"proffer" poems
On top of my labour
In the farmyard
I often proffer you
Milk, cheese, manure and hide
To render grand
Your life,
Then how come
You express
Your gratitude
With a knife?
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
To taste the bittersweet nectar of thy lunar lips.
Lie me hope, sing to me the song of the helix.
Proffer me the chance to breach thy bastion,
encompass thee in my love and compassion.
Sanction me to be that one whispering love stories
in thine ear while bathing in the Aurora Borealis
dazzling and clear.
You and I, a rickety tent and a love nothing less of
heaven sent.
In mine heart thou shalt forever remain.
My panzer maid grant me...the fall of rain.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
It’s the morning after the last heart session
Eyes open but brain still crackling with static and white noise
When I try it again
Hoping to get pen to paper
Before consciousness can recover sufficiently to intervene
And proffer pretty syntax to the poem
Hold the mind blank
And stack the words in rows of green growth
Like garden beds
That only need time and attention to bear fruit
Let truth come from some other place
Than reason or left brain
Or the extensive vocabulary
Meticulously indexed in the cranial cavity
Somewhere near the brain stem
Or maybe in the DNA
As C, T, G, and A
Storing data like binary only twice as complex
The recall mechanism operating in the darkness of our comprehension
Apprehension of its failure threatening to leave the poem unfinished
Unillustrated
Uncalibrated
Un-fact checked
Like that matters somehow
Like the facts are important in art
Like the right brain has no sense of propriety
Just as surely as the heart tells lies in gibberish
A chattering maelstrom of syllables in a cyclonic vacuum
And yet somehow the heart speaks with perfect clarity
Uncluttered rhythm
Timing and flow
So you know there is more going on here than we fully understand
Lend a hand to help decipher the intentions of a part of yourself wayward from the rest of you
Leading to a collapse of the ego
And a blurring of the lines between you and I
Turning discrete data into continuous
On the fly
On the run
Under sun and and moon and sky
Until the day that even death fails to be discrete
Or even an event any more important than a fire
Converting energy from one form to another
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:42 PM UTC
service failure the ***** will offer
there's something medically askew with it
the usual role is proving so unfit
a second chance in a transplant's proffer
another dies to bring life back again
wellness being redeemed by precious gift
the recipient receives a big lift
living's joy restored out of the rain
someone's kind donation affording breath
so that the period of existence stays
a healthy liver performing its job
for not to have this giving there'd be death
the bestowment allows those future days
gratitude felt within a person's cob
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
Though life should come
With all its marshalled honours, trump and drum,
To proffer you the captaincy of some
Resounding exploit, that shall fill
Man’s pulses with commemorative thrill,
And be a banner to far battle days
For truths unrisen upon untrod ways,
What would your answer be,
O heart once brave?
Seek otherwhere; for me,
I watch beside a grave.
Though to some shining festival of thought
The sages call you from steep citadel
Of bastioned argument, whose rampart gained
Yields the pure vision passionately sought,
In dreams known well,
But never yet in wakefulness attained,
How should you answer to their summons, save:
I watch beside a grave?
Though Beauty, from her fane within the soul
Of fire-tongued seers descending,
Or from the dream-lit temples of the past
With feet immortal wending,
Illuminate grief’s antre swart and vast
With half-veiled face that promises the whole
To him who holds her fast,
What answer could you give?
Sight of one face I crave,
One only while I live;
Woo elsewhere; for I watch beside a grave.
Though love of the one heart that loves you best,
A storm-tossed messenger,
Should beat its wings for shelter in your breast,
Where clung its last year’s nest,
The nest you built together and made fast
Lest envious winds should stir,
And winged each delicate thought to minister
With sweetness far-amassed
To the young dreams within—
What answer could it win?
The nest was whelmed in sorrow’s rising wave,
Nor could I reach one drowning dream to save;
I watch beside a grave.
3.8k
Oh the cringing demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than *** lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.
Oh, mere *** be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.
I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your ***********
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial nudity?
I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?
Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.
Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!
There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?
Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see *********** then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
Next to your pyre
Nest to your flame
I am ashamed by my mortality
these days have made ash accumulating of me
the grown-up ghost I'm taken to be
a soundless sonder
Through another man's lens
through another boy's poem
you are still beautiful to me
Some other man's Eurydice
Some boy who didn't turn around
when faced with the world only a few steps away
Now I am buried under this city
practicing sleepless nights
I talk to you backwards and pray for the world to begin again
a double exposure in third person
the picture makes sense, the pieces don't fit together
My schizophrenia in monochrome
Limerance,
though spurious
pending supplication
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
Three Nails (...)
Not so many as to denounce
A job done to make me well.
Three rudimentary spikes to nail
A man's own flesh to wood.
Three nails cannot
Seem so much to proffer;
Human efforts complementing
God's sacrificial offer.
A self-inflicted crucifixion?
Yes, I would do my part;
Would do me good, I think,
To offer up an offering to God.
So let this painful work,
Human endeavoring,
Perfection capturing,
Begin.
A simple thing, I think,
To hoist and hammer
Nails into myself,
A manly job to undertake
Impaling self
To spare my God
A little work.
The first, perhaps
Most painful...
To stop the feet
Their wandering ways,
To give me pause for just a bit
To meditate in pain
And to reflect or to project
Myself in better ways.
.
Then on to nail number two,
One hand to hold the nail
And one the hammer.
The pain intense
Impacts my good intent.
.
And yet, I've nailed number two,
And finding where the problem lies,
I have no way to nail thrice.
My living flesh begins to writhe
Its will-ward way,
E'en though in sky-ward
Agony my soul now wails.
Then I remember
Someone said,
"Your crucifixion stands
Upon a different hill,
Hangs on a different tree."
. . .
Though I can never end my flesh,
He paid my debt for me.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:01 AM UTC
they hit you everywhere,
bruises, slow faders,
pretty much all over,
spaced out, body and time
some, they come back,
months, years later,
enticing, devising,
with revelations perfect,
you melt with helpfulness
some claim they are born
with only questions and an
insatiable quest for knowing,
but line in the soil tween rows
is there for you not to cross
some proffer their pain,
asking for ablution and absolution,
from demons they wish to share,
but refusing the smoke of my offering,
that could cleanse both our inhalations
like highway men of yore,
they hit everyone, below the belt,
stave breaking into the heart,
slow bleeding, with answers
received in absentia and silence
until the till needs refilling, and they
renewed, reappear, reformed, with
perfect words, even better questions:
my portfolio of replies mostly go/grow
old, noting the obvious, we are socially
distance by age and geography and
degree, I free and clear to provide while
they just free to hit and run, one more time
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 9:11 PM UTC
The Marines
The Few, The Proud
The Brave, the Courageous
Disciplined, Proper
From Paris Island Soldiers to Vietnam Vets
Its a position for freedom
a job for the fearless
Protecting our country day in and day out
1992 to 1994
Dads unit secured naval ships
sweat, tears and will power
guns blazing with 875 rounds a minute
1966 to 1968
His dad served in Vietnam
blood, gore and gunshots
flack jackets, an honored purple heart
learn to **** and not get killed
and never proffer anything less than the best
you’re there to out stand and defend
to honor, to provide
One day I’ll be standing here, in my dress blues
with my hair neatly slicked back, tight in a bun
I’ll have stories to tell my children
and I’ll watch the Military channel with my father
but first
I’ll learn to disregard the fear
of death staring you in the face
or the sudden urge to run
then I’ll wonder,
putting up my gun, aiming, and shooting for my dreams
of being an American Marine
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:01 AM UTC
“Words are beautiful, but emotion is divine” (patty m)
~these are the divine words of a beautiful soul, patty m~
this Missouri grandmother writes and I am willfully, duty-bound,
to comply for she commissions a poem with every insightful pithy and
ever one of her dear hugs, of which these is no limit and each one a treasure of a gratitude that flows contra-directionally, surpassing given-grace and lawful gravity, for all of her words flow simultaneously north and south, heavenwards, and earth planted, east / west, magnetic poles attracting divinity wherever it can be found
and all I can do is proffer
just one more only love poem, which is the blessing and the curse the lord blessed me with, love is beautiful and it is divinely originated in each of our humble hearts, plucked from trees and fed to us wherever fruit of the fields grows, shaped like sweet and **** berries…not all that is divine, of necessity to be beautiful, words, them too, a mixed blessing, vulnerable and subject by the abuse of human weakness and fragility…but this much I assure myself with confidence,
and you too,
her words, well,
limitless, her every poem is hand woven, unhid, in the fooling
plain earthenware that the potter’s wheel created,
all gifts to each of us;
*But my fragility mandates I speak slow and hesitantly of things beautiful that contain the white glow sparkler light of divinity, for I have attracted and deserved many failures, far greater than the rarer success, so my knowledge yet oft suspect, is mostly merely well imagined but know this:
her skill,
her expertise
her intimate comprehension
within the beautiful and divine expressions of her kind appreciation she deigns to share…words like a mighty, beautiful like a powerful Missouri river, driven by all specie of love…but none more powerful, more divine than that of a loving womanly grandmother*
this, yes, only a love poem to be sure,
for the beautiful,
The Divine Miss (Patty) M.
Jul 24, 2023
Jul 24, 2023 at 5:44 PM UTC
The Marines
The Few, The Proud
The Brave, the Courageous
Disciplined, Proper
From Paris Island Soldiers to Vietnam Vets
Its a position for freedom
a job for the fearless
Protecting our country day in and day out
1992 to 1994
Dads unit secured naval ships
sweat, tears and will power
guns blazing with 875 rounds a minute
1966 to 1968
His dad served in Vietnam
blood, gore and gunshots
flack jackets, an honored purple heart
learn to **** and not get killed
and never proffer anything less than the best
you’re there to out stand and defend
to honor, to provide
One day I’ll be standing here, in my dress blues
with my hair neatly slicked back, tight in a bun
I’ll have stories to tell my children
and I’ll watch the Military channel with my father
but first
I’ll learn to disregard the fear
of death staring you in the face
or the sudden urge to run
then I’ll wonder,
putting up my gun, aiming, and shooting for my dreams
of being an American Marine
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
The Condition of My Heart
by Munir Niazi
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
There's no need for anyone else to get excited:
The condition of my heart is not the condition of hers.
But were we to receive any sort of good news, Munir,
How spectacular compared to earth's mundane sunsets!
Mystery
by Munir Niazi
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
She was a mystery:
Her lips were parched ...
but her eyes were two unfathomable oceans.
I continued delaying ...
by Munir Niazi
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I continued delaying ...
the words I should speak
the promises I should keep
the one I should dial
despite her cruel denial
I continued delaying ...
the shoulder I must offer
the hand I must proffer
the untraveled lanes
we may not see again
I continued delaying ...
long strolls through the seasons
for my own selfish reasons
the remembrances of lovers
to erase thoughts of others
I continued delaying ...
to save someone dear
from eternities unclear
to make her aware
of our reality here
I continued delaying ...
Keywords/Tags: Munir Niazi, Urdu, Punjabi, translation, Pakistan, Lahore, love, love hurts, heart, heartbreak, condition, mystery, pashto, relationship, delay, delays, delaying, mrburdu
May 4, 2020
May 4, 2020 at 2:57 AM UTC
I’m Oxfam clothed and head full of henna,
he’s Age Concern dressed for less than a tenner.
Does this make us rivals or more compatible?
Anything’s possible now I’m out of hospital,
picking his path oblivious to obstacles,
catching him in an unguarded interval;
he’s too hospitable to swerve my tentacles
and I too intent on the prey.
“What’s with the titfer?” I bubble up giggly,
kissing his cheek and trying his trilby,
holding his eyes – why should I feel guilty?
If he’ll play Jesus lurking in Gethsemane
then I’ll be Judas flirting with the enemy.
Don’t say betrayal and the double agent,
I’m just a female at my play station.
He used to be nurse and I the patient,
now we negotiate new relations.
Aspiring to more of an equal footing
I’ve climbed too high and abandoned hoodies,
the dreary woollies, sackcloth and ashes,
the words that stuck to my tongue like glue.
Between heavy make-up and credit crashes
I talk too naughty and hug too warmly –
he must take his turn to be poorly,
his turn to breathe in blue.
In minutes the mood will be mellowing:
I shall saxophone and cello him
and proffer the charms of poor scarred arms,
the burnt flesh of thighs and *******
this sin within my second-hand dress
to caress his heart and capture him.
Wind and string go enrapturing!
Pull him close to the edge of the abyss –
I want him to hang on my lips
as I’ve hung so long on his.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
I proffer words
in an apology.
In hopes
they may turn the tide.
Akin
to the release of white doves.
So I might revive
a notion that’ve died.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 8:49 AM UTC
.
Delicious is a word I save for you.
Chocolate comes close but feeds me only
Famine. Your skin is blest three times,
Once for new redolence. Bay leaved
To the core, you proffer memories
Which chamber the years in round rooms,
Opening freely into rouge galleries
Of spice. Secondly, it is soft as summer
Water. It draws itself toward touch
Like ripples skipping over a sweating pond,
Lapping its way towards the creamy shore.
The third gift of your skin is the colour
Of desired destination, an instrument
Which maps the mirror of a universe,
Because you are deckled with stars so heady,
You are wet smoke from drooling galaxies
And rose white fathoms of sky, they are pooling,
And pulling me with force so fulsome
As to be almost—
Tasteless.
The firm green bread of spring,
The blue blood of heaven and the milky
Sun, these are your flavours all intermingled,
And three piquant senses speak to my tongue;
I smell, I touch, I taste— you are,
Delicious.
.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
Delicious is a word I save for you.
Chocolate comes close but feeds me only
Famine. Your skin is blest three times,
Once for new redolence. Bay leaved
To the core, you proffer memories
Which chamber the years in round rooms,
Opening freely into rouge galleries
Of spice. Secondly, it is soft as summer
Water. It draws itself toward touch
Like ripples skipping over a sweating pond,
Lapping its way towards the creamy shore.
The third gift of your skin is the colour
Of desired destination, an instrument
Which maps the mirror of a universe,
Because you are deckled with stars so heady,
You are wet smoke from drooling galaxies
And rose white fathoms of sky, they are pooling,
And pulling me with force so fulsome
As to be almost—
Tasteless.
The firm green bread of spring,
The blue blood of heaven and the milky
Sun, these are your flavours all intermingled,
And three piquant senses speak to my tongue;
I smell, I touch, I taste— you are,
Delicious.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 10:18 PM UTC
O old Gods who wait in morrow, let me shine in sacred sorrow
I proffer, and offer, my marrow, bone, flesh, to thine altar borne,
lone in meeting, only fleeting, silent here for duty sworn
My old Gods who sit in waiting, might I power just to borrow?
Only briefly you must loan me the magic to sunder torn.
Weak and trembl’ng, weak to muster, I sought courage, but I crumble,
at the sight of just thy vision, for to me it seems e’er unseen
naught to know but thy own master ‘til I patient, sorely lumber
wondering if fear has stolen me to thine own sacred meadow
when suddenly, fervently see thine true shape and face and form and
terrible dreams enter my soul e’er to stay and e’er to fecund
for death I prefer to understanding the truth our Gods have shunned.
Yet little more did I then speak among the dead and too the meek,
falling towards an abyss so deep that makes my heart and soul weep
dying truly like a phantom lurking in the shallows creep
and yet falling ever faster and so overwhelmed by deep
my eyes and ears saw nothing and heard nothing, not a leap
from the darkness that consumed me e’er more did I fail to seek
that which cannot only reap the dead and tear them ‘til they so reek
so sharp and pointed so it was even I could witness and speak
“Who have I wronged in this place so awful that I am gaoled oblique?
Yet can still think and ponder the widow’s peak and in vain self-wreak?”
in sacred toil among the stardust that makes us shine so mystique.
What does thou will, O lord, my lord, of more than we can ever tell?
I know it is not my duty not to know. Ask I must, ask besides
the husk of my body is yours and yet I know little of thee
by whose authority do wield such magics and more asides?
it is not plain to me what sort of horror lies ‘neath the scorched ground
so why do I? Why do I scream? Why do I see the beast in me?
The hound that hunts for those who must be slaughtered despite what else they seek
the wolf inside that hunts, rips, and tears, taken apart piece by piece
the awful sound of howling that’s for me to not and never cease
the stars themselves align to my fate fear in mind and e’er besides
‘tis here that I myself sit alone and finally soon to die.
for death I prefer to the fate our Gods have brought to us benumbed.
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 5:40 AM UTC
When rain droplets lick your face
Lift your lips,
lovingly kiss them back
Use your voice
Proffer prayers up
The Sustainer is sending sustenance down
So I'm:
Palms Cupped.
Brow Bowed.
Soul Open.
Lips Prayerful.
Heart Alert.
Mind Focused.
Intention Pure.
Praying for plentiful more
Lord fix my life open up shut doors
The Tabieen told tales of
An angel on every rainlet droplet
So when clouds come I become a beggar.
My Arms outstretched.
My Need great.
My Faith greater.
My God The Greatest
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 12:55 AM UTC
If willing
Their belief
On almighty
To relinquish
And from
Their soul
For lucifer
Proffer
A special dish,
For a while,
Devil will not be
Unwilling to grant
Sorcery and occultism
Blindfolded fools
The financial bonanza
They gluttonously wish
Or an earthly pleasure
They die to relish.
But at the height of
Their self contentment,
With a stab on the back
With a sharp knife
Satan will ramshackle
his subject's life.
Devil could
Not be God
However hard
he play-acts
When approached
Ensconced on his abode.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
When I look into the mirror
Each morning after dawn
To peruse the wrinkled skin
And slack musculature drawn,
When I snore upon the couch
Before flashing TV screen
To be woken by my sweetheart
For a dinner yet unseen.
There’s an overriding likelihood
That achievements made to date
Will be my lot for evermore....
An admission that I hate!
And the scent of hot seduction
Though a feature of my youth,
Shall be confined to flash of fantasy
Amidst pains in nagging tooth.
Enduring twinge of aching joints
To the whistling in the ears
And the apnoea of sleeplessness
Which just consolidates the fears.
Homeopathy has promise
To the happy road to health
But pharmaceuticals are farming
For my meagre worldly wealth.
Though the promise of the afterlife
Which held aloft on high,
Presents a gaggle of good churches
Who will proffer you the sky.
Best to form your own religion
With philosophy of POW!
To say" IT’S ALL ABOUT ME, BROTHER"
AND I WANT MY YOUTH BACK NOW!!
Marshalg
Wielding the Gold Card with an impotent flourish
AUCKLAND
25 January 2012
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
Delicious is a word I save for you.
Chocolate comes close but feeds me only
Famine. Your skin is blest three times,
Once for new redolence. Bay leaved
To the core, you proffer memories
Which chamber the years in round rooms,
Opening freely into rouge galleries
Of spice. Secondly, it is soft as summer
Water. It draws itself toward touch
Like ripples skipping over a sweating pond,
Lapping its way towards the creamy shore.
The third gift of your skin is the colour
Of desired destination, an instrument
Which maps the mirror of a universe,
Because you are deckled with stars so heady,
You are wet smoke from drooling galaxies
And rose white fathoms of sky, they are pooling,
And pulling me with force so fulsome
As to be almost—
Tasteless.
The firm green bread of spring,
The blue blood of heaven and the milky
Sun, these are your flavours all intermingled,
And three piquant senses speak to my tongue;
I smell, I touch, I taste— you are,
Delicious.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
Das Fuehrer gefüllt mit Flöte.
Listening 2 yawns,
meditating on medication,
lisping a cry to Das Führer,
I proffer a pray,
im morgen Früh, im morgen Führer,
im morgen nah; hören Sie mich.
Not 4 pleasure yearning 4 unright
Unctuous crimes. Not with U.
Not with boast (yet not with hate 2).
Hating the bath water with the babe
as it bashes Reaper's polemic
hellfire falling out of window;
Still me, in that kindness enters
my home, bowing cuz the doorway is 2 large.
Guiding in black ink,
writing a way
out of loyalties mouth,
out of sclerotic liver,
and contumacious throat.
I tongue an act, a play,
staying guilty in U,
saying guilty in Us.
Lemmings encouraged to revolt,
Offending in U,
Rejoicing only in Us.
Witness our joy, that Xanex protects
against dull moments, forgetting Us,
bland blessings rightly
Surrounded by Yawn's shield.
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
Gather round me, cursed patrons, I present to you a plague
Fare best served with murky water and descriptions best left vague
As a danger to ye all- I proffer cowards to depart-
There is peril in the air: A guise of parables and art.
Take heed now, sleuthing citizens, for clues lay all around
What drove the maddened cabin boy to run the ship aground?
Whose seductive fabrications made an honest man forswear?
Beware the pen and paper, there are clever souls out there.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 4:08 AM UTC
you take a chance
and you say man
here my digits,
now shared,
here is my Rx,
call me as needed
weeks months later
a phone rings
at 2:30am
and one poet says it's me,
I am the living soul
of words you have appreciated
and the other says,
I'm glad you called brother,
how did you know I'd be awake?
and he laughs and says
I read your stuff,
you write best tween
midnite and dawn,
so the probabilities were favorable
that I would find you awake and capable
and you walk and talk and roam
roads and oaths that black and write
screen letters
can't full convey,
till one says **** man look at the time
and both laugh,
knowing a poem
had just been writ in
true voices
shared
and that kids,
is the chance some make,
when first your words you take
and the poetry you proffer
is product of genuine flesh,
beyond mere in vitro digitally fertilized
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 3:51 AM UTC