"paternal" poems
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
***** clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
From the heavenly embers the phoenix rises.
It opened its scarlet eyes and saw the world blanketed in darkness.
Its cries reverberating in the dim valley, paternal love it sought.
Woe is the phoenix for not a creature came and all it did was for naught.
With tears in its eyes till sunrise it waited.
Filled with indignation the phoenix flew.
For it realized that as a newborn it was cheated.
With only the support of itself the phoenix grew.
Time passed peacefully in the valley.
The phoenix' wings have now grown fully.
Then the phoenix’ adventurous spirit was suddenly ignited.
With newfound courage the phoenix soared, clearly it is excited.
It was fearful yet ecstatic for the world full of the unknown.
The phoenix said farewell to the place it once had grown.
It desired to wander the world hoping to meet with its kin.
The phoenix is very lonely and hoping for one’s happiness isn’t a sin.
Many beasts quickly hid when they saw the phoenix near.
When they saw the flames blazing they can only shiver in fear
Sighing with regret for it wants to make a friend.
But fate has been cruel and fear was its desire’s end.
It traversed thousand of mountains
And experienced countless rains
It hoped and prayed fervently to the glorious entity above
To grant its wish, to experience love
To be continued...
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
Clayton
How I know you
Paternal parenting
DNA infused
Carbon contribution, to my physique
Father
In everything
My skin, eyes toes,
Unfortunately; inside my mouth
Spitting plaster-walled
Copy-paste personality
The same
Intimately
Close-dangerously
Different
Me a bold-faced fraction of ill abated love
Something that didn't work out
Photocopy
Blond-blasphemy of useless flesh
Reminder of her
Mom
Enough!
Teeter tottering
Tip-Toe tangling opinion
Excuses
Words fermented
Rotting-rigor
I know you.
Slit-eyed palefaced ****** of bigot ideas
Bearing pronged poker
Clicking glinting-clawed finger fondling fake religion
Suppressing supplement thought
********
God's love the good life
Living a life to be proud of
Excuse me!
For not being as I am "supposed" to be
Eatting rancid lies
Your reality relative
To kiss-ass preferred siblings
Who like the taste of ****
What you shovel
Hung on lipsucking harlot, hinged hip hung-over
Descending oppressidly upon willing wanton will of man
Letting cracked-cackled toothed
Field Gap-smile
Decide your next move
I know you
I see what you push into hidden corners
The bias, nasty film of your character
Under whitecollar shirttails
Citizen, Patriot
Americas American
I know you
Your oppression
Not new
As underhanded and seedy as it was
And still is
I know you
As much as I'd like not too.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
You told me I was **** when you touched me
on my chest and stomach,
but I am sure that I wasn’t **** at all.
I have memories of you
cradling me like a lion with his cubs,
except there was nothing paternal
to your touch or words,
and I felt no safety when I was
in your bed.
Not even when you told me not to worry,
not even when I came to you
to escape my nightmares.
You didn’t seem to understand
that you simply led me into new,
scarier ones.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 8:10 PM UTC
You both sit
entranced
by gadgets,
a paternal gift
and flaw,
Making new sounds,
playing old games
on laptop computers,
winning and losing
on Christmas morning.
No more dolls
that cry
"Mama,"
no more worrying about
primary colors
or classical music
or Goodnight Moon--
gadgets and games and Nerf guns
rule the day.
Wishing it was
a younger time
Only brings sorrow;
enjoy the day, the year
my heart tells me,
for these will be gone,
too,
soon.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
Broke the straw across her back,
so she snapped, never turning back
Bruised her arm by joking accident
with all the malice of death’s intent.
No natural love or paternal instinct
to catch
the tears she’s choked
with your hands on her throat.
Touch her again and the demons will get you
tell her to end herself before you do;
and the death you deserve will befall you
slow, alone and barren.
Better to have left long ago or
confronted your own lineage-issued father and
let yourself be disowned
than be the ******* you are.
Leave her be
middle child,
second accident
of the disappointing gender.
How dare you lay a finger on an innocent child?
You’ll never be absolved in anyone’s eyes.
Raised by fools, you’ve ruined your gift.
The daughter you never wanted
may never say it,
but will grow up to spite you.
Suffer like she does.
She’s been soaking it up now
for a while
but the blood flow continues
from deep wells of wounds.
She can’t take this load anymore
the people she carries
don’t love her and she’s
parched but still going.
Surviving on a lump in her throat
as she’s dragged through sandstorms and beatings.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC
Revolving in oval loops of solar speed,
Couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes,
Dead men render love and war no heed,
Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe.
No spiritual Caesars are these dead;
They want no proud paternal kingdom come;
And when at last they blunder into bed
World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion.
Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep,
These bone shanks will not wake immaculate
To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day :
They loll forever in colossal sleep;
Nor can God's stern, shocked angels cry them up
From their fond, final, infamous decay.
3.8k
To learn from my mishaps,
made me realize what am I for the better half,
I am amidst the day I lived and die,
we are meeting halfway across this winding path.
I may not be the most pure of souls,
I may be flawed, I may end up a fool.
You may hate me for what I am,
But remember I am just a man.
Let me finish my lecture,
And hear the lessons of my life.
I know we lack in paternal love.
I know the feeling of being succumb.
Temptation. . .
We are just too weak to fall for it,
It's the realization that we have to learn from it.
and that we have to admit.
The Guilt is there to brand our memories.
Let this not end in an inevitable tragedies.
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 5:43 AM UTC
It’s so late I could cut my lights
and drive the next fifty miles
of empty interstate
by starlight,
flying along in a dream,
countryside alive with shapes and shadows,
but exit ramps lined
with eighteen wheelers
and truckers sleeping in their cabs
make me consider pulling into a rest stop
and closing my eyes. I’ve done it before,
parking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
mom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
the windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath.
But instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette,
play the radio low, and keep watch over
the wayfarers in the car next to me,
a strange paternal concern
and compassion for their well being
rising up inside me.
This was before
I had children of my own,
and had felt the sharp edge of love
and anxiety whenever I tiptoed
into darkened rooms of sleep
to study the peaceful faces
of my beloved darlings. Now,
the fatherly feelings are so strong
the snoring truckers are lucky
I’m not standing on the running board,
tapping on the window,
asking, Is everything okay?
But it is. Everything’s fine.
The trucks are all together, sleeping
on the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
and the crowded rest stop I’m driving by
is a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
The way I see it, I’ve got a second wind
and on the radio an all-night country station.
Nothing for me to do on this road
but drive and give thanks:
I’ll be home by dawn.
3.4k
In one brief moment, everything changes.
For a split second, thought becomes something distant.
Sensation is full, yet innocence gone.
A feeling of nothing, but everything.
Paternal elders understand, yet shy away.
They know how everything works in their head.
Brief, pure bliss attained through primitive acts.
Maternal elders understand, but blush
like it is something to be ashamed of.
Higher powers tend to condemn this void,
but all show what this signifies, even though
they don’t like to speak of it. One pure word.
Unity.
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 8, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
Vail tied to a weathering mask
with a child in tow
who grows swollen
And swells like his mother
from which he reluctantly
reared his head
In what was called The Cadaver Twist
A ******* accident, no less
No virtue in a conscience yet to breech
A lesson likely learned early
If only ...
Paternal instinct as the peripheral
responds autonomously to the bottle
with intervals of grease pouring
down the gullet
The rain decimates in torrential strife
Laying in bog known as
What Once Was
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
Palaces of ****** souls
have green neon text frames
standing sideways like arches;
divine arrows, they guide
the paternal flunks, the tar-soaked offspring,
the lonely and the business bunch.
Here in these palaces, all sin is a freeze, all
lust is a spin.
Fairy lights are often flagged in a net,
to catch mischievous mares flinging
themselves against the glass displays
of overpriced clothing shops.
One finds when wondering the perpetual
lines of restaurants and cafes, the vastness of them
having a motherly touch, for
these palaces, they stretch like the sky and
they spread like the shepherded
fire ants of Gaia herself
And when ones welcome is overbid
they need only to follow the
evenly laid out, sorrow yellow street lamps
and bite their cheeks and bare the frost
for soon the polluted lux will lead them to
an overnight joint, a limbo of sorts,
where they can breathe anew.
On those red leather sofas- fast food
or the district kind- when the night seems
to crawl on its final limbs,
they'll lay and slip into sleep.
Some say they never do wake, that they
wither with the moon and then
haunt the attics of the dance halls
where they swirled and laughed and lived
in a previous life.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
~By Alexander Pope: 1688—1744~
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 9:15 AM UTC
I only have one photo of Grandad
from his years of service in the Great War,
and in it he’s wearing a leopard-skin leotard.
My paternal grandfather, Grandad,
was brought up in Brockley, South-East London
In his teens he was conscripted
and became a gunner sergeant in the Royal Field Artillery.
I still have his stirrups and his French/English phrase book
which includes useful words, like dysentery,
(think of the movie, ‘War Horse’, and you’re almost there).
He fought in the mud in France and put a lot of horses out of their misery.
Apparently, he enjoyed the stage – a song and a dance,
and almost went professional after a string
of successful nights at the local Roxy,
all of which makes me want to have known him better,
but he died in my teens.
He laughed a lot, loved his vegetable garden
and had a collection of handy-sized, hard-back books
giving details of how various circuits and wiring worked.
I recall his bear of an armchair
and how it was in easy reach
of a slim stack of shallow drawers
from which he would take slender tools or small curios
and sit and explain their significance to my bemused child self.
I have the brown photo somewhere -
it’s not one I’d like to frame as it raises too many questions for me.
Like – is that bloke next to grandad meant to be Robinson Crusoe?
Like – what prompted grandad to ‘black up’ from head to toe – is he Man Friday?
And now, I stare at the photo handed to me by my friend of his grandfather, complete with rifle and medals,
and again I silently ask my grandad – why?
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 3:11 PM UTC
I have gained a paternal responsibility
But I feel a different response filling me
Constantly itching from a million flees
Begging to get me out of this please
So in my mind unseen
Resides a murderous dream
To subtract from my team
I fall into a landslide
Of infanticide
A lioness eats her cubs
As a baby drowns in a tub
Before they reach the age
They acquire our rage
We devour our babies
Before they contract rabies
We're brought together by proximity and origin
By who we were forming in
This connection of chance
Determines circumstance
Guiding our circle dance
With random music
We take whatever we can
Until we lose it
A possum's mother dies
It has no time to cry
It must continue to eat
So it feeds
Like its mother in heat
Had to breed
In order to not lose
The child chews
In a world of me or you
The child chews
Instead of feeling blue
The child chews
Its mother's fur stuck in its teeth
It stays there to provide heat
The parent provisions from beyond the grave
Will get the possum through this ugly day
From possum to person
I can't tell which is the worse end
For there is flesh stuck between my teeth
Like a Christmas wreath
Where what lies beneath
In a readily equipped sheath
Is patricide or matricide
I can't decide
But must abide
To survive
The purgatory
I see surging toward me
So to move forwardly
I must live forlornly
After feeding on family
Company becomes fantasy
Learning no one can handle me
They're just meals I'll eat handily
I eat my relatives
In this hell I live
Where what I give
Is the gnashing of my jaw
To follow a universal law
That says scratch and claw
Until I meet God
Expecting my parricide ways
Will garner divine praise
But for everybody I slayed
My soul was filleted
Now I only see grey
So everyone looks like my father
And I say welcome back Kotter
As I yearn for my teeth to be hotter
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
These are two words which are completely foreign to me.
What is a mother? What is a father? How do they both act? I have not only been deprived of their significant meanings and experiences, but defiled also.
I am plagued with Mommy issues, Daddy issues. Anything at all relevant to something paternal, forcefully and painfully stirs something inside me.
I wish to squirm and break away from such a topic. It hurts.
Envy? Yes. But I know it is futile to wish and be other children with healthy families.
Everything Is Worldly.
Nov 1, 2024
Nov 1, 2024 at 6:35 AM UTC
I opened my grandmother.
The Universal is independent.
To the vast expanse of this great world
I opened her way. Still, the stories that
I am telling you She is more likely to hear.
I am late She would have been full of trouble.
Cutting the grains of mango, worshiping the mule's ****
Looking closely at the sunset
She would have been silently painting for a long time.
The birds that had come near to to see,
The sono-rama was very shocking to me.
In the nights of the rainy season, rain and dew on our skin
When the sound is singing one and the same
She was shaky. but She liked poetry; My poems,
so I left them for her; my grandmother.
She grew her cooch's hair as if it was grandfather's beard.
Now her spread wings seek the eternity of the beginning
and I fly into her. Her dreams will be the grass beneath the rain.
In the waving wheat's hum; where Ants walk.
In the wrinkled cage that is open,
there was a rain of the deceased
only a feather is wet.
A gift for a bequest. Remember it !! Take it!
I opened up my paternal grandmother.
Despite knowing she may not be breathing,
She will not come.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 6:12 AM UTC
Your beckoning finger like curling ribbon
Its pained sharp edge beneath the shining
binding me to a catch-22 with gnarly roots;
To paternal blue pierce and maternal chin –
eyes peeping over the creeping cords
pinning me down to the tow-line
where I fit and flinch to be free.
To be me.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 4:59 PM UTC
Poor little rich girl, daddy doesn't care,
All the toys and pretty boys just would not compare!
Mummy always does her best,
Keeps her baby in the nest.
Poor little rich girl, empty still,
Give her it all but the void won't fill,
Mummy tries but can't explain,
And no one understands her pain.
Poor little rich girl, starved of affection,
Constantly longing for that male protection,
The paternal bond that would never come,
Will one day make this young girl numb,
Daddy left at such a cost,
Poor little rich girl forever lost.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
Expectations of gender stereotypes invoke the psychopath that lurks in the deepest recesses of my soul.
Maternal and paternal influences reek of disconnected ambivalence.
When I think of knowledge, I am reminded of apple pie.
I may not be able to undertake mechanical and electrical tasks, but I can truly profile.
Although our instincts may be somewhat dangerous, I am compelled to make those savoury simplicities that are characterised by yeast, cheese and the pride of a mother.
Have you ever been to Balmore?
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
I wish you were a pleasant wren,
And I your small accepted mate;
How we'd look down on toilsome men!
We'd rise and go to bed at eight
Or it may be not quite so late.
Then you should see the nest I'd build,
The wondrous nest for you and me;
The outside rough, perhaps, but filled
With wool and down: ah, you should see
The cosey nest that it would be.
We'd have our change of hope and fear,
Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet:
I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,
Or hop about on active feet
And fetch you dainty bits to eat.
We'd be so happy by the day,
So safe and happy through the night,
We both should feel, and I should say,
It's all one season of delight,
And we'll make merry whilst we may.
Perhaps some day there'd be an egg
When spring had blossomed from the snow:
I'd stand triumphant on one leg;
Like chanticleer I'd almost crow
To let our little neighbors know.
Next you should sit and I would sing
Through lengthening days of sunny spring:
Till, if you wearied of the task,
I'd sit; and you should spread your wing
From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.
Fancy the breaking of the shell,
The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,
The untried proud paternal swell;
And you with housewife-matron air
Enacting choicer bills of fare.
Fancy the embryo coats of down,
The gradual feathers soft and sleek;
Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,
With ****** warblings in their beak,
They too go forth to soar and seek.
So would it last an April through
And early summer fresh with dew:
Then should we part and live as twain,
Love-time would bring me back to you
And build our happy nest again.
1.9k
heavy concentration in time's
essence, foiled by delights,
intransigent by the world.
lost in paternal void
to fulfill some design
of desire, desolate.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
Your heaven has failed me
On the days when I felt loading up the dish washer was a
Personal assault on my psyche
Your god has-
Run me over with his fists too many times
And made me believe it was paternal pat’s on the back
All the-
Pain I was feeling,
You carry the gravel in your teeth
To make sure its full of grit,
When you speak,
I say;
“you’re full of ****
You say im just weak for the things
That have made me unholy.
I am weak for the things that have unbroken me.
These words are shrapnel
You let them sink into our skin there is no more dirt to chew
I will spend my last moments
Holding onto the ******* noose
I’m going down swinging
And if that means I’ll hang
So be it
There are worst ways to die
I know
Because I’ve died before
Nothing special happens. Ya’ll can stop dreaming.
Kindness isn’t supposed to taste so bitter
Being saved
Isn’t supposed to hurt so much
You-
Never knew how much the night sky despised the daylight
Until you moved to a country where it gets longer every year
You never knew how kind
The sun was to your skin-
Ive got tan lines where my noose used to swing
It took me three years to untie myself
And I still have scars
Whether they will be there or not in a few more years
I guess ill stick around and see just
How much ive
lost
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
fitted dots
to particles
fasting on
insanity
dreaming of
a brittle
sack battle
on beaches
silted rocks
on depth
paternal
hereditary
slush of my
guts and my
guttural
attempts
at
insular
perspective
these
thoughts
are alive
now.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC