
To those who have been called, we come for you.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
Grown beneath the sun,
Holding the occasional rain drop,
Surrounded on all sides by companions.
Snip!
Cut off forever from nourishment,
Collected with a few companions,
No clue what the future will hold.
Moving swiftly through the air,
Higher than ever dreamed, but
Fearful of sky diving without a parachute.
Misted occasionally,
Attempting to maintain appearances,
Despite being starved of food.
Enduring more body-jolting aerial swoops,
Drowned in a swift waterfall,
Losing companions that did not maintain their appearance as deftly.
Chop, chop, chop!
Sliced into innumerable bits,
Wondering if life is over,
Now that one’s shape is forever lost.
Perfuming the air with a distinctive aroma,
Blending it with those already in the air,
From other small bits of greenery.
Fears realized at last:
Falling from a great height to the ground,
But falling on a soft cushion.
Smothered with white strings,
Rolled up tightly in the soft cushion,
No escape route possible.
Dying in the heat,
Spreading into the gooey whiteness,
Wondering what the point of it all was.
Eventually cooling down,
Being exposed to air once again,
And hearing (if it were only possible):
This is the best herb cheddar bread I’ve ever had!
Was the result worthy of the chives and Italian parsley’s sacrifice?
All who partook of the savoury goodness certainly believed it was!
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
I woke up adrift this morning
Guilt a million leagues deep
Nothing done is undone
This Morning
Apologies do not come free
The sun which glistens
Upon the drops
Between my moistened
Thighs
Carry this morning's
Sin
Trembling ashamed
Of the lust which came
Into me last night
My mouth has forsworn this place
My darling, forgive me
Please
Of the low hanging fruit I partook
Above the devils knees
Writhing snakes within me bid
Eat
The meat is
ripe and sweet
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
760
Most she touched me by her muteness—
Most she won me by the way
She presented her small figure—
Plea itself—for Charity—
Were a Crumb my whole possession—
Were there famine in the land—
Were it my resource from starving—
Could I such a plea withstand—
Not upon her knee to thank me
Sank this Beggar from the Sky—
But the Crumb partook—departed—
And returned On High—
I supposed—when sudden
Such a Praise began
’Twas as Space sat singing
To herself—and men—
’Twas the Winged Beggar—
Afterward I learned
To her Benefactor
Making Gratitude
2.2k
Once, I thought of you as one usually does
Of some sort of mythical being.
Your presence only in conversations,
Drunken confessions,
A slightly blurry photograph on a phone,
Your name becoming a by-word for
Intense ****** attraction.
Once, I met you at the discotheque,
Your raven hair swirling around a
Black-clothed, willowy frame
As you partook of your personal bacchanal,
A private smile meant for my companion
On your kissable lips
And in your unfathomable eyes.
Once, you left me tongue-tied and shy,
Blushing furiously as I searched in vain
For words that usually
Happily danced on my tongue.
We left each other that night
Without having spoken past polite greetings,
And I was bitterly regretful.
Once, I decided to love myself,
And began to become almost beautiful,
Shedding layers of flesh and fear
And though I had long forgotten your face
I resolved that were I to see you again,
Both smiles and sentences would
Easily flow and you might learn of me.
Once, I took that risk,
Sending you a message full of sarcastic
And clever comments laced with charm.
This time I was ready
To set aside all of my misgivings,
Ignore your intimidating beauty,
And let myself peek through and smile.
Once, I thought it utterly impossible
That someone like you may notice me,
But after a year of meditation and peace,
I now know I was too afraid to be noticed.
Even if you lose interest and look elsewhere,
I still consider this quite the triumph,
For you were part of why I searched for myself.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
down the main drag of our town
the thundering sound of motor bikes did resound
folks in our town rushed out doors
to see what was making such an almighty roar
the bikers were on their monthly charity rally
they stopped at the local pub owned by John O'Malley
they partook of a ration of ale
whilst filling their donation pails
after an interlude in our small township
they straddled their chrome plated Harley ships
to ride along the country byways
on this most magnificent autumn day
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
1723
High from the earth I heard a bird,
He trod upon the trees
As he esteemed them trifles,
And then he spied a breeze,
And situated softly
Upon a pile of wind
Which in a perturbation
Nature had left behind.
