"penal" poems
I find myself diving inside of you where the weird dream shamans draw sketches of naked humans.
And you’re a human, and we're both naked. You’re purple, you’re just the perfect shade. I place my flag inside, to abscond us away inside of a womb where our world will open to portals to all of our favorite places. A floating haven, of cashmere. Gestating where the climate is warm and damp, and coloring me dark with wine—sweet wine of lovers, penal forgotten, and fermented anew in maternal rite, because…
This swarming melodic nectar that swims through my nostrils and rolls in my eyes cannot be drank casually. It’s the elixir of love. I love you,
And in you, I find that I love myself.
What’s more, the shamanists exclaim, “She wants to give you all of herself.” Yes, they’re right. Even what I do not love so much, I want you to have, if you’ll take it, because I have to live with it, and if you live with me, you’ll have to live with it too. And then, when you crack open your sternum to let the things in, the scribes of my life’s doing, of ancient passion proclaim! They burn their papyrus scrolls soaked in the blood that I drew from my veins to pass unto yours— and you swallow them whole like divine burritos. And then we are ready for the world to fall suddenly, if it felt so inclined. Now that our chests are pressed together, and our tongues are fused tight. We are the daughters of the prima mother. We are the goddesses of our dreams.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
Governments fall from sheer indifference.
Authority figures, deprived of the vampiric energy they **** off their constituents, are seen for what they are: dead empty masks manipulated by computers. And what is behind the computers? Remote control. Of course. Look at the prison you are in, we are all in. This is a penal colony that is now a Death Camp. Place of the Second and Final Death. Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. Don’t intend to be there when this ********* goes up. Nothing here now but the recordings. Shut them off, they are as radioactive as an old joke…
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
GOOD Father John O'Hart
In penal days rode out
To a Shoneen who had free lands
And his own snipe and trout.
In trust took he John's lands;
Sleiveens were all his race;
And he gave them as dowers to his daughters.
And they married beyond their place.
But Father John went up,
And Father John went down;
And he wore small holes in his Shoes,
And he wore large holes in his gown.
All loved him, only the shoneen,
Whom the devils have by the hair,
From the wives, and the cats, and the children,
To the birds in the white of the air.
The birds, for he opened their cages
As he went up and down;
And he said with a smile, "Have peace now';
And he went his way with a frown.
But if when anyone died
Came keeners hoarser than rooks,
He bade them give over their keening;
For he was a man of books.
And these were the works of John,
When, weeping score by score,
People came into Colooney;
For he'd died at ninety-four.
There was no human keening;
The birds from Knocknarea
And the world round Knocknashee
Came keening in that day.
The young birds and old birds
Came flying, heavy and sad;
Keening in from Tiraragh,
Keening from Ballinafad;
Keening from Inishmurray.
Nor stayed for bite or sup;
This way were all reproved
Who dig old customs up.
3.7k
Fewer adults are laughing,
It's not funny any more;
We leaned on poles to direct our titter,
Quite harmless in its day.
And Engine 9's been derailed,
We're catching tigers,
But It's still okay.
We rolled our eyes at Jewish jibes,
And salesmen in the barn;
Or the Newfie warning,
*Don't slip on the ice,
Don't ya know, bay, it's hard frozen*.
We've pulled our collective heads out,
We're sniffing old world air.
I liked the self-effacing glibs,
Affected with a brogue.
Now there's a hard line on a country bridge,
Across a brook, or penal school ditch.
It's just not funny any more.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
Burning, he walks in the stream of flickering letters, clarinets,
machines throbbing quicker than the heart, lopped-off heads, silk
canvases, and he stops under the sky
and raises toward it his joined clenched fists.
Believers fall on their bellies, they suppose it is a monstrance that
shines,
but those are knuckles, sharp knuckles shine that way, my friends.
He cuts the glowing, yellow buildings in two, breaks the walls into
motley halves;
pensive, he looks at the honey seeping from those huge honeycombs:
throbs of pianos, children's cries, the thud of a head banging against
the floor.
This is the only landscape able to make him feel.
He wonders at his brother's skull shaped like an egg,
every day he shoves back his black hair from his brow,
then one day he plants a big load of dynamite
and is surprised that afterward everything spouts up in the explosion.
Agape, he observes the clouds and what is hanging in them:
globes, penal codes, dead cats floating on their backs, locomotives.
They turn in the skeins of white clouds like trash in a puddle.
While below on the earth a banner, the color of a romantic rose,
flutters,
and a long row of military trains crawls on the weed-covered tracks.
2k
I wake in this city
This city that didn't bear me
This city that didn't raise me
And yet it's this city that i seek to find something of me
Not in the pubs or the clubs or the karaoke bars
Where revelers conspire to dream and drink to the stars
Nor the cafes where poets and artists in a foreign language create.
Pass the market stalls where secondhand books and vinyls are stacked like freight
It is to the quietened streets of the old town I go
Where i long for the walls to speak once more
To reveal their hidden histories
To help fashion some sense of a man
One unknownst to me, my fathers father whose name I share
A fine skilled seamster, thus a tailor by trade
Not arriving to this city for work on fabrics of nylon and silk
But to stitch and sew the flesh of limbs in a paramedic corps
Another pawn of the Great War under King George's command
Driven only by economic necessity from a penal homeland
Not of conscription, politics or some moral conviction at play
For the price of neutrality is one that poverty simply refuses to pay
Returning home to an Ireland of hostility or silence at best
Medals now lying deep in pockets not proudly pinned to chests
Irish heroes don't fight in a British war for a King's crown
No such stories from father to son shall ever pass down
And now, a grainy photograph, three medals for a sons son to take
A dog tag that bears my name, a number and RC to depict a faith
From a man exiled in his home as a forgotten prisoner of war
To honour a legacy i find myself in this city afar
Asking the same questions of him as to me
Is this city the last place he truly felt free?
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
Himself it was who wrote
His rank, and quartered his own coat.
There is no king nor sovereign state
That can fix a hero's rate;
Each to all is venerable,
Cap-a-pie invulnerable,
Until he write, where all eyes rest,
Slave or master on his breast.
I saw men go up and down
In the country and the town,
With this prayer upon their neck,
"Judgment and a judge we seek."
Not to monarchs they repair,
Nor to learned jurist's chair,
But they hurry to their peers,
To their kinsfolk and their dears,
Louder than with speech they pray,
What am I? companion; say.
And the friend not hesitates
To assign just place and mates,
Answers not in word or letter,
Yet is understood the better;—
Is to his friend a looking-glass,
Reflects his figure that doth pass.
Every wayfarer he meets
What himself declared, repeats;
What himself confessed, records;
Sentences him in his words,
The form is his own corporal form,
And his thought the penal worm.
Yet shine for ever ****** minds,
Loved by stars and purest winds,
Which, o'er passion throned sedate,
Have not hazarded their state,
Disconcert the searching spy,
Rendering to a curious eye
The durance of a granite ledge
To those who gaze from the sea's edge.
It is there for benefit,
It is there for purging light,
There for purifying storms,
And its depths reflect all forms;
It cannot parley with the mean,
Pure by impure is not seen.
For there's no sequestered grot,
Lone mountain tam, or isle forgot,
But justice journeying in the sphere
Daily stoops to harbor there.
1.7k
Rush, Rush!
Gunky plush bagog
Nugget sog
Peedle glog
Plundering down the boulevard
I saw what seemed to be a Schmagtap
Slukavard.
Under his buttons, there grew his
Mutton.
Mutton branch, penal franch
Sogging down the grittle bog
And briggenfagig squeezing a bib,
Soaked in carrot juice frib
Muggafloo
Plubderp.
Schmubderp.
Aug 21, 2011
Aug 21, 2011 at 12:45 AM UTC
#Anonymous (1730s ?)
In good King Charles's golden days,
When Loyalty no harm meant;
A Furious High-Church man I was,
And so I gain'd Preferment.
Unto my Flock I daily Preached,
Kings are by God appointed,
And Damn'd are those who dare resist,
Or touch the Lord's Anointed.
***And this is law, I will maintain
Unto my Dying Day, Sir.
That whatsoever King may reign,
I shall be Vicar of Bray, Sir!***
When Royal James possessed the crown,
And popery grew in fashion;
The Penal Law I hooted down,
And read the Declaration:
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my Constitution,
And I had been a Jesuit,
But for the Revolution.
And this is Law, &c.
When William our Deliverer came,
To heal the Nation's Grievance,
I turned the Cat in Pan again,
And swore to him Allegiance:
Old Principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance,
Passive Obedience is a Joke,
A Jest is non-resistance.
And this is Law, &c.;
When Royal Ann became our Queen,
Then Church of England's Glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory:
Occasional Conformists base
I Damn'd, and Moderation,
And thought the Church in danger was,
From such Prevarication.
And this is Law, &c.;
When George in Pudding time came o'er,
And Moderate Men looked big, Sir,
My Principles I changed once more,
And so became a Whig, Sir.
And thus Preferment I procured,
From our Faith's great Defender,
And almost every day abjur'd
The Pope, and the Pretender.
And this is Law, &c.;
The Illustrious House of Hanover,
And Protestant succession,
To these I lustily will swear,
Whilst they can keep possession:
For in my Faith, and Loyalty,
I never once will falter,
But George, my lawful king shall be,
Except the Times should alter.
And this is Law, &c;.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
This is the journey I've gone so so many times
Experience I acquired without you remains an Ocean of lines
The mathematics to solve this equation you set goes beyond the Primes
As for every blunder I make, drives me far away you, that, Penal crime
I think of you in a million second to loose signs
I bury all pains to present to you a smile
In the Ocean of troubled mind I still carry you as Nile
Even while I lost all wars, the only thing that dangle in the sky are your beauty Kite
I've smelt Roses of different flavour
Scents in castles that bury Valour
They've all really tried though
Tried enough to hit the wall of smell bank to blow
Imagine!
They hit so low to outweigh that, which hoose from within your shoulder margin
I adore God and respect human
How do I treat you best as a Superhuman?
Let's feel the case that I run a million miles around the Globe
Climb Mountains with a single step like I'm in Dope
Conquer machinery that outfit Achilles
Just to carve your Statue on every Hills
I can look the East
Imagine the West to find the best
I can even be a nut enough to dare the North
Believe me Chantel, even if the world sought
Sought to move me away from you,I won't leave for South
As much as I please your Highness, Angels can pout.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
For Joshua Haines
Thanks for the invite kid,
but I am bulky enough
and don't need your weight
to carry
**** good writer
you are,
not a concede,
not an aiming to please,
"just the facts, ma'am"
not even twenty one
commander of the ship from
a mooring slipped,
a poetic trip well-begun
but
Follow for Follow?
no babe,
passing dude,
passed that point
of no purposed-return,
trading points and
placing my self worth
on a scale of followers,
or ranted counts of page views
I may read you
cause write quite nicely,
but I don't inflate
nobody's ego,
for their own fake sake
counting false gods
got my people forty years
of desert wandering,
after 400 years of penal servitude,
so I have done my hard time,
for that exact crime
Whew!
That felt good!
you must of got me confused
with another whew
I was young once
till very recently,
even tho I am
four decades plus
you senior
so here is my story,
don't swap spit or follows,
or likes for show,
those who have my heart,
have my words freely
my audience is the sun,
my numerology glorious,
the blades of green beneath
my rabbits happy bunny dancing,
for every verse pleasured
those I count on,
ask not,
for they like me for the who in my poetry,
knowing fullness and well,
mine is theirs,
no need to trade favors
I will read your words,
but not for you,
but for them,
the best part
of the best of you
Let us together,
think about that...
and if ever there were a blade upon to fall,
this notion is both sharp,
and the map to freedom
good luck to us both...
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
I celebrate her freedom , I paint her in pink.......
I occupy her blueness in red passionate sprit ...
Dreams filled her eyeball,
counting down each second ...
until the special day of adventure,
a call from heaven ...
We Started for a treasure hunt elevated 7000 ft ..
snow flakes covered the mountain,
keeping mystery under beneath...
We covered eyelids ,
awaiting sparking light ..
A big storm grabbed us ,screaming holly night ...
Mountain tunnel darkness invading the eyes.......
We lose focus , all direction lies..
Evil shadows move and dance in peripheral ,
causing our mind to go blank penal .
We taste confusion in the subconscious cerebrums ,
Like a rainbow after the dark,
A cave tremble holly sound ,
with hope and promise , a future to profound ....
Discovering book of Eli , the treasure inside love ,
The elusive, tangible love staying all above..........
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
With ease the flower juggled
Playing sweetly tenderly with the sun
Outside the vent of my window
Where I smelt the fragrance
Of this pretty yellow flower
Eavesdropping in my penal dream.
Could this be the fruit
Of billion trees veiled in vain
Innocent voices drizzled
And flooded patiently the weighted heart
Weighted heart of sombre days
Sombre days of beautiful injuries
All the Arabesque of the eyes
That foamed far then clad facades
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 4:07 AM UTC
dispensing
poetic justice
is a measure of fate
of this punishing toll
chiseled on the grate
how befitting
for a personage
to be on the receiving end
of its age old adage
a reckoning
appropriated
on the stone's memorial
shackled
forever
in a penal testimonial
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
Silencing call of passion,
When you talk of 1800's style vintage
Perception no-one knows, but when you see
Gross underwrites with turning phone dials
You wake
A part of you discovering you
Like a wheel chasing itself you laugh
Hradly suspicious of anything else
I hear the fragrance of Canada is
Calm except for the penal regrets
Of solemn senses
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
You are clean cotton doused in Windex
the OCD mom
the sam's club size bottles of hand sanitizer
the peace
the calm
I am the glass window smeared with fingerprints
industrial sharpie zig-zagged across a white wall
I am battle cries across an open field
I am the instant regret of a slammed door
If you love me you can love the valley of flowers between my thighs but you can't be afraid of the blood and gore
Sometimes I wonder if my skin is one solid calloused mass
or layers of paint peeling away off of a house
I wonder if as the paint on my shins chips away
you can see the bruises from bike pedals
I wonder if you can hear my painful shouts
I wonder if you grab a hold of the layer covering my penal gland
you can read a hardcover novel about my worry and doubt
I wonder if you can see the jagged scars along my spine
from every time I got friendly with somebody's knife
I wonder if you can see the way I smiled through the spite
shook hands with the same people
who drove daggers through my spirits
laughed when the rain fell the hardest
and always hardest it might
I know that you can love my best dressed persona
my freshly brushed teeth
But with my good hair days
come the days I nearly rip it from my scalp
Then there are days when I am completely in love with me
I am a disproportional mess of history
a collection of experiences that have begun to shape my existence
I am not made of stone
I am flesh and bone
I am a heartbeat and lungs of persistence.
I am clay in your hands, and I am at your fingers demand.
There is music when you strum a guitar
but it still holds importance when it is silent in it's stand
Don't mistake my quiet for doubt
I am trying my very best
when I'm a river try being my drought
Pull me closer
don't shut me out
You said our love could be a garden
maybe we need is just a little more rain
We've got the love part down
Our kisses are roses
touches are carnations
There could be a petal for every ounce of our pain
Our garden has been planted we just need some patience
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
if the results of your negotiations
remain below the expectations
of your great leader
you better write your testament
say goodbye to your loved ones
and prepare for death
instantly or piecemeal
in one of those well known
penal colonies
whereto the great leader
relegates those enemies of the people
who fail to give himself
and his good buddy Donald
the precious soundbites
they need to announce
over the global media
to demonstrate
their nuclear good will
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
crumble
stumble
shin bones resonate
then part ways
walking razor edges
in descent to
the underworld
so sink I
under the waves
of Gaia's fury
roiling through my veins
overflowing, spilling
pouring out my
drunken offering
in shame
descent
deeper--center
subsumed in doom
saturated with ultrablue
blood not mine
penal lineage incongruous
with divine
my sole salvation
is empty
my soul empties into
Tartarian depths
and definitively
denied access to
heaven and hell
I'll sleep with the
vacuum
sealed, entombed
forever frozen crystalline carcass
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
Thought of the fairest hooyo
Is a hue to dab on you.
‘Red’ would tinge a thing or two:
Oily drips on the apple skin.
Cubic glass that sprinkles rays
Mixed with brilliant sparkling smiles.
That you are in white as the sun
Only sieved of scourging warmth.
Afro-brown has joined the queue;
The melon bulb that’s packaged soft.
Mummy’s nurse that props my head:
Food and rest in dermal bronze.
In the night, your colour glows;
Leave me not in colour blind.
Pledging scent that cuddles me,
Shadow not your penal self.
As you peck my lips to sleep
Halfway through some lullaby,
Eyes and cheeks in Snitcher’s love
Just so real in whitish-blue.
May 20, 2022
May 20, 2022 at 5:26 AM UTC
The Clock-towered widow
...And there the old clock-towered widow sat,
taking her daily deep draughts of girlish things:
of pleats and plaits and wished-for wedding rings,
of memories synchronised with her neat fifties hat.
Schoolgirls clustered in giggling groups,
gaggling and clucking like happy hens at dawn-
hyperactive and over-eager for a share of the corn.
She sipped images of ballet and hula hoops.
A sudden sunbeam lanced the mood;
Cowered by the persistent, penal chimes she rose,
dutifully diligent in her destroying personal prose.
She whispered something incoherent and crude.
Nursing shadows, losing pride,
She skirted the cold stones of the old town;
needing home and the comfort of a dressing gown.
In her usual secret solitude she cried.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
I was right about myself.
Even though a year ago I had it all figured out,
I'd still hurt myself.
It's the longing for a soulmate.
Desperation for a penal man.
Knife-wounds still stripe my bare back.
Shalini Nayar
© 2005
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
Art thou arbitrating an anecdotal end?
Thou apparition of past anthropologist's enlivened to enormity and feline fiasco bend..
Paupers come in packs,
Patter soo bicuriously the patrolmen and thine percolaters match!!
Penal supplements calm nerves of shredded steel,
Pawn broker's to choker's,
Satires greatest wheel!!!!
Come all ye scapegoats!!!
For now you've one to blame,
No debit cards , no yards to take off to,
No torment to shallows fame!!!!!
Amazing grace for how sweet is thy sound?
How young is thine ground?
When one may come and go!!!!
No tunneling through promontery snow,
Yet beautifiers of nature's naturality!!!!
How come thou seeketh out others,
Only to find thyself?
No crystal italic ball to showeth you thy way,
Nor any lead to help!!!
Reiteration of emotion replenishes only if for a few,
Solely I need dire solace listener!!!!
Temporal fixtures and hangings ignited to one fire worked display,
Timid footsteps expanded by black and of Grey!!!!
This thorax goes pained!!!!
Underlying velvet cruor from one to be undervalued and drained!!!!
How hapless to be stood up wherewith your at captive!!!!
Welfare is nowhere to completeth me!!!!!!!!
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
You can smell blood in the air
See billowing smokes of gunfire
Feel the fettered men that died there
From hunger disease and hard labor!
Still reek the tennis court and the bakery
Of the sweats of penal toils in that island
Till they fell and died in slavery
To the lashes of the whips of ruler’s hand!
The water plant stands like a cruel mockery
Its ironed frame now ruined in century’s rust
Reminding those souls killed for bravery
Never got a drop of water to quench thirst!
Over the wails of the prisoners were made a paradise
Where the monsters retired to seek love at night
But the crumbling ruins of that island cannot disguise
the stains of blood and denial of prisoners' right!
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC