"paternity" poems
Rolling a Pall Mall in the courtyard,
of Ye Olde Swiss Cottage Tavern,
in the last of November's sun:
Lovely sunlight,
You are,
Filling me warmly with joy.
Thinking of our desires,
from summer and autumn months,
up to this bright November morning,
we have happily danced,
e'en in the shadows.
Above me two brick turrets,
as I dreamily smoke,
nonchalantly state: 'Underground'.
High-raised logos winking at our play,
struck through with horizontal blue,
in a circle of enamel white.
'Old Fool,' the towers hiss,
directed at my mortal sensibilities,
'winter has come!'
But nothing buries us
as our sun still comfortingly kindles
a friendly star
which when all is dark,
glows inside,
guiding the shipwreck of my sunken years
- the debts and all those unpaid thrills!
Dreaming and Loving,
as children out,
lost in an abundant *****
each holding off for as long as we dare,
lovers unmasked,
naked before suffocating paternity,
and cold winter's bite!
where to we hardly know,
to avoid its cruel embrace.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC
Frozen moments,
embraced,
visions of
luminous things,
unpretentious
pearls dancing;
embers of memory linger,
elegy of the lachrymose,
this horizoning self
lying low in saturnine
tranquility
and repose – paternity lost
to the provisional.
The cross of lassitude,
forming
scars of loss;
estrangement,
preface to
ineluctable autonomy.
Earthen treasure - immortal
footprints, the migration
of fair maidens across my
effusive heart.
Venus trio in bloom,
aesthetic allusion,
ephemeral incarnations
of beauty - perishable fruit,
transcending the plebeian.
Aerial substance-
the hermeneutic,
betraying desire’s
ambrosial tyranny;
The permuted passage -
savor the sojourn, submit
to the fated peregrination.
Purple orchids blossom,
immortal creatures,
culminating
in perfection
from the sheath
respectively,
each plume,
singular,
the continuum of
splendor, mediate
the inviolable.
Eternity compounding,
time and essence suffuse
the already and not yet
into an
orbiting mosaic.
The susurrant devotions
of a satellite father,
summon the quest -
both, and,
absence and proximity,
conduits of
distress and peace
ironically,
solace and
terror
traverse the
same path.
Plunge though,
deep, the depth of pain;
deeper, sweeter
the taste of pleasure.
Engender and witness,
window into
preeminence,
surface azure,
the sacred -
inimitable gravity of
grandeur,
ma petite,
you - are
lived poetry
seen and heard;
cosmic order,
a mediating heuristic -
to love is to see,
in the dismal,
gift of distance.
child of delight,
evermore, Don’t I hold you?
Beauty and strangeness,
music found
in linear,
secret places
beyond the tangent,
purview of limitation,
arousing imagination -
infinititude as near
as it is far.
Long loneliness -
dissonance that
resolves;
perceiving,
the tertiary refrain -
as exquisite verse,
and matchless liqueur,
sublime gratuity
derived
through
doors of surrender.
Daughter,
in adoration and wonder,
I hold you.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
On the massive Shoulders of Microsoft
are...
Children's games
Search for names
Weather reports
Scores for Sports
Travel news
Rythmn & Blues
Hotel prices
Adult Devices
Chinese Quisine
Night Scene
Machine Screw's
High Heeled Shoes
Butter Knife
Future Wife
Candy Crush
Makeup Blush
Family Tree
Spending Spree
Natural Pearls
Web Cam Girls
Rental Hall
Disco *****
Dance Clubs
Irish Pubs
Paternity Tests
Financial Invests
Mortgage Brokers
On Line Poker
and, so much more.....JMF 2/21/15
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 9:15 AM UTC
Before the Dawn Of Agriculture men like ME where slapped into the shadow of ****** shame but now who needs muscles or chiseled chins, great size or strength, a lover’s passion or a manly countenance ‘cause for ten thousandyears now I can persecute any female for infidelity towards ME and hold paternity privilege over MY biological children because we exceptional farmers invented marriage to destroy human sexuality by enslaving women with MY property for *** so I no longer need to share or compete or settle for an alpha males’ sloppy seconds within foraging groups that are forced to share what they carry with them instead of our enforced legal couplings that takes the innocent, primal pleasure and mystery out of *** by connectingshtooping to birth thanks to dirt MY dirt MY very own thousand acres of seeded soil littered with pens full of MY trapped sheep, cattle, goats and pigs which means I can pork any female I fancy and destroy any man who thwarts MY desire as simply as the bulls I castrate into submission to easily herd into MY slaughterhouses that feed all the inferior people no longerdependent on their hunting and gathering skills but on ME to stay alive so not only am I not considered a sociopath by hoarding food but am praised at harvest time like a ********* Babe Ruth hero because I have legally claimed and legally ***** those precious few life giving inches of topsoil with rotating crops and extended grasslands that exhausts and shrinks the earth, MY earth MY reign of forcing agricultural workers to bend over in the fields, stupidly exposing hairless backs to sun poisoning instead of their protective hunters’ heads of hair harvesting MY food that shrinks the testicles of everyone who is forced to feed on the cheap calories of MY industrialized plants and animals that lowers fertility, but who needs big ***** anymore when you don’t have to **** larger animals in order to survive or attract females with your superior physical attributes proving I am the social parasite Sultan of Swat who grows fat on the food I’ve seized by stealingPaleo land in the name of government protected ownership.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
I'm trying to focus
On subtle ****** propriety,
While having to resist
Challenges to paternity,
Questioning my certainty,
Seeding suggestions of ****** flaccidity.
And all I want
is to *** with credibility.
-
Five 7s are 35
Six 7s are 42
Seven 7s are 49
Eight 7s are.....
(Contented sigh)
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
We're going to need lawyers
all of us
everyone hates everyone
and there's going to be lawsuits
and paternity suits
wear your grey suit.
best tie
walk tall into the courtroom and then leave.
disheveled, with your hands behind your back
and a police escort
and never walk again
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 8:25 PM UTC
.
I'm one tissue shy of calamity,
next to the last soul in humanity.
I am one ounce of pride short of dignity,
and one mph away from velocity.
I'm in one town, you're intensity,
a Master Charge away from identity.
One aching tendon from flexibility,
and one arc'd degree from the university.
Happiness has lost it's frivolity,
I have narrowed down my availability.
Gumby has lost all elasticity.
Will we live beyond infinity?
I've never crossed the lines between serenity and insanity,
has a poet's moon lost it's sensuality?
I am one drink ahead of sobriety.
The second to last to stand in society.
The unforgivable sin elbows my morality,
your pen sells your individuality.
One jail bar between your vulnerability.
Your down to earth qualities mock your vanity.
My daddy never claimed me through paternity,
I was the last kid standing in the maternity.
And just when I thought this poem was through,
you asked me to spend eternity with you.
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
A tremble begins to settle on seething skin
She is a maker of parasitical kin
It does not consume like a dancing fire
But it amplifies with a vision of curdling desire
Just like a mother, it grows like a molding seed
A miracle of the asexual spirit in a world of greed
Abrupt in nature, beloved by its own flesh and blood
It left an intangible mark inscribed on her soul in disguise of a hunch
A precautionary tale serves a special prevention of the ugly occurrence
What a marvelous delight it becomes when it reverts as a guide, full of opulence
But not in a sense of monetary value, rather a calculated demise
How does one understand a raw creation of wrath?
What will she become after venturing the thorny path?
Does an inquiry halts her progress in activating fury?
Is there an object of her ire that requires a narrative of her mutiny?
Why does the poison never spread like death in a rush?
Can she possibly raise an army to march with an uncontrollable urge of violence?
When will she endure the thinning of her lips to match the peace of a deafening silence?
Is there a warning to keep herself intact for the coming apocalyptic days?
Will it save the dormant history of her being through enactment of saving face?
The question remains unanswered, but the fulfillment of the instrumental vengeance shall prevail
The inappropriate conception is almost complete to its term
A note emerges from an acidic confinement for the preparation of a womanly stern
This clump of a girl is not a shameful creation for the sake of tragedy
If anything, the child's fulfilling rage will cleanse her ancestors as a token of remedy
There is no reminder of a continuing paternity names on her birth
No need for prophetic visions as she strikes down the Earth
An abundant offerings on her behalf shall never satisfy her
As the melting iron starts to sizzle the plumper skin, the blinding nostalgia of rage tastes better
She has no patience for warnings to initiate an appropriate plan
The hour of her sustainable war has begun
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 11:59 AM UTC
Shadows of the past greet a fading patriarch sitting upon the fragile seat of the present.
A season void of exuberance leaving his “inner child” huddled beneath an undressed tree staring at the emptiness left by “disappointment”. Childhood abandoned upon paternity’s deathbed.
A season revealing that child seeking the comfort only “nostalgia” seems to offer. Moments of youth denied by the demands of adulthood.
Shadows of the future rebuking the bitterness the old heart embraces. Consuming sorrow from the cup of Grief.
A season revealing Tomorrow leaving her tears upon his withered cheek. Reflecting on the face of Love lost within a fog. Her poignant touch an old man is no longer able to feel.
A season realizing his unwillingness to change as Death performs last rites upon an old fleeting soul. Guided to the “other-side” by Eternity.
A child set free becoming acquainted with joyful simplicity.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 10:24 AM UTC
I'd rather go to Hell
Then be trapped in your secret cell
You begged and worked for hopeful fireworks
But all you got were my dreadful quirks
Hallelujah call His name
Teacher, student, both the same
Show me your love in her technicolor whirlpool
Outside there's anger, but inside is cool
So go on, dragon slayer, and toss me your groove
I'm the chess player, and I'm ending your move
Good evening, little brother, my precious darling kin
We're all one in the same, though you wear a different skin
There was us, confused about paternity
We danced and jumped and had no use for maturity
I saw those eyes you never would see
For all that is left is she, not me
And you just shatter each dry, cracked bone
I know I will face this all alone
So when I leave, you'll ask me “How?”
And I'll respond, “Where's your God now?”
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
Since spring all I've wanted was for you to be mine
Don't cry to the suicide of that **** stupid sidekick
They want your soul, it's the Devil's trick
So help me please, where did my words go?
Sure, we won't fight, but now I'll never know
Yes I be the flames and you be the boy
Sunshine, take my hand, and sing with summer joy
There we were raised, twins, by our best friend
I pray that her plane ride won't be our end
Just hold me and say you'll always forgive and forget
Just hold me and say that you're happy we met
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
I was lying alone in the soft ambience,
Beer smells,
Stale warm tides,
Strange feelings,
Wide distance from paternity,
Horse screams from behind,
Glazed window,
Brazen below,
I reached for the morning,
Who's there?
Barking on the stairs,
Dreaming eyes beckon,
Hard, sharp, antenna release,
The wind began to speak,
"You think you can catch me?"
Assemble senses,
Arise the birth,
Dissemble memory,
Eyes of the earth,
The Bavarian leans against the quiet sunrise.
................................................
Nov 1, 2009
Nov 1, 2009 at 10:18 PM UTC
I’ll grant you that it would be possible to track the woman Mary,
who is mentioned about three times in the bible,
and to show that there was no male intervention in her life at all,
yet she delivered herself of a healthy baby boy.
I don’t say that is impossible.
parthenogenesis isn't completely unthinkable,
but it does not prove that his paternity is divine,
and it wouldn't prove that any of his thereby moral teachings were correct.
nor, if I saw him executed one day and walking the streets the next,
would that show his father was God,
or his mother was a ******
or that his teachings were true.
especially considering the commonplace nature of resurrection at the time.
after all, Lazarus was raised, never heard a word about it,
the daughter of Gyrus was raised, didn't say a thing about what she’d been through,
and the gospels tell us
that at the time of the crucifixion
all the graves in Jerusalem popped open
and their occupants wondered around the streets to greet people.
so it seems resurrection was something of a banality at the time.
clearly not all of those people were divinely conceived.
so I’ll give you all the miracles,
and you will still be left exactly where you are now,
holding an empty sack.
C.H.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
Cold burns the beauty from the scape
and buries the breath of God;
still waters collect death yet still thrive wild.
You sit there,
mountain basin as your chair,
picturesque—a wilted flower in your hair.
Nineteen burned away
like deadwood from an ancient grove,
still partly due to the paternity of your tyrant
and the benevolence of your father.
I can only admire for so long, before
I cannot bare desistance from your glow,
the heat from the center of your being, the cold
from the ice-capped genius of your conscious.
Tomorrow seems as a promise and so it may be true,
the opportunity to begin anew and labor on
the next step forward in tragic existence, leading beyond
to tragic finality; heavy breath and pounding heart,
awakened to foresight, a gift from the woeful ****
of knowledge learned to the entropy of physiology—
within a mote of hope reaps meaning from ontology.
As once the Earth, chaotic and unfeigned
tamed thus through speech of blossomed order,
gave rise to rival ebb and flow; yin and yang
unbeknownst, pervade each other's border.
And thou resist this myth of sagacity,
yet act the role of honest ancient heroes
to refrain thy rest from saltwater depths,
quelling cowards, liars, and unwise youth,
punished in life and thereafter, still—
cold burns not the beauty of the truth.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
there's something in the way in which grown men cry
that begs us to fall to our knees
and weep
for the heart ache that we've given to our fathers
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
warmed up and cooled down
all in the movement of a cloud
you know what you are doing
now you have my full attention
the Sun is yours to hide or shine
on skin you made oh so sensitive
the touches of love outside-in-
reminder of your constant paternity
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
Only the answers why
As I gaze at an evening crescent
Only between the sighs
As blood flows , porous , effervescent
So it was this time due
Ripped the scars vertically
For all these feelings . . . you're
Taken into nothing totally
Yes in my heart I bleed
Day , tomorrow , in eternity
Falling the crescent seed
By night dark without paternity
One hundred and one stitch
Reside to mend this remake fantasy
So flies the weathered witch
Across a crescent moon above me
Second hand moonlight ray
Second guessing all that which I gave
Will I live to see day
Silence knows but there is nothing to say
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
https://squirrels2poet2queen.deviantart.com/art/C-section-714557319
UNPUBLISHED
I’m sick of crying ‘fore a scene
In a delivery room
When the father who was obscene
Realizes his ***** went through
It came and dried and released it
A child into the world it perforated
My mother’s belly. A decision an incision
Paternity eternity morality depravity
The ****** broke like Mom’s waters
Soft you once asked me if I had ever seen
A man’s walking ***** Solanas is less obscene
Everything I’ve never told you is burning
Dad from 0 to 17
Bitter is the thought of your existence
Linked with a silver ink I excruciatingly link
My despair to my abhorrence
From scene to obscene I remain your sin
Your daughter I am, the third of your children
You let them fade slowly, we fend and defend
Our roots we deny you, we cry for you
******* pulsating **** you ain’t my end
Nov, 11, 2017
Lyon
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 2:00 AM UTC
as his mother heard yesterday he was born to some nobody everyone can describe, she instructs her barber to slide a lit cigarette behind her ear. as unimportant as the barber is, his pencil makes a subtle change in her dream to put a cricket on the witness stand.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 10:17 PM UTC
Turned around, fleeing,
I run from conflict
instead of facing it—
a coward’s path
born from a father’s shadow,
steeped in generational abuse.
A cycle vicious
as a violent thunderstorm,
striking bolts from the heavens
in divine judgment,
scorching my soul
as if branded like cattle.
A coat of arms
twisted and contorted,
misrepresenting values
held in the present,
yet fully defined
in a past no longer recognizable
to the progeny
who is tired of running
from Daddy’s failings.
No, it is time
to alter course,
to charge headlong
into the unknown abyss
where a different fear
lies in wait—
the dread of becoming
a carbon copy of his failings,
their venom lurking
like a stalking predator,
starving and salivating
at the thought
of a fresh meal
of unsuspecting me,
tripping into the pit,
unprepared to face demons
and rewrite history,
to forge a new heritage
unblemished by cowardice,
to rebuild a coat
that accurately depicts
who I have become
while freed from the bane
of paternity’s weaknesses,
that led to his son’s pain.
I stand up,
pushing back against the dark,
my light radiant
like the summer sun at noon,
casting glare
over the shadows,
causing them to flee
in a terror once my own,
no longer to darken
the soul of a good man
seeing beauty
in all things—
a revelation
that I too can shine
if given time
to heal from past wounds,
whose blood-streaked tears,
now scabbed over
and healed,
leave only a faint scar
of what was,
a reminder to live
in the present
and build anew
the love lost
between father and son.
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 1:20 PM UTC
Best off known
Make ‘art world’ of my damage
Prepare to go mammary
Prattle my way into important company
Display something intimidating
And put in my stake
My patchwork for paternity
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 11:36 PM UTC
Out of the blue...she called.
Next weekend... after dinner...she dies!
Scratch. Scratch. one more number... ****
If you want to live hide.
Searching for words, she whispered... maybe.
My stomach churned. Gas. I thought.
Catch me outside! How bout that!
Whats the worst that can... boom!
Number in hand, he chanced. Hello?
Four minutes earlier, he was alive.
Hold on! Don't die! honey? honey!
Woke up in a cab, naked.
What time is it? 10am. Sh***!
What day is it? Final Exams.
Driving through campus, my car stalled.
Honey, we gonna need a bigger house.
Nervously, he hit stage and stared.
Grabbing for popcorn, their hands met.
Washing laundry, she discovered lipstick stains
He mentioned love, but meant lust.
You may kiss your bride. Ribbit!
3,2,1. buckets Good. Overtime!
Phone rings! Who's calling? Veronica? Decline.
Losing consciousness. She whispered. I cheated.
Let me check your phone! Nope!
Paternity results: It's none of you.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
Alfred
Alfred, the pianist who is also my father
although he denies the paternity vehemently,
was in Hawaii and played the ukulele with
little success and went back to Europe.
Alfred the pianist and also my father, could
get the sweetest tones when he played and
women swooned in other men’s arms,
was when not playing of a rather sullen nature
he spent the day walking around town with
alpaca jacket end French bonnet, he looked ever
artistic and I followed him around; once when I fell
a bollard got in the way; he did help me up
and said; I'm not your father!
Alfred, the pianist and also my father, got to be
ninety-two and in the last years of his life was glad
to have a son even if it was a fake one as Alfred
was fond of pointing out
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 4:58 AM UTC