A joyous going fellow
I gathered from his talk
Which both of benediction
And badinage partook.
Without apparent burden
I subsequently learned
He was the faithful father
Of a dependent brood.
And this untoward transport
His remedy for care.
A contrast to our respites.
How different we are!
2k
*We each partook of our respective
Champagne glasses almost in spot on simultaneity
Toasting to a life full of nicety
Hadn’t we been born with silver cutlery
In our mouths?
Armed with a sense of perspective
But this doesn’t guarantee an alienation of misery
We being hormonal imbalanced youths
Rational irrationality the bedrock
Of most if not all our decisions
We ourselves each other’s stumbling block
Nursing grandiose delusions.
We hence seldom ‘work ‘hand in glove
As we’re “drunk in love”.*
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
Quatron of prediction; it is not what's believed by me
I've partook more bitter ever since
Ever since the phonies kept babbling of morals
Ever since the phonies kept babbling
To each their own to each
Teaching what does not revolve
Itching at me because you are not real
I hope that someday you will see what is not
I hope that someday you can't see
Toiling brims of sin or not; I smite upon flakes alas
Alas my cynical undertone revealed each day after night and again
No remmorse do I own, grave away from epoch
I skirm when you speak of such feats
To each their own to each
Teaching what does not induce
Scratching at me because you are not real
I hope that someday you will see what is not
I hope that someday you can't see
Imaum of hate is true of my fate
How can you grasp what you are?
Where are you? Who are you? Do you exists?
We are inkligs of nothing, no doubt.
Nov 3, 2010
Nov 3, 2010 at 12:49 PM UTC
at a round table a regal man sat
he of finest epicurean palate
neath his feet twas a lowly rat
no junk food twas on his plate
only the best in culinary serves
he of finest epicurean palate
the rat ate of a crumb's conserve
which twas more telling of his position
only the best in culinary serve
the king feasted on grand nutrition
he became more bloated of tummy
which twas more telling of his position
after he partook of all so yummy
the poor rat twas left in starvation
he became more bloated of tummy
for he'd have no repast of salvation
the poor rodent twas left in starvation
at a round table a regal man sat
neath his feet twas a lowly rat
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
My ancestors (i hesitate to even call them such)
came to this land centuries ago
they came with nothing
hoping to start a new life
but this is not about my proud heritage
not about immigrants following the
American Dream (Nightmare would be more accurate)
No
my ancestors
my White Anglo Saxon Protestant ancestors
descended upon this pristine landmass
like so many parasitic WASPs
injecting their prey (the people, the land) with venom
laying their eggs that would **** the hosts upon hatching
No
my ancestors
who helped perpetrate an ethnic cleansing
the likes of which 20th century fascists could only dream of
did so under the title of Manifest Destiny
divine right
their religion masking opportunistic genocide
No
my ancestors
laid the foundation
for the greatest country in the world
where ALL (White, English, Heteronormative, Cisnormative, Land-owning, Slave-Owning, Women Hating , Native-American-Murdering, Capitalistic, Perverted) MEN are created equal
No
my ancestors
partook in genocide
condoned slavery
oppressed women (and every other divergent identity)
destroyed the environment
and did so with such arrogance
such unheard of righteousness
No
my ancestors
were the lifeblood of America
the lifeblood of oppression
and that blood runs through my veins
the screams of American-Indian Warriors
of African Slaves
of Women labeled Witches and Gays and People of Color and anyone who opposed the hideous behemoth, anyone who dared to be different
their screams echo in my head
and i am ashamed
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
with bodies relaxed,
but eyes observant,
they sell
five dollar bags of
***** weedy poetry
mixed clientele,
there is no age or gender or ****** preference
discrimination,
certainly none requiring critical taste,
in the buying and selling of
***** weedy poetry
commercial savants,
organized by topic,
available for purchase
love, depressing, rants and whines,
discounts for pre-owned
anti boyfriend rhymes
in his day, they say,
Whitman partook,
ferried up from his Brooklyn nook,
William Carlos Williams too,
from New Jersey came,
better to understand
the most common patois
they'll do custom stuff,
the suppliers,
mix and blend all
kinds of ****
their database exponential,
give them the
requisite hashtags,
and within it,
in it,
thirty minutes,
no more,
they'll requisition,
providing an acquisition -
you'll get your
name-your-own-hash,
Freedom
to entitle your own
***** weedy poetry
or you could grow you own
on the window sill
in the earth of your discarded
despair
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
With a golden dish in my right hand
I came to get my fill
Of honeysuckle pleasures
On hidden vines
There waiting for my tender touch
Sweetness I did find
Under the marble steps
Of my will
That old cunning devil flew right by me
My conscious saw him first
A shift of black
Lifting up in airy flight
Yet still I sought out my reward
Though his face I could see
My dish, would be filled
That night
I thought of waiting for my pleasure
Then in a lullaby I rehearsed
I convinced myself to reach out anyway
As I came to get my fill
Of all those hidden treasures
So I sang my song
And put my conscious
In reverse
With a golden dish in my right hand
A shift of black in my heart
I partook of those honeysuckle pleasures
Yet no sweetness did I find
In those hidden vines
When from my own will
I did depart
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 4:33 PM UTC
166
I met a King this afternoon!
