"predecessor" poems
Giving joy, getting joy, never coy,
Often pretty, always called a toy,
She sells all that there is to deploy.
And there is she who is demure;
A teacher whose job is secure.
Some say that all teachers are pure.
And there is he who is a professor;
He is his father’s successor;
Just like his father’s predecessor.
The first one we call a *****
She prostitutes her body more and more;
But the other ones we adore.
The professor prostitutes his knowledge.
He also sells his precious time.
And the teacher too makes the same pledge;
Especially while she is in her prime.
We all ********** something every day;
Yet only the first one’s a ********** yay!
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)" (1)
writ many years later...
~For MWK~
<>
A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny:
A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us.
*This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis,
my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary
each one, each is, deserves, all, one such,
a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life,
strained and trained for emission and transmission
of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of
our individualized most excellent fresh best
where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream
melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive
contrasts combative,
a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words,
yet unheard and before this very never,
went unspoken and now goes forth
svelte and unbroken
*rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls
of the here and now,
a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance,
of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed,
lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from
the stilling quiet solitude.
to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief,
how to expel and spell the words
that grant
relief
visit my sunroom, though no fiction.
the sun rays *********** create the friction
of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained,
and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered,
pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction,
with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary,
you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns,
and the process of sunrise exposition recommences,
and one revisits the elemental sequencing of
all the predecessor pain, but this time,
for gain, for gain,
<>
written this sabbath Saturday
12:38am EST
Sat Aug 2
2025
in the sunroom,
on Shelter Island
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
Your lips.. are the Elixir to my immortality.
Your heart... is the foundation.. of this revolution... in love...
My seed, will bring the birth of a bigger, better legacy...
My predecessor. You're prince or princess. The dawn of a new creation.. a new beginning. A new chapter.
By first light, Today, life will emerge to a new dawn and existence as we know it will be remade.
Your courage and bravery will provide and protect this birth of creation. and together, we shall bring something incredible into this universe... it is called... a child, and it is our child.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
Maiden,
New beginnings sprout in feminine Earth.
Legs rooted in blossoming
Spring.
Newborn innocence cultivates in
raw purity.
Mother,
essence of life,
predecessor of power.
Like fruit ripening in preparation of harvest.
Fertile fulfillment found in
abundance.
Crone,
a culmination of earned experience,
compassionate wisdom.
Cold winter bears bereavement.
Change in continuous
cycle.
~
Mother earth,
complexion of cosmos.
My celestial
creator.
Maiden, mother, crone. Woman.
Goddess.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
Generations pass as autonomy eludes us denying us the opportunity
to reach for liberality.
Indifference, being a predecessor, digs shallow graves in so many ways,
Watching heritage that once was become something uncanny,
Unrecognizably lingering; lifeless.
Racial force fields, forces fields of incarcerated thoughts to take root,
Keeping us from seeing beyond ourselves,
and
The barriers built to keep those out,
only keep us,
from letting us, to allow others in,
and trust is placed on trial,
looking at a life sentence of death, unaware of its opportunity
to freely avail or elude it’s predicament.
If only it would appeal to the counsel of the majority.
Stubbornness sometimes refuses to embrace what we know needs to
be confronted in order to bring about change,
unifying an outside world
where life is not always fair and those around us calculate thoughts to hinder our progression.
We live in a place of democracy and disdain where street corner pharmaceuticals
****** the weary,
where adolescent girls are forced to become
teenage mothers or prostitutes,
where empty baseball diamonds and dugouts
are replaced by thick scaling barb wired walls and gray barred cells,
where young men and women trade their age multiplied for the number they will where in a system for life, and
where the sound of a crying disappointed child is exchanged for anger and abuse,
in the absence of a father or mother figure,
figuratively disfigured and lost in translation;
an abandonment of generations past.
Who will lead and guide us?
Who will plead and advocate on our behalf?
Who will stand in the gap?
Who will lead us past the captive mind to captivate hearts?
Who will provide the keys to unlock and break us free?
Free from the broken barriers that divide us?
~
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
I had lost faith in where I was supposed to be
I felt I was at my end, my limitation.
I had lost what I most treasured in life.
when I fell to my knee's and left it at the altar
my heart was renewed and was blessed with a second chance
A chance to love, a chance at happiness and a life fulfilled
A love renewed is stronger then it's predecessor
more determined to survive
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
my conscious,
a spec on the corner of the Polaroid lens,
a heart lost in the reeds of dampened circumstance,
a hydrangea blooming in an untended field,
meditates upon itself
like a child lost
in a superstore.
--
an ocean wave mimics its predecessor
only to fall victim to aspiration.
what will crush upon my tired bones
as they chase sunsets
in a similar search
for meaning
?
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
I won't lie, it's easy enough to replace you.
You were a replacement yourself. I bought
you at office depot, and your predecessor
was given to me by a friend. Mechanical
pencil lead is cheap. The only difference
between you and the lead I've owned
before is that you broke every other
word I tried to write. It didn't matter
how much weight I put onto the paper.
You snapped into pieces that dropped
every time I tried to pick them up.
Because of your brittleness, you
stood out, and unlike the lead
that kept itself together, you
won't be so readily forgotten.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
Run with this cauldron, ladle out soup
To the soldiers of our land
In the field of battle, lay out a cloth
And let them stretch their bloodied limbs as they eat
Their minds are weary, untrusting
Each spoonful less viscous than its predecessor
A succession of leaders repeated in their heads
Every dead soldier, a reason for abdication
The people hate the war they’ve started
The fools!
No matter how much soup I take to them
No matter how watery the broth
Each day they watch me leave the front
Each day I walk alone back to base
And munitions are airlifted daily
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
*how this came and come to be,
from gone to come to gone rediscovered but unreleased,
a passage thematic that birthed
fully formed, formal in its inception,
contented in its first appearance and
its primary coincident deception
who wrote this? not me? could not be!
yet a scented hint of
eau d’familiarité
suggests that I may have
inadvertently
plagiarized
myself
this old poem mine,
we certifiably have never met,
but nonesuch a hail fellow met,
that upon our (re?) acquaintance,
the heavens marked the occasion with
hail and neither of us deemed it strange
so we well recall our ancestor’s words*
”there is nothing new under the sun”
adding our brand new imprimatur
”not even June or the Moon or other iconic loons”
*we may have borrowed from the insights,
recollecting what happened to us when separated at birth,
envisioning like the prophets of yore what was implanted
long before we remembered it well
upon its birthday
our intertwined twinning
fate befallen*
postscript
**quaking heart, trembling pointer
dawning and dying
simultaneous
neither tissue, cell, molecule,
i am but a composite of
letters, alpha bits and bets,
recirculated songs and tunes born
like me,
compromised, bridged,
newly un and recovered,
lengthy and unabridged,
my appearance faulty,
my eyes ****** ruddy and red,
my fingered tips blend and bleed
words acquired, words invented,
marching before me,
old lands recaptured,
new ones set free
take and give -
there’s no difference -
intimation, initiation,
all
bring me home
to where my boundaries begin**
<•>
this one, for the ladies who loved its
predecessor
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2367267/the-temple-of-you/
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
O, mosaic of my oft marveled at Mosie
You fade away as swift as the windstorm enters
Mosaic, I've built you up in my mind's cubbies
And you permeate through my brain's centers
Every experience boiled itself into me
Constructing a picture of you that I could see
Which I could consult when I reached difficulty
Or whose answer I could envision in monotony
O, Mosaic, you quickly go, as hurt intrudes
The pain pervades all points of space
It destroys you and ceaselessly protrudes
Gone are the days when I'd see your face and caress it
Gone are the prayers we'd hold up our relationship and bless it
And now gone is your magnificent mosaic
Even though it pains me just to say it
O, Healing, come faster than your predecessor
May you permeate the place we made and become its successor
And, God, can You be real and continue to bless her?
As your mosaic fades away
Dreams of tomorrow thus can't stay
As your mosaic breathes its last breath
Let us exhale that last sigh
The one we always talked about before our death
This time, drifting further and farther apart
This time, holding our aching and breaking hearts
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 10:48 AM UTC
the bell jingles as she steps into the holiday stationstore
on the corner of two discarded streets, signs too battered to read
there was free hot chocolate on tuesdays
it was always a little too sweet
the cream-colored tile is stained by thousands of half-cleaned messes
the faint squeak of the roller grill complimenting
cheesy pop music
bright packages scream brand names she never buys
she picks a cup, the smallest size
and fills it
ignoring the drips of pumpkin spice on the counter,
left by a hurried predecessor
she adds cream
she doesn't think about the calories
she doesn't think about what her friends are up to
she doesn't think about how much she hates hearing this **** song
she thinks about grabbing a snickers for the road
shredded black combat boots thump to the register
she sets her snickers bar on the counter
paying the cashier (jeremy) with a crumpled dollar bill
his gray eyes brim with something like pity, like they do every week
she pretends not to see
he says something
she pretends not to hear
he says something else
she walks out
icy rain makes her pull her hood tighter
she sips the cocoa
it always was a little too sweet
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC
called me in for a consultation,
“*lean in,” he suggested, with nearly closed eyes,
“see the youthful optimistic predecessor,
the conqueror, who could not be defeated,
his thin images within still resides
the man of firm voice who when he spoke
above the rabble, all fell silent, and when he looked,
all could share his visionary insights and did not hesitate,
saying, we will do and we will listen,
but to follow, just did, wrapped
in your confidence
I want that boy back, smooth skinned, fearless,
do not return him till the shadows have dissipated,
the bruised lines of worry have evaporated,
the hands look unscathed, then raise them in
self-supplication, demanding satisfaction,
then in success, born overhead, marking appreciation,
let us adventure forth, straightening tilting windmills,
punishing renegades and dragons fearful,
saving damsels who waited just for our arrival,
shedding courage upon those who watch us,
cheering and being cheerful
here is your mighty pen,
cut sharp the poems out from the within,
read them slow, winding to now crooked old friends,
who remember everything dear, their youth of no fear,
the best of past, dreaming poems, mist born, fog vapor gone,
of black and waiting white, worthy words all revived
return to me in blazes,
sumptuous colors of derring-do,
I need that child brave, for perhaps
you have not noticed my flaking slivering skin,
the expanding cracks that cross my images,
just like you!
I need you to rebirth you,
I need you to rebirth me!*”
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 7:35 PM UTC
“This Insubstantial Pageant Faded”
(spoke by Prospero, The Tempest, by W. Shakespeare)^
<>
Our words are all actors,
a long run, run its course,
our long playing record,
scratched, love~worn to
worn out extremity, yet
yeoman service did offer,
extreme only in magical
transforming plain sight
into visions, a legacy,
bent gray, tarnished by
weary wearing aging,
their brief sparks now
but reclamation flares of
burst lights of waning days
in short lived tastings of what
was and can be nevermore
everyone’s magic has its preset
timed timing, and with
every day, each a concentric
ring marked and hallowed,
a heartbeat ring narrower
than its predecessor,
a shallower hollow,
a fair represent of both
all that came our way, and that
we resent with no resentment
into a cloud capped atmosphere
for all to ****** from a flailing,
flying breeze, their brief gleam,
multiplying, thus envisaging,
illuminating the manuscript of our
hinted future forward’s next percept
*
“And like this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep”*^
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 8:23 AM UTC
all I've ever known are ****** ex-prostitutes,
madwomen. I see men with quiet,
gentle women I see them in the supermarkets,
I see them walking down the streets together,
I see them in their apartments: people at
peace, living together. I know that their
peace is only partial, but there is
peace, often hours and days of peace.
all I've ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics,
****** ex-prostitutes, madwomen.
when one leaves
another arrives
worse than her predecessor.
I see so many men with quiet clean girls in
gingham dresses
girls with faces that are not wolverine or
predatory.
"don't ever bring a ***** around," I tell my
few friends, "I'll fall in love with her."
"you couldn't stand a good woman, Bukowski."
I need a good woman. I need a good woman
more than I need this typewriter, more than
I need my automobile, more than I need
Mozart; I need a good woman so badly that I
can taste her in the air, I can feel her
at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built
for her feet to walk upon,
I can see pillows for her head,
I can feel my waiting laughter,
I can see her petting a cat,
I can see her sleeping,
I can see her slippers on the floor.
I know that she exists
but where is she upon this earth
as the ****** keep finding me?
Charles Bukowski
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
Predecessor of the morning hour
Bleeding through the gilded fringes that hang aloft in the wood
Breeze withheld its embraced dower
Humid casements held where I stood
The singeing lash did not come
Caged o’er the ridge
Melancholia, and the sky did shun
Ebon armada sent all the cavalry
Halberdiers and lancers, to contend a bitter rivalry
The brooding cataract washed
And I could only run
Towards pale shades and curtain rods
Towards uncertain suns
On the backs of Titans, the shoulder of Atlas my flight took rest
Before I, the ashen dome expands.
As though at my behest
And through the slaughter, the fray(!)
A presence of the light of day
Through the flush pillars
And fell beasts of rain
The bones of its enemies
Could be seen
Naked, exposed by eye so tiny and wan
Dispersed, did they
Frightened by valor of dawn
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
Gordon is a spider
He lives in my bathroom
I feed him up on house-flies
And chocolate Macaroon
Gordon is a spider
He lives behind the bin
He hides away when people stay
- it’s very kind of him
Gordon is a spider
(At least, I think it’s him –
Oh no! What if a bigger,
Meaner Gordon did him in?)
If Gordon Two ate Gordon One
My throne is surely cursed
No second toilet-mate could share
The manners of the first!
If Gordon's really bought it
I don’t know what I’ll do
I’ll have to write a notice
For my guests upon the loo:
**WARNING: SAVAGE SPIDER
BE CAREFUL WHEN YOU POO!
HE ATE HIS PREDECESSOR –
HE COULD BE AFTER YOU!**
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
I don’t believe a word you say;
You voted for Trump, so go away.
I don’t want your opinion any more
On literally any kind of issue.
Though you now begin to realize
What you did to us all. Get a tissue.
Go stand in the corner and let us
Adults fix up the mess you made.
None of you paid attention
Further than the second grade.
It’s not truly all your fault, I confess.
We have to lay blame on the press.
I’m not much happier with the
Millions who didn’t even vote.
They stayed home and ******
Made the country miss the boat.
A lazy, worthless population
Is a shameful kind of circumstance
But a stupid loudmouthed bunch of fools
Is at the prom without any pants.
Then we look to a political group
That rolls around in their own ****
By electing a pompous baboon
Who can barely read or spell
Who spews out daily jabberwocky
That drives us all to a kind of hell.
He's an attention ***** and monster.
A spoiled rich brat with no brains
Who wants to set fire to the USA
Then urinate on the remains.
The horror is, though it’s all visible
Your lack of care about facts is risible.
You gladly go along with him when
He blames his predecessor instead,
Saying the fault is what your idiot did
Not keeping the truth firmly in your head.
It’s no longer campaign rhetoric.
So please wake the hell up and see
What your stupidity is doing to us
Because we can’t bend you over our knees.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC
each cigarette now
is you and i then
entwined in a back car seat
me face up
counting the leaves not yet fallen
as i burn down to my filter
as you seep slowly like sap down my spine
i can still feel how sharp your teeth were
can see your wrinkled foundation
thin slices and bright orbs of her in your irises like
a string of lanterns in the night
and for many moons i
walked in your field
sent murmurs up to your window
kicked rocks to drown your doubts
oiled the rusted binds of my predecessor
you were so swift and careful
felt the pulse in my fingertips
cut loose the fishing line
snuffed out a menthol in my wrist
but even now
the tempered taste of marlboro glory
is not my own
it’s a folded map
i skip over city lines and highways
though when my back hits dead grass
the smoke rises while i
look upward expecting the same view
the stars are strung, an insect anthem decrescendos
you are far from this field, far from that car
and far from the ashes collecting below
my last smoke
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
Do you remember those old VHS tapes?
The predecessor to dvds,
which were the predecessor to blu rays,
and it goes on and on.
Anyways back to the VHS tapes,
I don’t know I’ve always loved them.
I know it’s weird
They were such a hassle
You’d have to stick it in the VCR,
rewind it,
fast forward it,
so on and so forth.
DVD’s are so much easier
Yet I’ve always loved the VHS tapes.
Maybe it’s because they remind me of my childhood.
Or because they contain the finest films to ever grace the silver screen.
Or it might even be because,
no matter how long ago I last watched them,
they ALWAYS pick up right where I left off.
I think that’s beautiful.
The Mary Kate and Ashley and Rugrat VHS tapes,
sitting in my basement haven’t been placed in that VCR for years,
but it’s comforting to know that someday
when I’m feeling nostalgic enough
to watch one of them,
once it enters that VCR,
it will be in the EXACT spot I left it 6 years ago
when I watched it last.
It would be amazing if life were like those VHS tapes.
All the people you haven’t seen in years,
are just waiting there for you to arrive again,
just to pick up right where you left off.
No need to rewind or fast forward.
It’s not quite that easy though.
There are people in this life,
that I know are just like those tapes.
I may not have seen them for months,
but once I do it’s a straight shot back to where we were.
Then there are people like DVDs who don’t wait,
they don’t stay just where you want them to,
they keep moving and moving,
until one day you’re not sure where they’ve gone.
So you have no other choice then to restart,
and find someone new.
I know that there are people in this life,
just like the people in the films
on those VHS tapes.
There are people in this life that see the loveliness of it all
They understand the beautiful gift they’ve been given each day
They know that people are sacred,
living,
breathing,
feeling,
beings.
And then there are people like me,
who look at life with confusion,
and concern,
and wonder everyday,
what the hell is going on.
Who know that life isn’t like that VHS tape,
but wish more than anything that it was
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
Screening all of my calls
Past tense
Cell phone out the window
I have nothing left to say
My borders have been shut down for ages
Rust making them squeak
Easy out unable to be found
Thoughts stream uncontrolled
I want you
Get out of my life
**** me
Shut up
Tuesday mornings are a *****
Filtered through and watered down
I am not a predecessor
Only a predestined failure
Stay away
I only keep words
Words of goodbye
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 10:03 PM UTC
There are certain times
I feel the need to flee
In hopes that someone (but not just anyone)
Will come wading through my troubles,
Searching for me.
It’s as if I am miserably childish again,
Desperate to establish the necessity of my presence.
Though laughable, in glorified imaginings,
The Rescue rivals its predecessor,
The Escape.
~~
I run.
~~
I view the world -- my world --
More plainly from a distance.
Greater quantities may be seen
The farther I flee,
And with each step, I’m allowed more clarity
Of my global truths.
Perhaps I should stay so removed,
With my obstacles revolving miles in front of me,
Slow and small,
Responding easily to the willful manipulations
Of my far away hands.
Simple.
Detached.
Alone.
Maybe I should stay here...
But then, someone comes looking.
Two desires rend my certainty
Until someone finds me,
And I am carried back home.
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 2:36 AM UTC
I preach a sermon unheard of those herding
Filling the ever-expanding sky with a lesson worth learning
But willful do the people of the ground need to be
To pluck the thread of true happiness and glee
To bend the frame of minds, and alter the realm of their own time
Many collapse their own airways in fear of other frequencies interfering
But can we not see our voice is the only bearing in this mechanical clockwork we're fearing
Humble voices worth applauding hide behind the voices
Passive to all, in procrastination they fall
The reality of loss can only sober one briefly
Till we return to binge on our shallow lives so deeply
A predecessor forgotten imbues nothing but doubt
And all confidence you had will soon disperse
If you don't take a look at who you are and converse
Comparisons unneeded, will only leave you wrought
Your inner-being forever saught
A flock will the sapien always be rooted to
Wingspans of all lenghts suited
Every flight pattern a breeze transcended
Only in this will you find that you grew
Only in this will you find that you flew
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
my sadness comes in cycles,
incomplete and abrupt.
tossing my thoughts around and around,
winding them together until they’re perfectly interlocked
and mangled beyond recognition.
the kind where one point ends,
and another begins had been blurred so beautifully
i no longer try to find a destination for the words that flow so violently through my conscious,
bumping into each and every corner
all to make sure it’s presence is known.
my sadness comes in cycles,
without warning,
baring only validation for its predecessor
taking every disgusting thought and helping them grow together,
offering no consideration for anything other than itself.
my sadness comes in cycles,
where it plants itself so deeply into my mind,
i can feel it’s roots,
draining me of all my life and energy
to makes sure it’s alive
and well.
my sadness comes in cycles,
where it carves anything it deems worthy
in to the bark of the tree
that has been flourishing in my mind for years.
my sadness comes in cycles,
where it wants me to just acknowledge that it’s here,
residing in every room of my body.
shutting off the vacancy signs that once illuminated the empty streets outside,
attempting to welcome somebody new in.
shattering the windows,
tearing down the walls i spent years building up,
stealing every key i made,
ruining every inch of my being in its path,
with no remorse or sympathy,
to look at the ruins of my body,
and feel accomplished.
my sadness comes in cycles,
acting as an innocent toddler,
throwing tantrums,
kicking,
screaming,
for everyone to see.
crying unapologetically
until i give it the attention it so desperately craves.
my sadness comes in cycles,
cycles, i no longer have control over.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 11:33 PM UTC