"pieta" poems
Corpse dangles from tree by snapped-twig neck,
innards spilled out from stomach like rotten raspberries,
nothing but stick-figure hang man.
Simon Iscariot's tears fall beside blood and water
that pours from your abdomen,
similar to the emulsion
from the spear-wound in Jesus. Christ
gave you the highest honor:
that of making all
ancient parchment
statements true.
They were then hidden away for centuries in dry clay pots
in musty caves of sheep-herders.
Father lowers you down
the greatest of care
to the arms of
Pieta' Mother.
May 22, 2011
May 22, 2011 at 8:06 AM UTC
"This s.o.b. has got Tourette's.
Who knows what he might say? We'd better
Get him under before he rises.
Sterilize something fast!"
I'm awake for the time being. When sleep comes
I shall play the perfect display of my bacillus. Reposing
On the white table like a necrotic pieta. Off to my
Left I can hear those touchstones spinning in fine sockets,
Sterilizing my hands by binding my feet. Soon I will be
A paragon of grunting celluloid, clutched at by
Heated hearts to wrinkle and shear.
I can already taste the cleanser.
Rubber foam, steel clamp and tongue depressor.
Excise the black portions with a serrated life,
You might as well. Because it doesn't matter
How much morphine sits in the delirium drip.
I'm still alive: the crush and blink in Boris Karloff eyes.
When I gather up my self in the morning.
I will be instructed to take all Ten a day
And check in regularly. Despite the cold,
Despite the heat, the embryo has quite failed.
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 10:34 AM UTC
And what of the thick-thighed woman
who held a dying god in her lap?
History has silenced her grief to stone.
But what of endurance as sharp as love?
Do Zeus’s tears still stain her dress?
Her atlas hands guide thorned crowns
To rest, as the weight of heaven
forsaken, collapses.
Womb made machine;
Reach out your hand and feel the crimson––
Hips that birthed the civilizations of the world,
I worship the god called woman.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
Poetry writing
Who really appreciated this art?
A rich man or a poor’s man theme
Is poetry writing for everyone?
Poetry is a world itself
To appreciate this art,
One’s mind must be at ease,
To see, to feel, and not to rely on spoken words
That might seem nonsensical to some
However, perfect to others
Unlike a poetic poor man graffiti and a rich man artifacts
Its labels as a rich man war and a poor man’s fight
Unlike the beauty in a Michael Angelo
Masterpiece of Art Pieta
Or Vincent van Gogh Paintings Water lily
The poor man display his graffiti
No admission, no fee
Priceless art crimes or
The best of a simple criminal mind
High art or low art
Eyes of a rich man
Or the eyes of a fool
In the world we knew
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 7:43 AM UTC
A Mother's Sorrow (Pieta)
The sweet reggae music slapped inside the head
Echoes throughout the night
A gang of youngsters argument escalated vowing to killed all polices
The marijuana smoke rises to sky in a timely manner to the
The new dance choreography movements which cause a stampede
As the Queen of the dance hall movements reign like fire
Suddenly, they blades came out of nowhere
Aiming at the homosexuals on the dance floor
Piercing their hand upwards the homos desperately defense themselves
Frantic cried in the night; this is not right.
A youngster grabs his side as he slowly fall to ground
The heartless crowd echoes the lyric
Man down man! **** down!
The party music continue louder than every
Intoxicated females held on to their dates
(Mother of Sorrows) mother of sorrows
Unlike the modern Pieta a mother cradles her only son.
His body slumped to the ground
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Eyes so serene as your body relaxed,
your passing never passed until
a gravestone was all I had.
An edged slab of marble
unwelcoming, cold,
won't compare to the lingering life
so close to behold.
I miss how I missed you
when I missed you the most,
as love's just crux howls
only when losing its host.
Thus through such virtue
I could lastly accept mine,
enough so to nurture,
and cry for my Pieta
one last time.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
The floor is cracked and faded,
The map is nearly gone.
The stained glass roof has shattered
Now, fifty years gone down.
The fountains at the Unisphere,
spray glowing in the dark.
Remembering the Flushing fair
in Flushing meadow park.
In the Vatican Pavilion
The Pieta was on display.
In the Carousel of Progress
The automatons sang and played.
I had a plastic brontosaur
From Sinclair, I recall.
Puppets used to dance and sing
“It’s a small world after all.”
The displays and the pavilions
Now are, mostly, gone.
Just the Stainless Unisphere
recalls that hopeful dawn.
We walked Tomorrow’s though fares
Whose horrors weren’t shown.
Then I was but a little child-
Now fifty years gone down.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene
with Mary, his mother, and John.
Jesus was now in extremis-
the curious people had gone.
The mark of the whips were upon him,
an ugly bruise under his eye.
Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns.
dripping down from his face to one thigh.
Mary watched as her eldest was dying.
Bore her pain with incredible calm.
She wished that, his agony over,
She’d hold him once more in her arms.
With breath that was labored and shallow
He spoke with his life nearly gone
He commended young John to his mother
And commended his mother to John
He looked at the Magdalene sadly
With a love that’s ineffably rare.
Then with loud voice he cried out to Heaven
A fool might think this was despair.
Joseph of Arimethea
came with a ladder near dusk
With the help of the Priest, Nicodemus
He took the crucified Son from his Cross.
Mary was silently weeping
at the body of Christ in her arms.
She looked at the King Pilate murdered.
Whom the people had greeted with Palms
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 11:41 PM UTC
you sat above me, and i watched a song unfurl on your skin.
from your tongue, a pieta tumbled unto my knees.
i was cradling the mother mary who was weeping over the desecrated, emancipated body of her own, over the body of jesus.
the eucharist, the son and father and the holy fantasy of christ, it’s eyes bore heaven onto my shoulders.
a dead woman was burning and her son and grandson and great-grandchild cried underneath a divine weight.
her ashes were split among the men.
they took them home and placed them silently on the shelves while i watched and shivered, silent.
and with my quiet tears, jesus appeared in the crucifixes hanging ‘round all the ladies necks.
he looked at me, with red flowing from his crown of nails.
he looked at me, with the stained agony mary shared when she saw her young son.
he fell into my hands.
i was cradling the dying body of jesus.
i was looking at him as an old man, pained and continuously bleeding.
i was looking at him as a child, playing with sticks on the feet of god.
i was looking at him as the carpenter and as the infant; sweating or crying.
dying or surviving.
i was looking at him through my muddy memory,
through my grandmother’s wrinkled eyes.
i didn’t know know if he would love me like this,
as an open wound,
and infected and rotting and selfish thing,
and,
i wept.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 10:05 PM UTC
You are the devil in the face of my broken watch- your eyes reveal a shear glint of the moon's light. Your tear ducts make mine heavy. It's been 7 years since I felt you. You feel wonderful. I kept my promise. To you I keep all my promises. I fought the demons you protected me from, but I had to fight them on my own terms. Talk about rotten boyfriend material. I wish I could have been able to move to you, into you, closer to you, maybe even do some of that weird parkour jumping dancing Magic Mike Jordan twisting dancing type things. You after all are our Pieta.
You are the brilliant amulets of mirth and unbroken pathways. I feel the fur of your carpet between my toes. And I still haven't reapplied your nose. Please don't drown without me.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Encased in black granite
solid substance she can't find
as she holds the hand of her son
but he does not return this in kind.
Sweet Pieta, sent by her words
to dance with dank, docile depravity,
lies so still now -
and her eyes can't bare but shutter
against such sure lack of he.
It is so silent, this mourning,
not one vibration can be felt,
just that of solid substance lacking
encased in the cards that we dealt.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
Painful sorrows
which dig within her, and I and us...
In savage reverence to just how much "fools" we are
to destroy what is good,
to intimidate what is meaningful;
to devastate one who comes just to save us and better our days,
while enlightening our shadowed lives.
Must we watch?
Must we relive this death?
It is to be what we must do,
and see,
and watch,
and hear, and feel...
as it comes around again
this...
this death of ourselves.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
a painting of
Mother and Child
with heavier influences
of a pieta;
for in this one,
the mother holds her child
dead in her arms
but it is no grown Messiah –
it’s a drugged up teenager,
supposedly deserving
to be the centerpiece
of a demented madonna
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 2:56 AM UTC
On her lap still warm
Hugging dear life and her man
Judged by social gun.
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 6:44 AM UTC
There were reports of a shooting
Someone called Nine -one -one.
Another young man dead-
all because of a gun.
I heard a woman weeping
as I ran to the scene.
She held her dead son in her arms
She held the death of his dreams.
Dusk was yielding to darkness
on this unholy night.
As she keened for her child
in the yellow streetlight.
As the warmth left his body
She refused my pleas to yield
As if holding him to her
made his dying not real.
The thought crossed my mind,
as I heard his mother moan,
That I had seen this once before,
as a sculpture in stone.
Sep 2, 2019
Sep 2, 2019 at 8:18 AM UTC