He had not on a Crown indeed,
A little Palmleaf Hat was all,
And he was barefoot, I’m afraid!
But sure I am he Ermine wore
Beneath his faded Jacket’s blue—
And sure I am, the crest he bore
Within that Jacket’s pocket too!
For ’twas too stately for an Earl—
A Marquis would not go so grand!
’Twas possibly a Czar petite—
A Pope, or something of that kind!
If I must tell you, of a Horse
My freckled Monarch held the rein—
Doubtless an estimable Beast,
But not at all disposed to run!
And such a wagon! While I live
Dare I presume to see
Another such a vehicle
As then transported me!
Two other ragged Princes
His royal state partook!
Doubtless the first excursion
These sovereigns ever took!
I question if the Royal Coach
Round which the Footmen wait
Has the significance, on high,
Of this Barefoot Estate!
1.3k
People say I'm smart, and they're not wrong,
I have good grades, I know the difference between right and wrong, and I have common sense,
but I couldn't see that you were a wolf in sheep's clothing.
That you can have your way with anyone,
and yes I understand that I partook in what we had called real.
Oh, brown-eyed boy, you're just like the rest; full of yourself, thinking you're not like the rest, but it's all ******* lies.
Brown-eyed boy, can't you see you hurt me?
Don't you see the lie is building up into the tallest wall, one I can't break down or climb,
so I wait, patiently, but I cannot take your ******** anymore,
Brown-eyed boy, you don't see me as someone who has feelings, you see me as a past.
I see that you don't want to crush me under your foot, but now you have me in a choke hold.
It's a hold only you can take me out of if you would grow up.
I'm tired of gasping for air, tired of others giving me borrowed air that doesn't belong in my lungs, so brown-eyed boy why can't you turn your filter off?
You keep it on to 'protect' others when it only breaks down.
You use it to bend the truth into a phrase that you think we want to hear, but that's what is making this a ******* war zone.
You are what's making everyone's eyes turn red and fill with smoke.
You caused the hatred that people feel towards one another in our ring of insanity.
I don't understand why people think your new rose is the main problem.
Oh, how no one wants to blame the brown-eyed boy for the anger, the sadness, they can't see through your ******** mask.
But brown-eyed boy, you ****** up.
Brown-eyed boy, you let everyone who can see, see your mask fall off.
You buried the dead iris that lost your interest.
You stomped all over something that deserves more than the ******* lies coming out of your mouth.
Brown-eyed boy, you understand what it means to not be an ******* you know, you see, but you somehow can't.
You somehow can't own up to your actions, or your lies, or your mistakes.
Maybe, brown-eyed boy, it's because I was a mistake, and if that's the reason, then why did you let it go on?
Why did you try so hard to make it work if you never wanted to go on with me?
Brown-eyed boy, I don't want to lose you, but I can't take the fake screen you put up for me.
I don't care if you like the rose more, I don't care if you hated iris' in the first place; I don't ******* care if your brown eyes can only see red in this world.
I care that you left me wandering in the dark with your lies tieing me down.
Brown-eyed boy, you left a mess.
Brown-eyed boy, I don't know what the truth is with you anymore, or if I should believe you.
I don't understand why you haven't stopped the rumors.
I do not get why you take me as an amateur who will leave it alone because I won't, until looking at you, being with a rose, doesn't spark my curiosity, until I know for certain that you're not scissors, cutting down flowers when you have lost the joy with them.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 12:04 AM UTC
When you asked me
for the only direction
to the campsite of Holy Aurora,
I fed you with the temptation,
and when you laid the blanket
I made you the bed instead.
I was already underneath the lake,
and I extended my hand to you,
waiting for you to realise
that there is nothing at stake,
and there is no wrong in being true.
When you talked to me
about the fiery, empty sunset,
there were devils that lingered and smiled.
I painted clouds and rainbows
for you to be sheltered from,
partook in a deep sigh and grew.
You were awakened
by the smell of the brewed coffee,
filled with our joy and contentment.
You were no longer in a daze,
forever buried in the strong aftertaste.
Stay within my sight,
and touch me with all your might.
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 9:04 PM UTC
527
To put this World down, like a Bundle—
And walk steady, away,
Requires Energy—possibly Agony—
’Tis the Scarlet way
Trodden with straight renunciation
By the Son of God—
Later, his faint Confederates
Justify the Road—
Flavors of that old Crucifixion—
Filaments of Bloom, Pontius Pilate sowed—
Strong Clusters, from Barabbas’ Tomb—
Sacrament, Saints partook before us—
Patent, every drop,
With the Brand of the Gentile Drinker
Who indorsed the Cup—
1.2k
a luscious dawn stirred, his arrow was on fire
he went in quest of delight, vigorous was his desire
among the ruffled sheets, a delicious fruit lay
flaxen hair ever so bright, fueled his amorous desire
the mercury rose in his veins, he kissed he hungrily
with an ardor of might, strongly expressing his desire
his feasting spree was unrestrained, her gems were so enticing
more comely than any twilight, he was a pyre of desire
at commencement of day, he partook of bonfire passion
engaging her in a flaming light, powerful were his coals of desire
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 5:34 AM UTC
First time I looked into his eyes
my heart sighed, now that I
think back he made my soul
cry every time I felt him by my
side, especially when his hands
would glide gently upon my
thigh.
Opening my mind's chasm;
while he whispered how he'd
always love me through the
test of time, fore, he loves to
hear my sultry whine; as his
eyes wined and dined upon
each curved line.
And tingles ran up and down
my spine; those are the days
he blew my mind, purring like
a kitten; I knew from the first
time I looked into his eyes I'd
be smitten and those days I
wouldn't be forgetting.
His allure is so, sumptuously
fetching, my breath is still catching;
remembering his lascivious
twinkle and ***** smile; my body
reels back in time causing me to feel,
what he had in mind; I still crave
him like a connoisseur, the woman
he worshipped and adored.
Laying here in revelry thinking of
all the deviltry we partook in makes
me take a second look into my mind's
eye and long for his dreamy eyes to
feast all over again and I'd begin to
sigh, fore, as he slept those hands
would rest upon quivering thighs.
And I'd listen to his sleep laden sigh
dreaming of me his gentle rose; fore,
I'd stand in his eyes reflective pool and
pose; while he'd breathe in the scent
of my aromatic rose.
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 2:11 AM UTC
good night little one,
you have been busy today,
good dreams little one,
you have laughed and played,
good rest little one,
you know you are loved,
the words you say
speak for themselves,
your laughter is so clean and clear
I want to hear you laugh some more,
read on with me until with your
own voice, you can make the sounds
and we then will rejoice together,
grow little one grow for you,
warrior princess fought an old
foe that needed to be vanquished,
and you soothed the savage beast
(grandpa(foe) and his dog(beast) )
rest for the evening after you have
partook at the supper feast,
for tomorrow,
you will have more growing to do, than today
you will understand the world one day sooner,
and we will
read,
and play ball,
oh I can't list them all,
we will build and drop towers right where they stand
and all will love you more,
as your hopes and dreams and possibilities
will wait out side your door,
discovery to your left
and awe to your right
cuteness factor ten,
lamp of learning
burning bright.
Now shhhh, goodnight.
©DWE102013
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC