"penitence" poems
*Inebriated blue cloud,
I know you well enough
libertine ways you have
make you a lover of
deep thunder and meek rainbow
and also a chit of a lark
that loses itself in a song
be it is in grief or mirth.
Strange is the ways of my heart,
how much I long to fall in love with you
and proclaim this to the world scheming
to disrupt the pleasures one seeks
without any reason at all
"Look! love has no limits, no reason even
the lovely cloud, softness personified
caresses my foliage with sensuous abandon
kisses me with her wispy lips of moisture"
I know you understand, though unmindful of
my unbridled passion
making breaches in the limits,
I have no illusion about our improbable union.
True, how can we live
happily ever after?
I envy your gift of wings
though you have none visible,
you borrow it from the wayward wind,
too willing to carry your sweet load around.
I stood on the hill top,
wistfully thinking
that you will come and
take me within your soft folds
though I am a tree with deep running roots
that has become a restraining thing.
Freedom without any limit
gets you inebriated every minute,
your love for love, makes you desirable
you live in the present, suspend thoughts on time to come
as it is hypothetical, you say.
You are in a hurry to roam
wherever lovers lead you one after the other
do you have an urge to dissolve and pour-
as water, without any remorse?
Do you know my penitence for your love
on this hilltop is a true sacrifice?
My love for you doesn't bring anything
except my wilting hour after hour.
Let me be on your blue breast for moments
when my boiling love will seek
your shining center that melts, melts
we'd freeze as one, how long my darling?
Time would simply stand still
to a distance, i'd be transported,
where tree or cloud means nothing
we are an incessant rain lasting for ever.*
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
*rocks don't care
all stubble and stones
a difficult geometry
so if they don't fit
they are hammered
and
crushed to rubble
jammed together to make virile walls
and if stabbed with swords
care not about
torn bellies and broken necks
soaking them crimson rust
or drowned nautilus
beneath the sea
humans
have futility in common with rocks
except that everything
girds and gnaws
at their belligerent sensitivity
all clouded soft towers
bi-pedal mortal spires
with tender flesh
beaten into place
lacerated
truncated amputees
to fit the outer life
of status and statues
a scandal to the inner coves of self
I'm envious of rocks
except for moments of
shifting watery kisses
clamorous for love
we remain
disfigured terrains
hunters of souls balmy unguents
while
fluctious immolating moons
unravel
in a hidden grieving
oh countenance of apathy
only to be more like you
a wilderness of stumps
and
dead rock gods
and our aspiration
indifference
our exit
the path of the renunciate
a penitence
feasting only on futility
and the vagaries of spirit*
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
An exchange of temptations that led to a hidden ordeal
On an act of carnal ecstasy made to seal a deal
The gamble to see if it’s worth lending a piece of the soul
While trembling inside for the choices that would soon take toll
The signs of deceit slowly surfaced but were shrugged despite suspicion
Until a hasty flight provoked inner unrest and affliction
Vivid memories of a previous torment come back haunting
Knowing full well the Succubus affinity for betraying
With logic and reason as both weapon and armor
Against an enemy not easily made for capture
Bargaining on a final bet that her grip be brought to nothing
To release the mind from seemingly rotting
The bargain commenced along with foreseen treason
The sought peace only a hollow victory in a silently echoing frustration
In total silence with a feeling that heavily burned
A mental wall built to signify the lesson learned
Screams of pain of the innards locked away in reticence
Occurring to just seemingly mock the brilliance
With great resolve brought by the treachery writhing in virulence
Came the vigilance of avoiding such penitence
And to never again taste the Succubus’ Sting in Silence
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 9:09 PM UTC
Oh, may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge men's search
To vaster issues. So to live is heaven:
To make undying music in the world,
Breathing a beauteous order that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child,
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air,
And all our rarer, better, truer self
That sobbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burden of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better, -- saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude,
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love, --
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb
Unread forever. This is life to come, --
Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven, -- be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense!
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.
4.6k
Look, look, master, here comes two religious caterpillars.
The Jew of Malta.
Polyphiloprogenitive
The sapient sutlers of the Lord
Drift across the window-panes.
In the beginning was the Word.
In the beginning was the Word.
Superfetation of ,
And at the mensual turn of time
Produced enervate Origen.
A painter of the Umbrian school
Designed upon a gesso ground
The nimbus of the Baptized God.
The wilderness is cracked and browned
But through the water pale and thin
Still shine the unoffending feet
And there above the painter set
The Father and the Paraclete.
. . . . .
The sable presbyters approach
The avenue of penitence;
The young are red and pustular
Clutching piaculative pence.
Under the penitential gates
Sustained by staring Seraphim
Where the souls of the devout
Burn invisible and dim.
Along the garden-wall the bees
With hairy bellies pass between
The staminate and pistilate,
Blest office of the epicene.
Sweeney shifts from ham to ham
Stirring the water in his bath.
The masters of the subtle schools
Are controversial, polymath.
3.7k
And now emerges white bits of sunshine;
Eyes urged to wake, and tongues to pray;
To Lord of the worlds and of nights and days;
That we be pure in the heart and mind;
Feet saileth lower amongst one another;
With such admiration that lasts forever;
Faithful heads bow and touch the pious floor;
Pearls of rewards doubling behind the door.
And His beauty is deeper than solace;
More luminous than desire and grace;
He asks for love, chastity, and firm abstinence;
He longs for faith, modesty, and true penitence.
Praises and glory are floated to Allah;
Mouths recite and phrase la ilaha illallah.
And claim their very peace upon beloved Muhammad;
With dear respect from the deepest roots of hearts.
Winds might blow and grass might be green;
But we fear still, the restless Might of the Unseen;
He who watches and renders all our affairs;
He who breathes our blood and strands of our hair;
And do fear Him and seek His Abode;
For we shall cease and retreat to our Lord;
As this earth fades, where His end starts therefrom;
And sees our deeds since we dwelled in mothers' wombs;
But Allah is ever fair, filial, and loving;
He is the Keenest, and the Most Heroic king;
He rules perfectly the East and the West;
He listens to what flows within every chest;
And He is All-Forgiving and ever Merciful;
He is swift to both the living and the dead;
He relieves tears of the believing souls;
He lives and sparks, within our very breath.
And He is but ecstatic like the rainbow;
Nothing is more countable than His tomorrow;
His Warm Hands are what we all rush for;
His Words are a poem, like never before.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
*sailing on the blue-sea
sailing unknown-beauty*..
1.
the seas laugh in raucous-hacks
as the waves cough up the corpses of my dreams
at my feet, they come in from the swell of tides
seeming no more than
spongy sea-weed with sun-skin points
bloated fish who didn't make it
swollen seals with child
and the blue-boy on the whale's back
confident-smiles draped upon his demeanour
like a well-worn cloak of old-comfort
soft and velvety secrets hide inside the folds
of his true-age and pure-soul
nobody would believe
how many trips he had to make
to get to this shore
how many deaths he had to live through
to understand the purpose
how many tears he saw shedding
of nature's total-patience
how many of so much..
2.
on the back of a whale
he traverses the width of seas
the span of lands
the points of stars
the truth of man
and he grieves the piteous-souls whose backs break
so hard
on the interminable-wheel of penitence
turning and grinding
grinding
grinding..
always bent upon that gauntlet-grind
if they but knew how futile the turn..
carrying loads of mercy and goodness
only to see it seep out wounds ere journey's end
3.
cruel deified-laughter exists not
at man's readiness to crucify hope
with such four-square certainty
that redemption lies in suffering..
oh no..
4.
faint sounds of laughter on a broad-coast
whose sands give way to shy-dossiers
of nature's confidence
in the evening sun
secrets that I neglected to see.. first time round
have I failed myself.. ?
(but not again)
when awareness taps one on the shoulder,
is it not utter-folly to turn one's back on resplendence
that all the leaves and seas are willing to share?
*true-beauty lies in covert-blossoms
and opened-eyes
and saying.. yes
when the sun-breeze
dawns*
S T - sunnyday, 24 Nov 2013
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
This, no song of an ingenue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever her natural bents.
This, a solo of sapience,
This, a chantey of sophistry,
This, the sum of experiments,--
I loved them until they loved me.
Decked in garments of sable hue,
Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents,
Wearing shower bouquets of rue,
Walk I ever in penitence.
Oft I roam, as my heart repents,
Through God's acre of memory,
Marking stones, in my reverence,
"I loved them until they loved me."
Pictures pass me in long review,--
Marching columns of dead events.
I was tender, and, often, true;
Ever a prey to coincidence.
Always knew I the consequence;
Always saw what the end would be.
We're as Nature has made us----hence
I loved them until they loved me.
2.3k
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
available for the world to break once again.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
pestilence and
rapture,
two key elements
of
western civilization.
what is the difference
between a moth
and a
butterfly?
coffee stained teeth
catch soft whispers in the dark.
as we sit, surrounded by people,
frankness and penitence,
the priests, cops, postmen,
stockholders, school teachers,
slaughterhouse workers,
dishwashers,
garbage truck drivers,
prostitutes, strippers,
and hobos,
all working towards
what they believe to be the common good.
while we sit
in our chairs, wearing nothing,
clipping our toenails
each fractured fragment a whole.
we aren't alone anymore.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 9:33 AM UTC
She has no mercy for herself
Her duty is to others
Selflessly she keeps the peace
The penitence of Mothers.
Forgive me now the Pedestal
I see it was your Cross
My adoration kept you on
Your pedestal of Loss.
Forgive me too my arrogance
I thought I saw you true
Your saintliness a chosen role
Full You I never knew
Holy Suffering now Unveiled
Goddess Martyr Self-Impaled.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:34 PM UTC
he goes searching for love in the wrong ways
guided in directions by bedsheets and lost
by indulgence in the temporary
decadence and narcissism
-
a mapless journey lead in the retrospected
direction of peer fulfilled gratification,
met already past the point of no return
by a social gathering of perceptions
and conceptions towards a tangible
reason
-
the smell of sweat,
consecutive exhales and inhales
pinpoint reminders after the fact,
held tight by only bedsheets,
watching her get dressed
pulling what she wore out
that night over a coiffure
of tangled penitence
as it rises above the
neck of her shirt
-
sitting admit the marrow
of vision lies an exiting
woman, usually
brown hair, sometimes blonde,
behind the marrow lies thoughts
of penance that digs and widens
the crevice of perception
deeper and deeper
-
at times of stagnant intimacy,
intimacy that redefines ephemeral,
retrospected notions replay
and stain the mind of
women,
usually brown hair,
sometimes blonde
-
by this time
he rode the the wrinkles
on the bedsheets too far
destined to temporarily
subside the loneliness,
only to find out in the present
that the destination reached
has a population so nullified
that where he came from
was far better off.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
.Soul in anguish,
Soul in torment,
Soul in delirium,
Soul in pain,
Soul in ecstasy,
Soul in anxiety,
Soul in frustration,
Soul in disdain.
Soul in passion,
Soul in laughter,
Soul in death and
Soul in life.
Soul in penitence,
Soul in reflection,
Soul in love and
Soul in strife.
Oh, my soul, you
Keep me dancing.
I can never
Dance alone.
I search for my
Soul’s companion.
Who will offer?
Is there one?
Here are now my
Suitors willing.
There is envy.
Look at hate.
Bitterness and
Self-absorption,
Pity looking
For a date.
What of vengeance,
Narcissism,
Self-indulgence
Dressed up fine,
Pride and guilt with
Sad depression,
Desperation,
What a line!
I have danced with
Every suitor,
And I’ve wondered
Who is mine?
I don’t want to
Lock into a
Partnership that
Doesn’t shine.
All of these have
Looked attractive,
Yet they weaken on the spins.
Where is one that
Lasts forever?
I will only
Look at him.
I need one who
Will not fail me,
Leave me when the
Going’s tough,
One who’s strong and
Knows the dance steps.
Treading on my
Toes is rough!
Something deep
Within me tells me
Suitors there are
More than enough.
I must search the
Highest mountain
For the one whose
Name is Truth.
Mr. Truth will
Undergird my
Weakness, lift
My spirits high,
Warm my coldness,
Light my darkness,
Hold my trust as
He draws nigh.
He will lead me
Without falter
To a banquet
Richly spread.
I will follow
Every dance step
Waiting for the
Day we wed.
Then forever
All those suitors
And their lies will
Disappear.
There will only
Be the glory
Of beloved
Jesus here.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
This is my shelter
My helter skelter
So tear me from the lonely diversion,
as I am the melting corrosion
This is my place
My ugly face
I fall to the angry sea,
as a withered man, I plead
This is my view,
My broken pew,
I cross my broken fingers,
as time spent and destiny lingers
This is my penitence,
My own resistance
I am not strong because I am weak
as life stops, I can not speak
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
I should be asleep
instead of watching
insomniac cab drivers
wipe the blood and **** and ***
from their black vinyl seats
mobile priests
of the city, they
have heard every confession
in their yellow checkered halls
those who entered, fell from grace
long before they found this space
the penitence
for which they had not asked
was not given,
the sacraments withheld
while the wine spilled,
the blood flowed, and
the wipers kept time
like some mindless metronome
in the Baptismal summer rains…
in his rear view mirror
were all the stories,
the fallen, the damned
ignored
while they lapped the asphalt miles
their lives measured
by the c l i c k c l i c k of the meter,
until
they made a guilty exit
and said keep the change
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
Penitence, /
Repentance: /
—Deviating from erroneous ways /
To a place of integrity. /
The Lonely River flows /
From Sin & Death /
To Living Waters. /
(—Se’ lah)
08-08-2025
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 10:36 AM UTC
There was nothing in this vast landscape of delusions, only illusions.
A flower, a friend, a gift, a betrayal, a tear, a shattered mirror and perdition.
The music of the euphoric nothingness enticing the darkness,
calling for the shadows, everlasting, never ending.
I know, I deserve this. Always threw the stone and looked the other way,
the sin, the penitence, the lament, the void, the shallowness, the meaningless.
Living each day a moribund marionette moving through the crowd an empty mess.
The ticking, the hunger, the instrument, the mending of the ending,
but then came you. An unexpected gaze wondering through my maze.
Navigating each passage as if though you knew the way, a hindrance.
Let me corrode here please, go away, I thought. I never said it.
You remained here almost an embodiment of the hope I sought for so long,
Perhaps this is another of my creations, a desire from the dire.
Your hands are tepid, driving the frigidness away, maybe it's real?
An hour, a day, a week, a period of time slowly passes.
You are hope, my hope, my desire, my wish, my light and gentle day.
I found the impatient clock fast-forwarding each hour until the time had come,
to see one another.
Your world was intriguing and vivid everyday was fun, every night a pain.
Without a warning you brought the richness of the paint in to the callousness of mine.
The sky once again blue, the birds with songs, the grass now green my world anew.
Mere words such as “i love you” can't paint paint the picture, for it was more.
And yet here I am again. Alone.
Alive, not dead, back on the path to my journey.
Collecting, standing, walking and eventually running through the paradox.
Anew, exhumed, hope plastered once again against my chest,
and as I cry, tumble, fall and learn;
Each days is new, each meeting a joy and each moment thanking you.
Good-bye! I bid farewell to you, let our past be remembered beautifully,
and the present lived and the future build, as once again;
I construct, destroy, collapse, laugh and dream.
As today the ticking resumes and I commence from where I stopped.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Your words were always hollow.
They never meant a thing.
I tried to know the meaning,
I even tried to follow.
It was all in vain,
but now I finally understand
that I have to make a stand
to end this excruciating pain.
Soon I will be gone.
You might not see me again.
I broke free from your chain,
my penitence is done.
If you ever want me back,
I won't be here anymore.
Now I'm rotten to the core.
Beware, because I'm about to attack.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 7:43 AM UTC
Tis with a smile and high regards
I tell the tale of Thor son of Asgard
With a strong and a firm physique
But not much wit of to speak
Bore his mighty hammer Mjolnir
Almost on par with his father spear
The dangerous lance known as Gungnir
Thor smote monsters from far and near
Frost giants and the serpent Jormungadr
With hammer in hand he stomped and smash
Bone and flesh broke like brittle glass
Each battle was greater than the last
Etched in mythology for all who would ask
Now who beyond that could compare to
The mighty feats that Thor would do
Without the power of thunder and lightening
Another hero fell beasts just as frightening
Built like Thor with a similar mind
To crush and **** the beast of his time
Just like Thor he bore the curse
Of a strangely epic kind of birth
With so much to live up to
What was a demigod to do
For all his might he was tragic figure
Accidentally poisoned by his own lover Deianira
Shortly after completing his twelve deadly labors
Labors done in the name of sweet repentance
For the ****** of family he sought penitence
Still that is a tale that many know far too well
Thus I leave you this in comparison
Though I think they would have been good friends
Warriors till the brutal and ****** end
I wonder in a fight who would win
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
Father forgive me my sins,
for I come seeking love
when those who have loved me
have suffered on mine own account.
I come with nothing to give,
I prostrate myself before You
in Your House in St. Augustine
a mere mortal Fool,
besotten with drink and fear.
Father please forgive me,
the sins I have committed in my own name,
this denial of You,
this anger toward You.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
maybe it's supposed to happen this way.
whenever Joe the convict raked leaves within the compound,
he would always find scraps that had blown in from the other side
of the double chain link fence
--a ticket stub to a weekend matinee that
young lovers could barely afford to see, a fast food napkin
with lipstick and ketchup stains, an incomplete note
written on rainbow-colored paper, a square cotton
pad the size of a ring box--
these he would gather along with the other leaves,
using both hands to shovel everything into burlap sacks
as fast as he can, as fast as he can, as fast as he possibly can
until there was nothing left
but grass and his tired breathing.
maybe it's supposed to happen this way.
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
my window, to the world
has a view of Central Park
the window, the view,
courtesy of Aunt Antonia
whose millions came from
the slaughter of lungs in Pennsylvania mines
she never saw, the lover she took
leaving it all to her, for his penitence,
and her tolerant presence in his penthouse
for forty years and a day
the day she spent at his deathbed
not even holding his hand
no one contested the will
not even his drunkard son who
squandered his fortune on five wives
and landed in a trailer in Tenafly,
some said
when Antonia made her own last laps
I was not there, but in my old place by the river
with my useless legs, the sticks of flesh and bone
that never took one step, the same legs
that earned Antonia’s silent sympathy
and divinely divested dollars
a cousin watched her passing,
pillaging her jewelry once she was gone,
snarling to her nurses the ******* would get all else
and the cat, part of the bargain
and I did, and each morning
when I look onto the park
through the maid’s invisibly clean glass
the feline is pestiferously perched
in mid frame, in park’s green summer
or white winter, reminding me
of the mines, the insolent indifference,
the passing of millions,
the dead legs that were
my first inheritance, my curled curse
that brought me a cat
and a park where
I would never walk
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
1)
Here in the dark where rules don't exist
Gravity slips my wrist to your hips
And your kiss like Soma lay burned on my lips
Sudden a slight, subtle physical gesture
So foreign to think of it - only conjecture
Alluring, your posture bent into mine first
2)
Unable to think, unable to breathe
Unable to reason rational reasons for such indulgence
So known was he to penitence
So unknown was this dream
And that, it was a dream
Cortisol surging, testosterone flowing, epinephrine...surely would split his mind at the seam, and end this cruel romantic dream
3)
Soma to touch her
Soma to feel her
Nothing to know, and none left to sow
Soma to see her
Soma to hear her
When won't it last? When will it go?
Soma to think
Soma to dream
Forever unknowing
Forever I'll be
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
isn't it time
for penitence?
I just forget everything
and don't talk to anyone
except for you, dear Lord, you are my ball and chain
having died and come back again I get to look back
watching old movies of myself,
sleeping last night off, leg twitching
dreaming of moving along a motorcade of immanent death
one by one getting flat tires, running out of gas, suddenly the battery
dies
I get out of the car, look around, and see, to my surprise
a loved one's love looking back at me, twisting in the wind, empty, alone, drunk,
its my father or mother lifting my brother or sister from the back seat to the front, carelessly driving, ceaselessly swerving
towards the waterway
if it wasn't for the guardrail, we'd all be dead
time is a ritual now, and it hurts to come back to life, to feed the living,
to get dressed in day-old church clothes, to hit back, as one sneers at being sneered at, I pick up the Daily and skim the headlines, Lost and All Alone, A Stranger Takes a Dive, toss the rag and head to work, fixing to lie to my boss about being sick, about tasting olives, about who I am.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 1:57 AM UTC