"presiding" poems
ever presiding o'er the terrain
with its boisterous beams
announcing to all and sundry
the strength of its regime
day in and day out
the tyrannical blasts are felt
all under its despotic yolk
the countryside doth melt
no release
from the oppressive heat
endlessly its dominance
doth beat
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 7:19 PM UTC
I’m no longer in the dating scene
Because I know exactly what I need
Someone on the right spiritual path
To be a good example to my seed
You don’t have to have your money right
You just have to have the right mind
Promise to support me and follow God
And only love and peace you will find
For God will be our presiding priest
And Christ as my best man
While the Almighty Father walks you down the aisle
To place yours into my hand
So if you’d like to court this disciple
You must study to show thyself approved
Must truly know our God and have sins forgiven
Or find yourself regrettably removed
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
I was just staring at the invitation someone gave me
Yes, that someone who played a significant role in my life
My eyes are crying, my heart's in agony
For I never thought it will bring me this strife
As tears rolled on my cheeks, I reminisced that day when we first met
That day when you gave my life a new direction
My reminiscing stopped for a knock was heard
"Twas my friend saying, "Hurry up, we're late for his ordination"
As I entered the church, I gazed at the altar
On that same altar where thirteen years ago
You held my hand, saying "I love you with all my heart
But there is someone whom I love more than the way I love you"
I see, it's God whom you really love more
I cannot blame you, for after all
You wanted to serve him for the rest of your life
All the while, you were waiting for His call
Today is the day you have been waiting for
The day where everyone will get to call you "Father"
How I wish we could have a picture together
But I am your ex-lover, It'll just make you bothered
The ceremony has ended, your mother saw me
My heart stopped, I didn't hear a noise
She muttered "Hey sweetie, long time no see!"
I was about to reply when I heard a familiar voice
As I gazed around I saw a lovely man
Yes, that same man whom I loved for thirteen years
He still looks handsome in that clerical collar
I cannot speak a word, I embraced him, wetting his shirt with tears
He embraced me back, telling me "Dear, I'm sorry
For now, I cannot grant your dream wedding
But this I promise you, on that day
I'll be at the mass, I'll be the one presiding"
I left the church with a smile
Thanking God for that closure
As I watched you from afar for a while
I told myself "Someday, I'll be happy for sure"
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
A delicate crimson rose endures
The snow and winds of winter's grasp
And closes up and wilts a while
Until Summer sun it finds at last
In this world of unrighteousness
Where brutes and ogres' egos roam
And selfishness abounds like weeds
She exists in shattered form
With silent seething disilusion
And saddened, unrequited love
Maddened by the unjust acts
of those who advertized their “love”
A vain and self-indulgent god
Did sieze himself her mind and oath
Presiding as the demons do
In hidden acts pronounced as gross
Enduring the madness of matriarchs
And the hostility of tribal gang
Where smiles of familial welcoming
Turned into savage, jealous fangs
Yet though the bitterness seeps through
And anger permeates her skin
Sweet dignity she still retains
And devotion stll resides within
Her adornment incorruptible
Her spirit mild and resolute
Did not return evil for evil
But stood and conquered it with good
Happy is she who has endured
And in mild subjection did remain
Showing honour to a painful degree
To bring honour to Jehovah's name
And though she stumbled in despair
Yet withstood for righteous sake
Her loyalty, the beast could not sever
Nor divine concsience could he break
For like the rose at winter's end
That bears a striking sharpened thorn
Her petals still are soft and pure
And her soul with beauty still adorned
For the righteous one who sees all things
And whose love she yet retains
Will never for eternity forget
The love she showed for his great name
And should she reach out and beseech
And trust his salvation once again
She would know with certainty
He has never let go her hand
(For my precious daughter, Cheryl, who has been to hell and back)
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
If my face were on a milk carton, who might say they know me?
Family Trees were hell, but I got Bruce Lee for a dad.
Almond-shaped eyes and yellow skin don’t flow with a white name.
Heritage was anime and soy sauce, my attempt to grasp childhood.
Khakis and button downs smother a kimono;
good thing I knew my third cousin was Jackie Chan.
Exemplary English scores, mediocre math were my sentence,
the honorable ACT presiding. All rise for the boy with no history.
Science might prove otherwise but until then. . .
Orphans don’t have happy beginnings
the birds and the bees sit better with both parties in a normal family.
Paper can’t lie, but parents sure can.
Fantasy-cursed for eighteen years
until Truth finally came, the coward.
All rise for the boy with no history.
All rise for the ******* son.
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 2:33 PM UTC
Majestic old moss covered lion
standing guard over the locus of a pagan soul
and hedonistic bloodhounds ready to pounce
their muscles stretched in anticipation of feasting
An ancient timekeeper drips eternity in pearly drops
over and above the city of omniscience…
chalky faces embedded in the century old walls
I wonder about their cloaked, clandestine lives
The lady in white lost in peaceful contemplation
demure head ensconced within her flowery crown
presiding goddess over a temple of busy-ness
devotees scurrying beneath her perennial sight
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
20/08/06
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 5:29 AM UTC
I die a little bit inside each time
you offer an explanation for my
self,
stubbed heart [popped out of sync]
dips toward the ground and
flutters to a silence
a still, empty blue presiding over
the world at large tonight, permeated
by plumes of white
(from the scrambled heads of dreamers)
nothing to hold against your
fiery facade, flaming formidable
fits of brilliance blazing before
my flustered eyes
and why do we cease to
contract, left ventricle?
to start up again and enjoy
it that much more (the second
time around)
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
Walking past the stupefied wall
its chippings tells a different story;
who was the graffitist and perhaps the eventual liberator,
rolled up into that cumulative presiding chisel
that took it to the ledge.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring’s unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year’s friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.
1.6k
When I sit among the oaken seats
surrounded by Your endless faithful,
the angelic choir in my ear,
incense cleansing my soul of woe,
I am there. I am there beneath
Your golden altar presiding, steadfast;
I am there. I am there feeling that same spirit
that has endured for millennia and imbued the souls of
our greatest writers, our greatest poets,
our most beautiful songs, our most saintly people,
and our drive for charity which
no force of evil in the world can ever, ever undo.
I sit there in awe, astonishment and fear,
as Your humble and quaking servant
raises Your True Body and Blood to the heavens;
You are among us!
Not riding in a chariot of gold nor bearing an ivory crown,
nor in flaming glory nor terrible thunder,
but amongst the sick of heart, the poor of soul,
the vain of face and the dreadful of mind.
It is then when I hear those chanted words
from the mouth of Your servant,
whatever tongue of men they be uttered in,
that I come to fully understand Your unchanging core:
"Through Him and with Him and in Him,
O God, almighty Father, in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
all glory and honour is Yours,
forever and ever. Amen."
The goosebumps upon my skin,
the shiver down my spine,
the sideward glance to your tearful faithful;
my own eyes brimming amidst such wonder.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
I crushed a flower
in my hand.
It felt good.
It felt right.
Felt like I was
absolutely
in control.
Petals and stem juice
stained my hand.
I make a wind
and
blow
them
away.
Just like a judge
presiding
over a trial,
I am the voice
of justice.
A bloated bulb
of tremendous
distance
begins to roll
over to me.
Misguided hand,
you must know,
that what
you
began
will come to pass.
Morphine eyes
see shapes and
shadows
that flicker briefly
before
floating away.
The hand can
try and hold
itself in power,
but
in
the end
can only
move as required.
I am as crushed
as the flower,
staining
the palm
of my demise.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
******
****** ******
Thousands of captives.
Trapped. Like I. Bound-
To seats.
3 Feet apart.
By invisible chains.
Forced to confess. Faced with stress.
Emotional, mental, maybe physical.
Forced to against will.
Faced with time.
The sounds-
Scratching.
Painful etching.
Carving into ivory sheets.
Painful work, thy fingers die
But all know it's either that or I.
Sweeping scraps.
Weeping rags.
Off the desk.
