"progenitor" poems - Hello Poetry

"progenitor" poems

745 Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue— The letting go A Presence—for an Expectation— Not now— The putting out of Eyes— Just Sunrise— Lest Day— Day’s Great Progenitor— Outvie Renunciation—is the Choosing Against itself— Itself to justify Unto itself— When larger function— Make that appear— Smaller—that Covered Vision—Here—

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Emily Dickinson

Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue

745 Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue— The letting go A Presence—for an Expectation— Not now— The putting out of Eyes— Just Sunrise— Lest Day— Day’s Great Progenitor— Outvie Renunciation—is the Choosing Against itself— Itself to justify Unto itself— When larger function— Make that appear— Smaller—that Covered Vision—Here—

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Sirens. ‘Oxygen please’. It was all in a dream, that slowly fades, till it’s one last beat; the final T wave. The eyes of the soul opened to a new light; the real orbits could not believe, what I saw. Now, I wish I never gazed into that light. Darkness swathes my soul, a repetition of this vicious cycle. Traffic lights. Red turns green. The monitor music. A distorted chime sound, hidden under their vibrating vocal cords. Last earthly stop. I am in orbit. Return of oxygen, electrolytes, body and soul to the progenitor.

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Aug 17, 2018

Aug 17, 2018 at 8:42 PM UTC

Sirens. ‘Oxygen please’. It was all in a dream, that slowly fades, till it’s one last beat; the final T wave. The eyes of the soul opened to a new light; the real orbits could not believe, what I saw. Now, I wish I never gazed into that light. Darkness swathes my soul, a repetition of this vicious cycle. Traffic lights. Red turns green. The monitor music. A distorted chime sound, hidden under their vibrating vocal cords. Last earthly stop. I am in orbit. Return of oxygen, electrolytes, body and soul to the progenitor.

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There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches. You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man. The traffic light, red to green, yet my limbs, froze fruit solid, release catch stuck, unflippable, somehow plastic freezes, mobility skills rusted by December's hampering cheeky cheeks, a seasonal reddish copper discoloration of the extremities, a harmony of no sensation A comet stuck in pedestrian neutral, collided/jostled by starry eyed Fifth Avenue street walkers and tourists. my presence sensed, touched, yet avoided, unnoticed, like streetlight, lamppost, mailbox, I am, a body, at rest, unseen but on display in the art gallery of Manhattan's Lost and Found In the section of the paper where the unimportant local news is sliced n' diced into single paragraphs, of human interest, tidbits, amuse bouche, items of major minor interest, The New York Times reported the discovery of an unauthorized lifelike bronze n' copper sculpture. eyes of polished nickel, heart of stained steel, rendition of a man so lifelike y'all do a triple take, smile, take a cell photo, phone a friend his embodiment can be found on the rounded corner of Columbus Circle, @59th St., where you enter Central Park. upon a bench, man clutching Sunday newspapers, a pair of scissors, coupons cut, scattered at his feet. a homely but comely, ****** expression, one of bewilderment. A tiny plaque on a brass plate, at his feet, hints of his progenitor and human origins. Artist: Unknown, Materials: Organic Metals Title: A Living Finish

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Nov 18, 2013

Nov 18, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC

A Living Finish (Sunday's newspapers come on Saturday - Part II)

There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches. You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man. The traffic light, red to green, yet my limbs, froze fruit solid, release catch stuck, unflippable, somehow plastic freezes, mobility skills rusted by December's hampering cheeky cheeks, a seasonal reddish copper discoloration of the extremities, a harmony of no sensation A comet stuck in pedestrian neutral, collided/jostled by starry eyed Fifth Avenue street walkers and tourists. my presence sensed, touched, yet avoided, unnoticed, like streetlight, lamppost, mailbox, I am, a body, at rest, unseen but on display in the art gallery of Manhattan's Lost and Found In the section of the paper where the unimportant local news is sliced n' diced into single paragraphs, of human interest, tidbits, amuse bouche, items of major minor interest, The New York Times reported the discovery of an unauthorized lifelike bronze n' copper sculpture. eyes of polished nickel, heart of stained steel, rendition of a man so lifelike y'all do a triple take, smile, take a cell photo, phone a friend his embodiment can be found on the rounded corner of Columbus Circle, @59th St., where you enter Central Park. upon a bench, man clutching Sunday newspapers, a pair of scissors, coupons cut, scattered at his feet. a homely but comely, ****** expression, one of bewilderment. A tiny plaque on a brass plate, at his feet, hints of his progenitor and human origins. Artist: Unknown, Materials: Organic Metals Title: A Living Finish

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A LIFE TORN APART When I first peeped into the world, I deemed it fit for the growth of my miniature. When I peeped again, I trembled with disbelieving eyes at the emergent live labyrinth that stood staring; but then, can an opinion change an existence? Maybe, just maybe As our mother packed and left, our father drove away. We remained hidden in desolate souls. We were striked with a giant of a being called sustenance, which dwelt in providence. Sincerely our begetters ought to have thought of our brilliant futures. We deserved a life, to run the race towards academic heights Just the other day I overheard, my hemophilic father tying the famous knot with a fellow MAN. Then I thought, what would become of my ego? Would I walk with MY head held high facing other heterosexually raised colleagues? Would I even get the strength to chase after the big price? I think not As I grew up, I hoped for an illuminated course. Now I walk in converging paths. After my fore-bearers kicked their ***** apart, I sobbed after my dressed mother, they say. But who could have thought that I would turn into a walking stone? Walking through streets in search of well-wishers, I wished my parents had held onto their existence. She blamed it on lewdness while he held it all upon the mistake of an early pregnancy. Was I born unwanted? Was I smuggled into this existence? I cease to think about it. As a student, I thought my father’s charm the way to go. As a child, my mother’s “generosity” to male neighbors elated me. Now as a parent to be I think, what would my apprehended seed think of my responsibilities? Will I be faced by delinquency? I thought the rod could do a lot to effect change. It never did on me. Maybe I ought to mind the examples that I was given not. With my Progenitor bidden by the feared misfortune, I still sink in the memories of my father, taken away by the same old grabber, HIV/AIDS. How I hate you HIV….I beseech thee to move away from me. I promise my dear life; that I will always run against the traffic. I will ensure I entangle myself not, in a creased heart and walk with head held high. With the hope of giving my bairm, the kind of life that I always wanted

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Jun 29, 2014

Jun 29, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC

A LIFE TORN APART

A LIFE TORN APART When I first peeped into the world, I deemed it fit for the growth of my miniature. When I peeped again, I trembled with disbelieving eyes at the emergent live labyrinth that stood staring; but then, can an opinion change an existence? Maybe, just maybe As our mother packed and left, our father drove away. We remained hidden in desolate souls. We were striked with a giant of a being called sustenance, which dwelt in providence. Sincerely our begetters ought to have thought of our brilliant futures. We deserved a life, to run the race towards academic heights Just the other day I overheard, my hemophilic father tying the famous knot with a fellow MAN. Then I thought, what would become of my ego? Would I walk with MY head held high facing other heterosexually raised colleagues? Would I even get the strength to chase after the big price? I think not As I grew up, I hoped for an illuminated course. Now I walk in converging paths. After my fore-bearers kicked their ***** apart, I sobbed after my dressed mother, they say. But who could have thought that I would turn into a walking stone? Walking through streets in search of well-wishers, I wished my parents had held onto their existence. She blamed it on lewdness while he held it all upon the mistake of an early pregnancy. Was I born unwanted? Was I smuggled into this existence? I cease to think about it. As a student, I thought my father’s charm the way to go. As a child, my mother’s “generosity” to male neighbors elated me. Now as a parent to be I think, what would my apprehended seed think of my responsibilities? Will I be faced by delinquency? I thought the rod could do a lot to effect change. It never did on me. Maybe I ought to mind the examples that I was given not. With my Progenitor bidden by the feared misfortune, I still sink in the memories of my father, taken away by the same old grabber, HIV/AIDS. How I hate you HIV….I beseech thee to move away from me. I promise my dear life; that I will always run against the traffic. I will ensure I entangle myself not, in a creased heart and walk with head held high. With the hope of giving my bairm, the kind of life that I always wanted

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My Progenitor along my Father, She loves me as if She'll take care, Of me and my needs today & forever. My Mother is an inspiration for me, She has tasted success after toiling for it, Harder in nights than in days totally. My studies were Her priority in my school days, She is no different in these different college days, Never does She let her mind divert Her gaze. My language skills, I inherited from Herself, She taught me Hindi, English & Kannada, I learnt and honed the Sanskrit by myself. My German & French are elementary, but, She never discourages me or calls my efforts, To learn them both, with passing time, rudimentary. My health has been Her top priority, She ignored Her own & there was a difficulty, Her knees gave away and needed to be replaced. My Father loves me too but my Mother is special, She left Her beloved Karnataka to marry my father, Now She looks after my Father as I am alright. I am lucky, very lucky indeed, that I have them, She is a living legend married to Another, This poem is more about Her and a bit about my caring father too. My Mother taught me how to speak, How to speak and how to live, not just once, But along my Father, she taught it all twice. My Mother, along my Father, defines God, Probably this is the case with everybody, But few realise it when Death makes a **** I have seen her weeping for me when I was unwell, Now it's my obligatory duty apart from a natural one, Her I shall make proud along with my father, not just once but always.

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Oct 28, 2018

Oct 28, 2018 at 4:33 AM UTC

My Progenitor along my Father, She loves me as if She'll take care, Of me and my needs today & forever. My Mother is an inspiration for me, She has tasted success after toiling for it, Harder in nights than in days totally. My studies were Her priority in my school days, She is no different in these different college days, Never does She let her mind divert Her gaze. My language skills, I inherited from Herself, She taught me Hindi, English & Kannada, I learnt and honed the Sanskrit by myself. My German & French are elementary, but, She never discourages me or calls my efforts, To learn them both, with passing time, rudimentary. My health has been Her top priority, She ignored Her own & there was a difficulty, Her knees gave away and needed to be replaced. My Father loves me too but my Mother is special, She left Her beloved Karnataka to marry my father, Now She looks after my Father as I am alright. I am lucky, very lucky indeed, that I have them, She is a living legend married to Another, This poem is more about Her and a bit about my caring father too. My Mother taught me how to speak, How to speak and how to live, not just once, But along my Father, she taught it all twice. My Mother, along my Father, defines God, Probably this is the case with everybody, But few realise it when Death makes a **** I have seen her weeping for me when I was unwell, Now it's my obligatory duty apart from a natural one, Her I shall make proud along with my father, not just once but always.

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“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything) objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground, we, pounding it, for the word void appears, the frustration of incapacity incarcerating, accompanied by the loudest silenced scream, of no poetry available, try again later! in life, as in poetry, timing is everything we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked, in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband, a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration, a seam undone, a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending, a notice of arrival, all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared, but none to no avail in life, as in poetry, timing is everything so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows, the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates in I-phone photos, the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool, the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing in life, as in poetry, timing is everything but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life, are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory, the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order, kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders, in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes, graying with follicles of past pluperfect, recalling not just the when’s, but the more important, now, the wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions, recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes “I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything) <> Saturday September 21st 2019

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Sep 21, 2019

Sep 21, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything)

“I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything) objects, humans, surprise and interrupt our daily modalities, knocking us, yo! to the ground, we, pounding it, for the word void appears, the frustration of incapacity incarcerating, accompanied by the loudest silenced scream, of no poetry available, try again later! in life, as in poetry, timing is everything we walkabout, thinking of the scheduled eventualities, or the dates calendar-circled, though some questioned marked, in pencil inserted, will I be a mother, find me a husband, a human grander grandee, fit to be with me a noble progenitor of more than our generation, watching the sidewalk cracks for an inkling of when, on or about such and such an alteration, a seam undone, a stumbling, seeing a realization as we fall, hands extending, a notice of arrival, all needing reconnoitering, commemorating, a poem prepared, but none to no avail in life, as in poetry, timing is everything so we are in awe of words, so necessary, everybody knows, the awe in awesome, a description for the pixels encapsulates in I-phone photos, the where and the why of when, I was grinning like a stupid fool, the inability to deliver precisely when required the covering of an appropriate description, your words, use your words, will fail you spectacularly and so we remain awed, realizing in life, as in poetry, timing is everything but awesomely awesome word worlds, near and dear, held forever in scrapbooks, the literary overlay of the treasures of everyday life, are the still life of our longevity contextual, the celebratory, the unexpected losses, largest to smallest, in size order, kept fresh when you flip through those poems in dusty binders, in oversized sewing boxes, yellowing in concert with our eyes, graying with follicles of past pluperfect, recalling not just the when’s, but the more important, now, the wherefore and whereupon, the words marking the conjunctions, recoding the recorded synapses firing sequentially, brain to fingers, the ah so of the poetry of lifetimes “I’m still in awe of words” (in life, as in poetry, timing is everything) <> Saturday September 21st 2019

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trust in the shape of a key, good god how corny is that? satisfactorily nonsensical, a Pharisee phrase, so offal illogical, it borders on the poetically reprehensible who has time to state this stuff, pretend it is worthy of something respectful, work it into a Nobel Prize awarded script, nominated for "really bad **** an ordinary hardware key, brass gleamy, and the squealing grinding noise heard while a blank progenitor is reimagined, so so annoyingly ludicrous in this century of plastic replicators but the noise, comfortably familiar as a sound of things being made run thumb test over the cuts, as if your thumb should know what order the points and bevels, the toothy gap spaces should be, the correct disorderly order of the teeth there are very few locks on a farm; indeed the front door key has not been seen in many a year what's that you ask? ok ok - I get it - in harvest time it is early to bed and earlier to rise, conclude this mystery key, red winter wheat needs laying down, stop your word seeds germinating there may be few locks on a farm, everything rusts so quickly anyway, but stop to comprehend just how many locks the human body employs - at least 613, maybe many more, and only one master for them all a shiny gleamy thing, strangely, its cuts and grooves seem to spell a word trust go figure 1:05am in the city

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Sep 28, 2017

Sep 28, 2017 at 1:18 AM UTC

trust in the shape of a key

trust in the shape of a key, good god how corny is that? satisfactorily nonsensical, a Pharisee phrase, so offal illogical, it borders on the poetically reprehensible who has time to state this stuff, pretend it is worthy of something respectful, work it into a Nobel Prize awarded script, nominated for "really bad **** an ordinary hardware key, brass gleamy, and the squealing grinding noise heard while a blank progenitor is reimagined, so so annoyingly ludicrous in this century of plastic replicators but the noise, comfortably familiar as a sound of things being made run thumb test over the cuts, as if your thumb should know what order the points and bevels, the toothy gap spaces should be, the correct disorderly order of the teeth there are very few locks on a farm; indeed the front door key has not been seen in many a year what's that you ask? ok ok - I get it - in harvest time it is early to bed and earlier to rise, conclude this mystery key, red winter wheat needs laying down, stop your word seeds germinating there may be few locks on a farm, everything rusts so quickly anyway, but stop to comprehend just how many locks the human body employs - at least 613, maybe many more, and only one master for them all a shiny gleamy thing, strangely, its cuts and grooves seem to spell a word trust go figure 1:05am in the city

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It's our day, harken back to our progenitor who spread the the seed of our Becoming, A legend who let fearless man to fear, A prince who left his crown For a war invasion, A great, who caused 100 million natives and homesteaders, he was an instituter of religion and culture, he was a constructor of the, North and south East and west, Nigeria and Niger Ivory cost and Benin Cameroon and Sudan Chad and Ghana Eritrea and Togo Congo and Gabon Algeria and Burkina Faso, with or more 100 million speakers of Hausa language. was a hero, Named BAYAJIDDA Abu yazid bn Abdullahi son of king of Baghdad

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Aug 26, 2020

Aug 26, 2020 at 10:45 AM UTC

Ranar Bahaushe ta Duniya (Hausa International Day)

It's our day, harken back to our progenitor who spread the the seed of our Becoming, A legend who let fearless man to fear, A prince who left his crown For a war invasion, A great, who caused 100 million natives and homesteaders, he was an instituter of religion and culture, he was a constructor of the, North and south East and west, Nigeria and Niger Ivory cost and Benin Cameroon and Sudan Chad and Ghana Eritrea and Togo Congo and Gabon Algeria and Burkina Faso, with or more 100 million speakers of Hausa language. was a hero, Named BAYAJIDDA Abu yazid bn Abdullahi son of king of Baghdad

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The underbelly of my ego; limpid, wrinkled carpet of scars, petty thoughts, and fearful self-machination. Cold as a mottled monologue; Selfish and maudlin as a sneaky sot, stealing affection from strangers. It lurks in the alley of mind; sinuous and grim with cynical ire, waiting to devour my dreams. Approaching Creativity; sweet progenitor of color, light, and lift, it pounces with dull, fiery claw. Dripping venom and phantasm; slayer of fairy tales barely enwombed, heartless Avatar of failure. This then is my secret battle; to slay and triumph and win clear the way, so the children of my light survive.

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Nov 9, 2013

Nov 9, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC

The underbelly of my ego; limpid, wrinkled carpet of scars, petty thoughts, and fearful self-machination. Cold as a mottled monologue; Selfish and maudlin as a sneaky sot, stealing affection from strangers. It lurks in the alley of mind; sinuous and grim with cynical ire, waiting to devour my dreams. Approaching Creativity; sweet progenitor of color, light, and lift, it pounces with dull, fiery claw. Dripping venom and phantasm; slayer of fairy tales barely enwombed, heartless Avatar of failure. This then is my secret battle; to slay and triumph and win clear the way, so the children of my light survive.

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Picture in me the ravening beast and you’ll have a sketch of my character; though I’ll warn you it is not I who stalks deadly in the night, looking for soft flesh on fleeing feet and the taste of fear. I save my prowling for the scullery door and the elusive glow of the hot oven. I am the Thing That Scuttles, the Devourer of Grains, a card carrying member of the Cheese Sanctification Society. (Progenitor of Pestilence, too, if you want to get fancy). Stop up your cracks and close your cellar doors. Anything less than a full lock down I consider an invitation. There are no spells to keep me away for long. No beauty dares kiss my lips and try to change me. Isn’t that grand? I know of no creature more comforted by their own monstrosity than I.

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Nov 17, 2012

Nov 17, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC

Picture in me the ravening beast and you’ll have a sketch of my character; though I’ll warn you it is not I who stalks deadly in the night, looking for soft flesh on fleeing feet and the taste of fear. I save my prowling for the scullery door and the elusive glow of the hot oven. I am the Thing That Scuttles, the Devourer of Grains, a card carrying member of the Cheese Sanctification Society. (Progenitor of Pestilence, too, if you want to get fancy). Stop up your cracks and close your cellar doors. Anything less than a full lock down I consider an invitation. There are no spells to keep me away for long. No beauty dares kiss my lips and try to change me. Isn’t that grand? I know of no creature more comforted by their own monstrosity than I.

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BE free from the church and its impositions its restrictions contradictions and ungodly superstitions BE free from all dogmatic institutions Patriarchal truths are only partial solutions BE free from the coat of protection that they fashion A one-size fit that impedes expansion BE free from the doctrine that imposes separation Brother versus brother Nation versus nation BE free from the teachings that set us apart That caters to the Ego not to the heart BE free from the darkness that controls your mind How can you see the light if you're asleep or blind BE free from the ‘Book’ and its static communication A covert operation in the ‘divine’ proclamation BE free from hypocrisy intolerance and vanity The ‘ignis fatuus’ progenitor of the world's insanity.

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Jul 7, 2010

Jul 7, 2010 at 3:51 PM UTC

IGNIS FATUUS (a delusive ideal that leads one astray)

BE free from the church and its impositions its restrictions contradictions and ungodly superstitions BE free from all dogmatic institutions Patriarchal truths are only partial solutions BE free from the coat of protection that they fashion A one-size fit that impedes expansion BE free from the doctrine that imposes separation Brother versus brother Nation versus nation BE free from the teachings that set us apart That caters to the Ego not to the heart BE free from the darkness that controls your mind How can you see the light if you're asleep or blind BE free from the ‘Book’ and its static communication A covert operation in the ‘divine’ proclamation BE free from hypocrisy intolerance and vanity The ‘ignis fatuus’ progenitor of the world's insanity.

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As videiras são uma força viva, Desgarrada e despedida. Bagos eternos sempre da mesma uva, Folhas com pedaços de chuva... As videiras são uma religião menor, Peregrinos se embebedam em seu redor, Ai... bagos brancos de sentida pureza, Cepas tortas com estranha beleza. As videiras estão comprometidas, Vides entrelaçadas, deitadas. Bago meu, teu bafo de calor, Videira fiel ao seu progenitor. As uvas de uma ou várias colheitas, Sentimento adoçado que com Deus se deita, Bagos tintos espremidos com pudor, Videira da vida, do teu amor! Victor Marques

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Dec 10, 2009

Dec 10, 2009 at 10:19 PM UTC

As videiras são uma força viva, Desgarrada e despedida. Bagos eternos sempre da mesma uva, Folhas com pedaços de chuva... As videiras são uma religião menor, Peregrinos se embebedam em seu redor, Ai... bagos brancos de sentida pureza, Cepas tortas com estranha beleza. As videiras estão comprometidas, Vides entrelaçadas, deitadas. Bago meu, teu bafo de calor, Videira fiel ao seu progenitor. As uvas de uma ou várias colheitas, Sentimento adoçado que com Deus se deita, Bagos tintos espremidos com pudor, Videira da vida, do teu amor! Victor Marques

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He sculpted reality Shifted melted metal To shape a better world The hand of man She sculpted flesh Growing cells Pygmalion of the womb Suckling and nurturing A newborn He made madness Mimicking solar explosions Destruction Death She gave birth To generations Yet veneration Was given to the masculine Man made god a male The progeny turned upon The progenitor Male propagated pain Female yielded the fruit of life In all forms of adaptation Though I reject gender division In societies expectations I would prefer a female god Giving birth To the damning male model Condemning all those who live on This beautifully evolved Earth

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Feb 19, 2015

Feb 19, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC

He sculpted reality Shifted melted metal To shape a better world The hand of man She sculpted flesh Growing cells Pygmalion of the womb Suckling and nurturing A newborn He made madness Mimicking solar explosions Destruction Death She gave birth To generations Yet veneration Was given to the masculine Man made god a male The progeny turned upon The progenitor Male propagated pain Female yielded the fruit of life In all forms of adaptation Though I reject gender division In societies expectations I would prefer a female god Giving birth To the damning male model Condemning all those who live on This beautifully evolved Earth

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A resounding truth sticks to every wall, Like meat on teeth, beneath. Surfacing tragic like cyber sugar on the conscious, Of every intelligent automaton. Devaluing the humanity we created in sleep, Harbouring our nylon smiles and effortless chaste. Ripped flesh on creations, godlike Burned images, sigil instilled in culture Nocturnus, bleeding in harmony Locomotion of self actualisation homunculus cured Rid of transcendental elements at the first instance Of empathy, drawn out in an empty tenure Interlocking lines-moving, spread out against Aluminium and glass, superseding the law of nature, Bubbles, echoing through the apology of life Bursting forthwith and raining bleach and decadence, On delirious heads-boiled in sand for life eternal. Your masquerade, a bloodline polluted By perfumed green shading, eliminating the best Carrion, complicated sadness, basic molecular print Our progenitor, poster child for carbon-based reluctance. Menial beings, occupying space to nowhere, Hotel rooms full of dust, Lying figures, tossing themselves on typewriters Creating a kaleidoscope of prose. Hands, arms & legs bound by penance, And the delayed snot of the diseased Winding amongst this polystyrene city. Sunken into a cosmopolis refuse, The anchor to all that is pure, Heaven is your populace. And your ego is the gel that destroys our relation.

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Sep 12, 2014

Sep 12, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC

A resounding truth sticks to every wall, Like meat on teeth, beneath. Surfacing tragic like cyber sugar on the conscious, Of every intelligent automaton. Devaluing the humanity we created in sleep, Harbouring our nylon smiles and effortless chaste. Ripped flesh on creations, godlike Burned images, sigil instilled in culture Nocturnus, bleeding in harmony Locomotion of self actualisation homunculus cured Rid of transcendental elements at the first instance Of empathy, drawn out in an empty tenure Interlocking lines-moving, spread out against Aluminium and glass, superseding the law of nature, Bubbles, echoing through the apology of life Bursting forthwith and raining bleach and decadence, On delirious heads-boiled in sand for life eternal. Your masquerade, a bloodline polluted By perfumed green shading, eliminating the best Carrion, complicated sadness, basic molecular print Our progenitor, poster child for carbon-based reluctance. Menial beings, occupying space to nowhere, Hotel rooms full of dust, Lying figures, tossing themselves on typewriters Creating a kaleidoscope of prose. Hands, arms & legs bound by penance, And the delayed snot of the diseased Winding amongst this polystyrene city. Sunken into a cosmopolis refuse, The anchor to all that is pure, Heaven is your populace. And your ego is the gel that destroys our relation.

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“A malignant adversary invader of my soul, Conge deceitful lust the augury of artifice, Mongrel horrid rancor glutton of enthralled rage, She was fervent with only one ambition afore, A grand mistake on my part a gazebo of treachery, Chattels contrary to my reasoning of my desires, An indisposed viper camouflaged covered in blossoms, Progenitor of gasps an assassin tarrying in quietude, A sea shower of sorrows from whence she was drawn, As the salty drops adorn my sorrows of woe and despair, Bellowing a fever of the mind from the vile deceit and rage, As a fish linked adorned to an alluring virulent, Fabric as the adumbration of the suns shines remorse, A rapacious blaze leaving thou shuddering in angst, I have traveled on a road lead to pitfalls and misery, Imbroglio with no emotion renders windy clouds afore, A citadel thwarts wane of melancholy and remorse, That which reason doubtful allows my malignant adversary” By Andrew Guzaldo 11/1/2018 ©

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Nov 2, 2018

Nov 2, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC

andrew-guzaldo-c

“MALIGNANT ADVERSARY”

“A malignant adversary invader of my soul, Conge deceitful lust the augury of artifice, Mongrel horrid rancor glutton of enthralled rage, She was fervent with only one ambition afore, A grand mistake on my part a gazebo of treachery, Chattels contrary to my reasoning of my desires, An indisposed viper camouflaged covered in blossoms, Progenitor of gasps an assassin tarrying in quietude, A sea shower of sorrows from whence she was drawn, As the salty drops adorn my sorrows of woe and despair, Bellowing a fever of the mind from the vile deceit and rage, As a fish linked adorned to an alluring virulent, Fabric as the adumbration of the suns shines remorse, A rapacious blaze leaving thou shuddering in angst, I have traveled on a road lead to pitfalls and misery, Imbroglio with no emotion renders windy clouds afore, A citadel thwarts wane of melancholy and remorse, That which reason doubtful allows my malignant adversary” By Andrew Guzaldo 11/1/2018 ©

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Here I stand Toes in your cold, vast forever Your soothing crescendos Mask my fear That your infinite skirts Could swallow me up Amidst your churning strength For the first time I understand your fierce love And can open My eyes to let my own Heart gush forth salty and Streaming down my face. My sister, strong Endless mother, Ancestor, progenitor Always spinning one, Mother of the beautiful swimming schools Wife of mysteries. Iya Mother Mystery Queen I find you in my Grandmother's stern love My sister's crying eyes Your children's strength And my own will to love. May I float In your foam-topped cradle Sheltered from the storm Within me until I no longer Fear the smashing of your Waves that echo My own restless heart. Omi O! Adupe Yemoja

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Jan 16, 2015

Jan 16, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC

Here I stand Toes in your cold, vast forever Your soothing crescendos Mask my fear That your infinite skirts Could swallow me up Amidst your churning strength For the first time I understand your fierce love And can open My eyes to let my own Heart gush forth salty and Streaming down my face. My sister, strong Endless mother, Ancestor, progenitor Always spinning one, Mother of the beautiful swimming schools Wife of mysteries. Iya Mother Mystery Queen I find you in my Grandmother's stern love My sister's crying eyes Your children's strength And my own will to love. May I float In your foam-topped cradle Sheltered from the storm Within me until I no longer Fear the smashing of your Waves that echo My own restless heart. Omi O! Adupe Yemoja

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Every night I chase them. Feelings so close to me. Will I ever escape from this miasma of broken dreams? My life is now a picture. My tears are now a lie. Reminded through my faultless mind of why I want to die. No longer can i flee. Walls are closing in on me. A thousand fists, a million tears that meld into my skin. I am no one but you who made the hate I garner within. Hold me to feel a thousand memories of pain that are now one. Nuance me with your shun. The course of mine that runs. Hide with your conspirators deep inside the temple. You are my personal devil. In my head I feel you revel. Like all before you look away in fear of what I have become. To you I could be your love. To me I see no one. Emptiness and life are my drug. My eternal bane. My pleasure an my pain. Touch me to see everything you love all fall as one. I am a curse. A poison. The failed volume of an author. Progenitor to a slaughter. The blood mixed in your water. Reason and logic keep me from losing control of this. This body I feel not mine. The circus of my life. I am the prized freakshow, the star of my own hell. All the lesser sideshows look unto me and want. The king of everything I hate. Disappear.

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Jun 20, 2015

Jun 20, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC

Every night I chase them. Feelings so close to me. Will I ever escape from this miasma of broken dreams? My life is now a picture. My tears are now a lie. Reminded through my faultless mind of why I want to die. No longer can i flee. Walls are closing in on me. A thousand fists, a million tears that meld into my skin. I am no one but you who made the hate I garner within. Hold me to feel a thousand memories of pain that are now one. Nuance me with your shun. The course of mine that runs. Hide with your conspirators deep inside the temple. You are my personal devil. In my head I feel you revel. Like all before you look away in fear of what I have become. To you I could be your love. To me I see no one. Emptiness and life are my drug. My eternal bane. My pleasure an my pain. Touch me to see everything you love all fall as one. I am a curse. A poison. The failed volume of an author. Progenitor to a slaughter. The blood mixed in your water. Reason and logic keep me from losing control of this. This body I feel not mine. The circus of my life. I am the prized freakshow, the star of my own hell. All the lesser sideshows look unto me and want. The king of everything I hate. Disappear.

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They make their way surely through a jungle, Helped by you, the progenitor not just of youth But of their passing off into a mist. You will not see it coming, though you will feel it. You will not be told the date of departure And it will descend upon you like a frontal storm. They will have unseemly goals, toward which they strive, And you will see mistakes but can say nothing. And if you dare speak, will not be heard. So they, like mariners of old, venture onto fog-bound seas, With half-built ships and dreams of gold That outweigh whatever you might say. Yet sometime, on the least expected day They will return to the same land as you, Hesitant to speak about what they’ve learned. And many things that they say and do (Embarrassed versions of you), Trouble them with a newfound weight Carrying experience through a gate And you say, “Stay a while.” For you can never knew if they only rest, On their trip to further lands. Or, without knowing, intend to bide, And someday cease to roam. All you can do is hold out your hand And tell them, “Welcome home.”

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Aug 9, 2018

Aug 9, 2018 at 7:25 AM UTC

All Children Pass

They make their way surely through a jungle, Helped by you, the progenitor not just of youth But of their passing off into a mist. You will not see it coming, though you will feel it. You will not be told the date of departure And it will descend upon you like a frontal storm. They will have unseemly goals, toward which they strive, And you will see mistakes but can say nothing. And if you dare speak, will not be heard. So they, like mariners of old, venture onto fog-bound seas, With half-built ships and dreams of gold That outweigh whatever you might say. Yet sometime, on the least expected day They will return to the same land as you, Hesitant to speak about what they’ve learned. And many things that they say and do (Embarrassed versions of you), Trouble them with a newfound weight Carrying experience through a gate And you say, “Stay a while.” For you can never knew if they only rest, On their trip to further lands. Or, without knowing, intend to bide, And someday cease to roam. All you can do is hold out your hand And tell them, “Welcome home.”

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writhing and screaming i dreamt in smashed hearts and scarlet eyes in it, i glimpsed all the love and support i had bled myself to accomplish was thrown out in favour of a greener man. indeed instead of growing firm from my current status as a support beam into the proper foundations you chose to forsake me for one so much more accomplished than I. often horrid foresights of this nature plague me a small tick i cannot rid myself of each time I dedicate my heart to one, and one alone the genesis of this disgusting anticipation might easily be traced to the progenitor that first yearning i felt so many years ago it was early in my youth i fancied myself smitten with a newfound human after childishly condemning myself to romantic solitude at the onset of puberty she taught me the intensity of infatuation the lovely languish of being head over heels and not a fortnight later sent me into the deepest depths of despair for what she had sworn to the stars she quickly replaced with a decree to the devils "I found one better" in my guilt and misery i blamed myself and forced a conclusion of the following: these tools i fashioned to show love do not fit any existing mold. i, must love too much must care more than can be beared must support, beyond what is norm. yet as I awake, i breathe in my surroundings and remind myself that this fear though cacophonous at my lowest is nothing more than old hurt desperately clinging for relevance in an existence where i know the gifts I bring are appreciated by those who surround me and that eventually they will be welcomed by you. when you are ready to accept that which i know you deserve.

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Dec 29, 2020

Dec 29, 2020 at 8:45 PM UTC

writhing and screaming i dreamt in smashed hearts and scarlet eyes in it, i glimpsed all the love and support i had bled myself to accomplish was thrown out in favour of a greener man. indeed instead of growing firm from my current status as a support beam into the proper foundations you chose to forsake me for one so much more accomplished than I. often horrid foresights of this nature plague me a small tick i cannot rid myself of each time I dedicate my heart to one, and one alone the genesis of this disgusting anticipation might easily be traced to the progenitor that first yearning i felt so many years ago it was early in my youth i fancied myself smitten with a newfound human after childishly condemning myself to romantic solitude at the onset of puberty she taught me the intensity of infatuation the lovely languish of being head over heels and not a fortnight later sent me into the deepest depths of despair for what she had sworn to the stars she quickly replaced with a decree to the devils "I found one better" in my guilt and misery i blamed myself and forced a conclusion of the following: these tools i fashioned to show love do not fit any existing mold. i, must love too much must care more than can be beared must support, beyond what is norm. yet as I awake, i breathe in my surroundings and remind myself that this fear though cacophonous at my lowest is nothing more than old hurt desperately clinging for relevance in an existence where i know the gifts I bring are appreciated by those who surround me and that eventually they will be welcomed by you. when you are ready to accept that which i know you deserve.

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House domicile residence.... Home? For one....weird. Ex wife divorced OK, that's how I spell relief..... Mom mother progenitor Does it mean the same when all children are gone? Lost adrift disoriented.... Me

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Feb 2, 2016

Feb 2, 2016 at 8:30 AM UTC

Disoriented me....

House domicile residence.... Home? For one....weird. Ex wife divorced OK, that's how I spell relief..... Mom mother progenitor Does it mean the same when all children are gone? Lost adrift disoriented.... Me

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The ocean blueness—fades further into the deep A naked eye—in the needle hole, threading old skins of past; to sew away The present self being a stowaway. Sheds of tears—falling from time to time The grounds washed—drenched in eroding thought, as the tears of an experience's memory I've experienced so many things. Beauty that is glorious—beauty my eyes attestor to So seen is life—tasting all bitter sweet, heeding the stories; touched by them all Scented by intentions: to vocalize beauty we'd recall. Swivel politeness—coupled by lessons from progenitor Wisdom must be kept—holding immense value, spoken in tongue; lips impart to succesor Should it flow naturally in life: to your success sir.

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Jun 19, 2022

Jun 19, 2022 at 7:53 AM UTC

The flow of Life

The ocean blueness—fades further into the deep A naked eye—in the needle hole, threading old skins of past; to sew away The present self being a stowaway. Sheds of tears—falling from time to time The grounds washed—drenched in eroding thought, as the tears of an experience's memory I've experienced so many things. Beauty that is glorious—beauty my eyes attestor to So seen is life—tasting all bitter sweet, heeding the stories; touched by them all Scented by intentions: to vocalize beauty we'd recall. Swivel politeness—coupled by lessons from progenitor Wisdom must be kept—holding immense value, spoken in tongue; lips impart to succesor Should it flow naturally in life: to your success sir.

Continue reading...