"THUD"-
Torture
Sickening torture.
Stuck, can do no longer.
Take a minute's break.
All Captors stare.
As if saying.
"Beware"
Captors-
In this
small room.
Captors, Aisles they strut.
Awaiting a **** list in hand.
Should anyone defy.
Should anyone lie.
Captors shall.
destroy lives.
with that pen.
in hand.
One-
Comrade
Forth thee.
Silent protest.
A slip of paper in hand's rest.
Some reference. Glances.
Captor passes.
Gone. Forever Gone.
I've seen him, last.
sent on-
Out.
Possibly for torture.
To spill his guts and to confess.
Accomplices, if any.
None at best.
Countdown-
****** clock moves slow.
As if it was tuned back by purpose.
All watching.
Gaze fixed;
hope-
curse-
5 minutes to go.
The race begins. Last to finish.
Never ever had a good end.
Thy weapon in hand.
Stronger than sword.
Carve words.
****
"STOP"
Presiding captor shouts.
Time flies when you're having fun.
Time flies when you want to run.
All stop as if en cue.
Inspection time.
Is due-
Collection.
Passing of works. Up forth rows.
But there I am. Screaming.
**** **** ****
Life is up.
There goes.
My future-
Elated faces.
All round.
For they now longer bound.
To their chairs.
Smiles fill the air.
"Run along".
Captors declare.
All flee.
but I stood there
Thinking.
Mom I'm sorry. I'm getting an F.
But I knew I did my best.
I might just pass this.
****** test.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
Croydon was never the same
after 65
when it was sawn in half.
Wellesley underpass like
a strewn underbelly,
gave the Motor vehicle its commensurate order.
Whitgift middle schools playing fields uprooted south
making way for the,
Whitgift Centre, old before its time,
like Dorian Gray in reverse.
I recall Grants department store closing in 1980.
presiding over an omen, we could not afford a niche,
only for it to become an entertainment venue.
Standardization became our
inalienable right
with the soul of the centre dying
death by a thousand cuts,
not helped by the recent riots.
But Croydon will survive.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
true mantra needs
a seer
a meter
and a presiding deity
cleansing
that fickle mind
with a haunting rhythm
of neatly arranged syllables
a giant
strike anywhere match
which triggers
that fuse of devotion
in the lotus-like heart
of the true devotee
© 2021
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 9:51 AM UTC
There's a better version of me,
up, ahead. And
he loves you in ways,
I can't figure ways,
how-to. Yeah,
you cried when he
left you.
And lonely,
you screamed.
"But if he'd come back, then,"
you think,
you'd believe it? The
roads don't just sparkle, every
time that you need it.
In the poem I write next,
we're both losing games.
I press up then, catch on,
turning to flames.
In a grand winning gesture
you burst
into diamonds,
before I can remind you
about asking Simon.
In the distance, outside the door to your
basement, a crowd la-las the
Star-Spangled Banner.
From the bulkhead and foundation,
from "the Hobbit door," but,
behind me,
the Anthem goes silent.
"Not home. Headed home. Stopped
here. On-my-way."
"Where would you rather be,
than right here, right now?"
Ralph Wilson died a rich man,
with a football stadium
by which to remember him.
"Well then trace your
depression to its sources."
I'm afraid I'll never own the franchise.
There's a father, presiding
over a service,
for both of us. It's the
same priest, at every
front of the room.
Our parents are crying, regardless.
I'd say somewhere, we sit,
together,
sipping on the universe. This one
or another.
If we don't, then they do.
And they're having the best time.
But in our past,
the same one we share now,
a version of you stiffens.
She glazes her eyes, sugary.
Holds out her palm, fingers to the sky.
And he matches her thumb first,
before the four digits.
Her face bursts, all rosy.
His turns away.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC
As John put it
The incarnated word,
Saint Mary was entitled
To feed Her *******
And Hold, but whom
Juda the culprit
For 30 birr sold
Is almighty God.(John 1:1John 1:12.John 8:58)
Here it should pop up
To your attention
"God is with you!"
Saint Gabriel's to
The Immaculate felicitation.
So God,
Christ is a presiding judge
An inch do not budge
Hearing shallow teachings
Quite strange
Christ killers-turned
-Christ-peddlers on many
A religious forum stage.
As Canaan, awaits
Them a curse
For trying to belittle Christ
Intent to line up their purse.
On the cross
It was the incarnated word
That allowed the repentant
Shieftan on his right
The first greenlight
To heaven of course.
Witnessing
His sons'
Polar opposite deeds
Noah better felt
The visitation of God
In Shem's tent.(Genesis 9:18-27)
Hence God's incarnation
That still reflect
Are entitled
Membership to the tent,
Which personifies
Saint Mary
The immaculate.
Thus, as the
Chosen generation
True to
Saint Mary's prophesy
Let us echo "The Graceful
And the immaculate!"
Evading Satan's
Yet another bait.
Jun 13, 2020
Jun 13, 2020 at 8:27 AM UTC
mute, dumb, the fan whirrs
sweeping first left, then right,
all around the waiting room,
seeing all, doing nothing,
from its perch on the wall.
chairs, mostly full
with faces furrowed deep
by worry, sorrow, fear.
in one, yesterday’s newspaper,
half- unread, like yesterday’s bride.
just beyond, the triage--
with the presiding nurse
in pristine white, oozing
professional empathy
and tight-fitting oomph.
anxious eyes peering
through the slit curtain
into the emergency room…
was that my dad crying in pain
or the guy with the broken leg?
inside that curtained cubicle
men in masks
squeezing life out
like one does a near-empty
tube of toothpaste.
silent, violent, sobs
from the son and daughter.
was that their uncle
who lends them his shoulder?
maybe, just maybe, the doc was wrong?
from that perch up on the wall,
the fan keeps whirring,
seeing all, doing nothing
sweeping first left, then right
is that fan god?
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 5:59 PM UTC
The winds of hope blow through
the boarding house's corridors
sober, listening to John Kay's "Easy Evil"
having finally rinsed my glass of Tennessee whisky,
that once flowed sojourn down stream.
With the best of intentions,
hell's as current as the midnight lodger,
presiding in room 207,
her absinthe addiction
driven me to distraction
some are marooned on the rich mud silt of life,
but I need to edge towards resolution.
a packed suitcase
whose once dreams hazed,
finally vies beyond the rivers edge.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
The Cumaean Sibyl was the priestess presiding over the Apollonian oracle at Cumae, a Greek colony located near Naples, Italy. The word sibyl comes (via Latin) from the ancient Greek word sibylla, meaning prophetess. (Wikipedia)
Songs of prophecy on oaken leaves
Unread; unclaimed; unrequested
Fly from out either of the many entrances
To her cave chambers.
She doesn't mind. Poet or prophet, the
Wind has hands greater than human;
Words without willing ears wrestle away
Without struggle.
Only they and the wind see the beauty
Of it. She? She doesn't mind.
Guide to the Underworld, she has greater
Things to meditate on than
The Infants of the Universe
In their insignificant sandboxes.
*Here; more poetry. Come who may,
To read.*
Who may.
Apollo's twisted payment for her
Pleasures: As many years of life as grains
Of sand in her hand.
But she forgot to ask for youth.
After a thousand years, only her voice is
Left, whispering: *Children, all will
Be well. It already is.*
It already is.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
Superficial insomnia
Fiscally collateral.
Primalistic defilement
Of a world so material.
Where every breath
Preceeds another hearse,
And every thought
Breeds another curse.
In a place held together
By disintigration and wildfires,
Stems the hope of a new face
A new place with new desires.
Bleeding from the walls
It spells its name on the floor.
It drops its heart in a grinder
To be chopped into more.
It's deranged and disturbed
That much seems to be known
Presiding deep in these hideous
Perplexing, competitive overtones.
Shellshocked beyond resentment
Another hand pressed against it
Attempting again to knock down
The insidious box which holds us to drown.
And again it presents itself
In a crisp suit and tie
Hiding its nature
Hiding the lie.
I know its design
Because I've seen it before.
So I drop my heart in a grinder
To be chopped into more.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
The steady strumming of steel strings,
Staccato strikes like some salacious swaying streetwalker,
Sorrow-ly sauntering through shit-slung streets.
Smelling of saffron in these places of salvia stinking slums.
Scythe swinging,
Pendulum-slow,
Cycling through souls,
Sickle of Sadness,
Strewn through both Sinners and Saints.
Sights of Scratches seduction,
Satan's satisfaction in slayings of soldiers and civilians,
Simply sumptuous.
Suckered by Senators,
Sold out by simpering, salivating slugs,
Presiding over slaughters with sadistic swagger.
Slovenly suckling upon skulls of the slain...
Sardonically
Dec 31, 2022
Dec 31, 2022 at 3:00 AM UTC
It is a sad, sad story
for the successes of the past do not fare to serve us in the present
the logic of the bully is a nationalist sigh of relief
and the arc of our world is divided by invisible lines that cross borders
but across which only poverty **** recorded and scored, shall pass
when the successful liar is preferred to the lonely sage
are we not prepared to accept that which we serve
are we not prepared to eat from the plate we have earned
to sup on anarchistic attitudes, imbibe narcoleptic morality
then purge our selective brutality on the servers
for we have earned this, that which fell into our laps
a modern life made tolerable by the indictments of demagogues
for freedom’s a blight in the nightmares of demagogues
shopkeepers made frightful by the incitement of demagogues
we don’t need rights when we’ve the rightness of demagogues
we know they are liars, but are they successful liars?
we know they start fires so they can be better seen
presiding over the funereal pyre of our former freedom
some bishop of hate and self-interest raised up by our fear
to a pulpit of nations drawn low by wage slavery
to a podium impatient for their arrogant knavery
to a rostrum of hatred unsated by gross economic products
to a minbar frustrated by allegations and false prophets
It is a sad, sad story
for our past failures, our careless disregard will not serve us in the present
the logic of the bully is the demagogues rise to belief
we are weakest only when we are weak
and no backs will lift this burden but our own
A sad story indeed
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
Angel's of better through
Myself, to a fascinating yarn
Of what went where, a since of owe...
That collect a share in more, to earn
Callous decision begins the day...
When is a legend of promises and due count?
Of a shadow in the grand scheme of things, say
The utmost of tries and tribulation, within a certainty's pout
Credence to verify a care, the toil of just
The riddance of guarantee, to account a new play
Oft the light of simplicity, but complex in sides of must
That have harrowed a call, a cause of means in altruism's way
Stepping forward, in the name of a treatise vaunted
We spy the court of prodigious example, for a nefarious ghost
My time here, is a walking and silent myth, a risk haunted
For the gain of truer heed, in a wish there is patience for most?
Could a faring wealth of passions decree, be?
Here is the solace of worth I will know, a caring hardiness
Made shall, a redemption to a tow and show of order, to lead
The audacity of a hand of fortune, to the rise of charisma I bless...
With that, the treasure is many and magnificent
Couth in final compare, in the spare and presiding
A wish of summation and its thought to drive, a share meant
With the lips of dignity, that shall continue without airs of denial
At role and delve of omnipotent trust
The tooth of the day, is to hope, is a forth and will of kind?
Long looks and summations hope, is a silence to discuss
Letting ours begin here, with purpose beyond fear, is mercy to mind?
Aug 10, 2023
Aug 10, 2023 at 12:43 PM UTC
Obdurate and profligate from years of anomie,
I have become hallow due to this sessile pons asinorum
Incurring solely affliction, I know only discontentment;
My existence is damnation, and damnation is my existence...
Enmity and sorrow are the sole tenants of my heart
No matter my anguish, these demons nevermore will depart
Presiding within my occult and dingy soul;
Anon my antipathy will irrecusably attain control
For hope is naught but an opaque postiche-
A whim that dissipates, even when you beseech
-The Bagatelle
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC