"prophesying" poems
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
3.4k
If you ever die
If you ever die from me
Looking at my longing eyes
In guise of a mystic veil
Dead drop at the twilight hours
White longish fangs
Of the piercing moments
Will unfurl its wings of fire
Setting sail in an invisible gondola
At long last to carry you home
To the isle of your birth
Even if you ever die at all from me
I will stand upon the deck of noontide
All alone in my aloneness, all alone
Staring vaguely at the rushing gondola
Surfing invisibly away from me
Tearing apart the veil of grazing mist
At the twilight hours casting spell on me
To diminish myself into you
And with you I too diminish away
From you, all away from you
In a shroud of love and longing
As if you never died away from me
In my longing eyes for you, only for you
And like The Prophet beloved
Prophesying on the blue mountain
From his never ending well
Of wisdom depthless and deathless
I will remember you as silently
As the sound of scorching darkness
And I will remember your heart
As saying for ever to me, only to me:
“A little while,
A moment of rest upon the wind,
And another woman will bear me." *
* (The italic quotation is from Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet)
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
What guile is this, that the Inventor of Change is cruel,
He invests not his ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless;
Like a tyrant, he feeds sweet tears to ants for a gruel,
Is he not guilty of false hope of Change to the hopeless?
How is it that he's different from his own self
In that he considers not the interest of the termites,
And being voted in by ants, is now a Mighty elf;
Is he not deceptive in his honest dealings with termites?
We must change the CHANGE, for cunning is his agenda,
Henceforth, must we not be enslaved in his guileful net
In that he entrapped the poor ants to enrich his blender,
Out of his duplicity, must we by all means be fret.
Folly it was, that he promised us as Change
To covet beacons of wealth, from the hopeless ants,
Is he not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of Change?
We must Change the CHANGE for the safety of the helpless ants.
He pledged Change, but chained the CHANGE, and left us hopeless,
Is he not guilty of duplicity, and sabotage of the nation's economy?
None of his agenda was in the interest of the poor and helpless;
We must Change the CHANGE, for CHANGE threatens the economy.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
human revelations in our sleep poses
she sleeps with both arms back, murmuring,
flung over her hearing head,
as if she is surrendering
nightly
me slip away for a few, only to find
her left hand ****** by her arm crook'd,
fit to her temple, as if to bear the weighty weight
of a heavy head plein des thoughts, dream-mares, tales and talks,
too dense to contemplate
without assistance,
armed support to hold on, hold up,
fighting/ accepting as a unwanted outcomes
or retrying old misdeeds
(no, no, oops, that’s me)
stirring,
she swift motions/crisscrosses her arms into an X,
a human parts tiara atop, on blond tresses, that fully messes
any remaining daytime efforts and her nighttime wild dancing^
no one reveals me,
none inform on me what positions
my containership adapts, adopts when my woke-guards
are dismissed/released and
lay unprepared to disguise my innermosts exposures
ow, early am resting comfortable with a six poem-pack of
slept hours on my tool belt,
so far this weekend one shot fired before the day officially
is belle rung and these poses thoughts
are upon what my eyes alight
can’t decide if knowing how I dance in the bed at night,
reflationary, deflationary, worth fact facing,
for this is no secret
*my sleep hours are colored,
admixture of moving pictures,
punctuated with
stills of past and future,
the poses
of how to greet, were greeted,
withstood upheld ran from wept, murdered,
faced up, faced down, go unrecorded
and the
poems residuals
and the
poem prophesying-
both!
fearful confessions for acts
committed and foretold*
Decision: I don’t want to know
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
What has become of my lost brothers?
Trimmareus, the insane voice of the sensual pig,
who fled from his blue mural
to the land of jazz and muffaletas
only to discover the senselessness of clothes...
Peter, the pine tree apostle,
who paved the way to indifference
on a needle point, silently
prophesying the burning of Atlanta (in Atlanta)...
Time Crisis, the first disciple of
the salt or pepper Antichrist,
who physically assaulted his mind
in an attempt to defy gravity,
finally settling for three
squares and a cot...
Amante, the disturbed and uprooted lover,
who, by some accounts, fancied
urinating in the face of his
keepers.
All of these brothers have fallen,
cherub wings or no, and the
meek are left behind in
quiet speculation of our vain attempts
to ***** out these small campfires
of insurrection.
We have taken the low road,
carrying our hearts in wicker baskets
and our monkeys on our backs,
spitting and cursing about
time love money *** school work
life the safety bar money ***
violence apathy love and time
when we discover we do not have
the ones we feel we need.
(do you want peace?)
We cried over the death of the apostle
knowing he had martyred himself
for no particular reason, and
after vilifying his role and path,
attempted to follow his lead
into the night regardless
(I make peace.)
We vomited on the lover's dossier
in response to repeated professions
of innocence and conspiracy
at the hands of the merciless
system (created by sensuous hands).
The outsiders can see the dragon,
rising out of the depths
and whispering our demise like
sweet nothings in the ears of the
desperate hopeful;
(Come and be free in my sunshine.)
the beckoning of the crashing surf
and the beauty of the half sun
radiating and filtering our
reservations into happiness at the
acts we commit in its name
(Sacrifice to me your children's tongues and hearts,
send them away bleeding and crying.)
We are the pure of heart in
this sick land of Golgotha,
where the rain is only the urination
of our higher powers, the
soap we cleanse our souls with
and witness to others so
that they too can enjoy
this ancient bliss.
(Visit my website and see...)
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
I’m sorry
for the little hidden things
I’m sorry
for the secrecy and shame
I’m sorry
for waking up too late
I’m sorry
for not prophesying the pain
I’m sorry
for this apology
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 8:10 PM UTC
{ “Awareness : He began to decipher the instant that he was living, deciphering as he lived it, prophesying himself in the act of deciphering the last page of the parchments, as if he were looking into a speaking mirror.” -
Gabriel Garcia Marques }
_________________
Mirrors of Mercury
Who is Shams and who Rumi
is like asking who is fork and who
knife when apart they sing not
a single song to nourish blood
with versal love
mercurial reflect
Who is mirror and who reflection
Is that me ? I ask you
watching your slender bones
move in soiled leather boots
wild slow eyes reflecting YES !
when maiden across the room
gives wicked laughs of NO !
mercurial translate
Who is this dissident beret
alongside the chair ?
Is it self ahead on a future road .....
will someone stroke my back
give ear, lip or cheek
urging body to be young in
takkies and snazzy jacket ?
mercurial question goals
Aah ! Poetic Mirrors !
inking reciting assessing
give respite from a million
images of Self as I circle an
unveiled Flow of Fate
fully awake to naked
poet
mercurial observe
catalytic soul
Copyright © Ghairo Daniels | 2017
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 4:59 AM UTC
I lie awake,
listening to the unearthen trees
whisper their rose petalled lies
prophesying the return of my hope.
Whilst the wind's mournful kisses
die gracefully
in a futile attempt
to form the epitome of
happiness.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
Thou Messiah preaching Change, art thou true to thy words?
Fighting bribery and corruption yet with cheap sentiments,
Judgeth thou not thy biased - honest actions to be corrupt?
Thou that prophesied an economy of sweet change,
How is it that thou considereth not the masses interest?
Inventor of Change, thy prophesied words art without works;
Even thy supporters yearn in regret for voting thee in.
Is this the change that thou for long prophesied?
I yawn tears for the future of Nigeria and her unborn child.
Thou art trusted to be the man after the peoples heart
And loved by all cause of thy prophesies of change,
But how be it that thou art different from thine own self?
Savior of the people, why art thou adamant to the peoples cry?
Thy poisonous deeds have caused much great pain and suffering,
Why not invest thy ears on the sweat of the poor and helpless?
Did ye deceive the ants and termites that voted thee in to save them?
Remember thou thy words and promises made before being elected.
Thou surrounds thyself with chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions,
Woe betide thee for thy conscience have refused to judge thee.
Art thou not guilty of prophesying false prophesies of change?
Thou that killeth the rosy wealth of the nation's pride,
Why doth thou not consider the sufferings of the poor ants?
I mourn for the bitter death of the nation's sweet economy.
Savior of the people, why art thou so heartless a Messiah?
Howbeit in thy regime, hunger and suffering is the income of ants?
The marketplace has become an ocean of expensive - cheap items,
Cost of petrol waxing hot and higher amidst the harsh economy;
Savior was thy coming to destroy or redeem the helpless ants?
Thou promised hope to educated ants and graduated termites,
Yet not an iota of thy prophesied promises or words art come to pass;
Chancellor of Change, judge it if thou art true to thine own self.
Thou that prophesied promises, howbeit thy words art not fulfilled?
Mind thee the poor ants and termites voted thee in to save them,
Messiah did ye deceive the ants with thy deceptive - genuine lies?
Savior thy heresies has become a poisonous venom to the poor,
Wilt thou not resign seeing thou be not true to thine own words?
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC
Louder than my voice, You have spoken in me
Deeper than my longing, You have sprung eternal
Beyond my foresight, You are prophesying to me
After all my reason, You are unimaginable (unfolding unimaginable things)
Before my expectation, You've exceeded what is conceivable
In the most secret place, You consume completely
And deep calls out to deep
Above a kingdom's reach, Your reign overcomes
Beneath the meaning of existence, Your laws dictate reality
At the moment of seeking, You have sought and found
Greater than my strength, You uphold the infinite (and I within it more carefully)
In the fulfillment of time, You are waiting
With the wisdom of ages, Your ways are everlasting
And deep calls out to deep, whispering your fullness:
"If there is faith, You are believed."
"If there is hope, You are looked upon."
"If there is love, You are reflected."
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
In Xanadu did Whatsoever
a stately pleasure planet decree
Where Amazon, the sacred River run
through Forests, measureless to Man.
And here were trees tall as the sky
and leopards, snakes and
birds of the brightest colours.
But oh! Mankind began to burn the trees,
drill dramatic chasms, build walls and towers
Melt the polar ice and turn the oceans into lifeless seas.
So in this tumult, once,
a sixty nano metre string of RNA came,
invading thousands and thousands of humans
and prophesying the end of our kind.
A vision in a dream then I had:
a simple utopia of rare device.
Could we revive our lost ties with Nature
we would heal our world and soul
And so with voice loud and long,
with flashing eyes and floating hair,
I say: Hey you out there. Beware, beware!
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 9:02 PM UTC
** why do the white gulls call? (everyday must have its poem)**
<>
the cries are intelligible,
each a separate story of:
patient waiting, of seas
unending waving, unchanging,
cycling, waiting, prophesying,
propelling history, retaining a
staining past, future similar...
why do the white gulls call?
for evening tide rapid approaching,
we may even have a decent sunset,
first worthy of being drunk toasted,
all reminders that this ordinary Monday,
has nearly escaped without an extraordinary
composition, you prone position negates
inspiration, so rouse yourself, rise taller
tribute due, tribute demanded, tribute needed,
that is why the gulls screech, fearful of lapse,
that poet will suppress what is compelled, no,
compulsed! the senescent days offer no excuse,
indeed, the time of limitation is nigh, is here,
the gulls know their history human, its lore,
needs foretelling, retelling, and keeping
humans come and go, but gull generations require
the prescient precision of their words, to define,
to record each day’s unique way of living/dying,
so they can become forebears of the future,
the passers down, of that they cannot exclaim well,
we humans are their heroes, living close by,
we carry the gulls thanks given, for skilled appreciation
so they cry out, is our poem be readied, for the day’s end
comes closer and* every day must have its poem!
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
"Forever?" she whispered.
I closed my eyes and held the bridge of my nose.
I sighed, "I don't believe in forever"
She gasped,
"You don't?", her eyes became watery
"The concept of forever scares me, The idea of looking deep into your eyes and prophesying forever only for it to not be forever", I cleared my throat.
"I don't want put us both in an emotional disaster, I'm not about building ourselves only to be the main destruction of this utopia"
"I love you in a way that I have never loved anyone, you're my first"
"My first kiss, my first spark, my first intensified butterflies, my first everything, I can't let a promise of forever get in the way of that, I won't and I'm sorry but I can't promise you a forever, I love you too much to sell each other dreams" I sigh
"I lost my best friends to a forever, The first one committed suicide and I don't know what happened to Rhea, she's closed off, she's gone, she's all ****** up and here I am recovering from the worst kind of pain because I found you", I sniffed, clearing my throat to force the silent whimpers down.
"I'm not ready for a forever", I bowed my head.
"I'm not ready to lose you", I whispered
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
*The Moonlit Aethers bleed Titanium Rays
As mine Forlorn Eyes
Saunter thine Porcelain Skin:
Platinum Matriarch upon Swarthy Expanse reigns
Azure Luminaries cascade
Upon The Forested Glades of my Airy Soulwaves.
Ensorcelled is that Sylvan Shrine,
The Reliquary of the Starry Wish.
(O, that
Loveless Blight
might cease)
I Besought the Firmaments
From Dusk to Dawn
Lamenting in Dirge
Of the
Revenant Skies;
Eons transcended yet no hand to hold
The Benediction of Romance
An Ephemeral Throne.
The Pandemonium corporealizes
Wraiths in my mind;
(Perdition is Thew
The
Poltergeist's Might)
Ivory Visage of the Impearled
Hallows my Spirit
Quells the Abyss.
The Thew of Deities
Purged from my veins
Quaking my quintessence,
I fathomed
I was naught.
A mere figment,
An existential vagary:
~BUT NOW I SEE
We are
All
But a
Dream
Clinging yearningly
to the
Promise of Hope
(The Covenant of Ensouled Dust)
Groping for Eternity, Memory, and the Lightwaves
To be
Vested in our pulse;
For Corporeality;
Ascendency
To the Chrysalis of The Astral,
The Cradle of Cosmogenesis:
Our Cosmos,
Our Zephyr,
Our Magma,
Our Torrent,
Our Tremor,
Our Thunderclap,
Our Time,
Our Space,
Our Nexus to Efflorescence,
Our Incorporeal Sublimity~
I shall surrender to
Providence of the Supernal
His Empyrean Wings
(An Impregnable Aegis)
A Strewn Vestige once was I
But the Somnolent Beloved was roused
Whence I glimpsed into thine eyes.
The Vagrant Loveless is resurrected
Reawakened as a Doughty Knight
Warring against sequestration
(Until by Nirvana)
Abeyance devours this blight.
~Dream
You starry-eyed wayfarers,
Surrender sovereignty to credence
When Star-crossed
Conspire against the Fates
For when Elysium
Is your Beloved
The Ancient of Yore
Shall lead you nebulous streams
To the Holy Oracle
Prophesying the fulfillment
Of your Intemerate Hope
(For Love, myriads doven the skies)
Please Believe,
Just,
Believe in me.~*
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
three houses
stretching from gnarly bow to
copper-greenish branch – only
dropping
one or two at a time
sweet seeds enough to breed
tree houses
a sylvan hotel on the outskirts
of town looking on the steeple
of a country church – its sabbath
psalms echoing painfully
on the tympanum in number two
green houses
hidden in summer’s glory
days to shield the men from pesky
folk intent on taking aim – trying to
test Josiah’s mettle and break
him into baby twigs
poor houses
in spirit and pocketbook
yet each armed with steely latch
guarding unknown contents –
at dusk the shadows of one
candle cannot reveal
light houses
suspended at risk of plunging
mere meters down – the common
room looking after ill-fated siblings
huddling together in fear
and shame
glass houses
no brick or mortar – under lock
and key and susceptible to the raps
of Isaiah the seer’s allegations: “and what
is it you guard with fastened doors?”
the arborist poses
slaughter houses
tremble at the shock – major
prophesying at the door’s weak
and rusty hinges now wet with dishonor
and ruin and guilty sobs making
a last long dirge
© Lewis Bosworth, 2013
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
⁛
i
am a
sentimental
physicist.
observing
the gravity
of emotion.
noting the
subtle lensing
of light,
as it
filters
passed you
and
distorts my
star weary
eyes.
i must
crunch the
equations &
check them
twice
before
i don
aluminum,
endure
your
endless
cold,
& shoot
for your
moon.•
○.
⁂⁖
.
the
mass
effect
of you
consumes.
hypothesis:
your
spirit’s
path is
visible
light,
racing
towards
a cosmic
wall; to
decorate
galactic sky
as microwave
impressionism.
•°.
.
to
make
sense of
your dark,
i spend
my nights
measuring
boundless
black
matter that
surrounds us.
enraptured
by the
scented skyline
prophesying:
jet propulsion,
serenaded, and
lemonade rainfall;
Armageddon
upon another
acid planet.
your pain
upon the
reaches
still unpinned
by travelled
telescopes;
dying
technologies
making me
jealous of
all the
places where
the universe
sees the
parts
of you
i am
physically
incapable
of being. °
•.
⁖⁕
.
as love
moves
in ellipticals
it eclipses
my heart,
eventually.
always,
the awe
never ceases
to inspire me.
invokes my
muse.
devote my
life to
translating
the beauty of
its euphoria
into the
English
vernacular.
ceaselessly.
to release
the burden of
it’s memory
like the sun
burned into
my retinas.
i compose &
compute each
intangible
equation.
nuance
comprises
itself onto
endless notations.
converting numbers,
filtered through
my limbic system,
into colloquial
prose.
closest words
to illustration,
as my
cerebellum
can
surmise. •
. •°.
•.
code the
sentences
unto
my poems;
my theories
of everything.
presenting
my poetry
to everyone
as my
thesis.
phantoms
obsessing
my mind
my only
tangible
evidence.
am i
still the
only
person
who can
see
how
perfect
we
are?
the
only
person
who
sees
our
future
written
in the
stars?
-six pm
Apr 11, 2021
Apr 11, 2021 at 3:44 PM UTC
Take wanting for, abandon – and then one will begin.
Who is approaching close enough to devise an entrapment
will not see image clearly: him, as he will offer you a face
and a hand to desolate – put a lacking so you can flinch,
and a hand to brace you from it. Prophesying that a body
and another body cannot be singular. To hypothesize
an effort as a sharp encounter. To be given the world
to know its limits when a border has been reached,
to slowly unravel a form and a shape from the scope
of its representative and bend a spoken dismissal precisely
to generate content. To take wanting for, abandon then,
so you can begin to reserve a function for the body to elope
with and thin into an arbitrary.
So when you begin from an instruction, reshape a simulation
so your actual body could hold you in for your yearning –
to begin again, so you can abandon a want to remember how
slivering a house is when two cannot be one and does not admit
it so to be true – facing each morning delighted the walls
each moment when together to untangle, meeting, surprised
that we have still become remainders.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 6:28 AM UTC
Ads for ski resorts in Parnassus
Use stock photos and puffery. Tragic
Greek heroes have been reincarnated as
Tragic drag lifts. Stony Dionysus, with his hilariously
Small ***** laid down one day and died of disbelief.
With him went epiphanies. With him went the Maenads
Who once tore their own sons apart with their bare hands
In the name of the shadow of their drunken god.
Gone is the time of performing sparagmos in the open
Or brutalizing the self-righteous prophesying.
We can’t abide gleeful brutality anymore, can’t hide
Our base instincts behind self-defense, can’t claim
We hallucinated our children were lions, that’s why we dismembered them.
It’ll be reborn. All sacred ground is, eventually,
Through the eternal unimagination of our collective
Unconsciousness. We never developed anything better
Than the cycle of, “Look, the evil Titans came and and ate permanence
Then the Deus ex Machina cut their stomachs up, saved and reassembled
Our ideas personified, so that at a later date they could be
Moulded into tourist traps and eaten again.”
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
it’s like that the beatles v. stones
or the *** pistols v. the ramones question,
i know that hendrix was pure at 27
(joining the haloed crowd fronted by
the quasi back in black femme fatale),
but he was simply a virtuoso,
what i got was melody from kravitz:
the piano and the drums,
got me tapping, air pianist that i am
for the drums on my collar bone,
and it was all pristine blue one sunday afternoon,
i stopped dreaming, ushered into a pauper artist definition,
and felt more love than i could have wishbone’d,
or fortune cookie’d for that matter,
because i knew, there and then:
the world can end with someone crucified
forcing the atom bomb explosion on a postcard from 34 a.d.,
but only because there’s ******* and worship involved,
the last man to bend the knees of others readied himself for torture
admiring the pyramids hoping for a revival,
and he got it, the near extinction of ourselves,
tortured and crucified, instigator of celebrity culture,
the posing duck-faced messiah with hands spreading
and soaring across the entire diameter we call the equator.
you can surely end the world, listening
to the dirges of the egyptians with sympathy
about how a thousand miles of living love built a monument of death,
and then invert in the vortex of ***** love
love that’s tortured the additive of missing jealousy -
three thousand phalluses entered and one more -
but still the greengrocer felt no metal on the finger readied;
because who would be jealous of a ****** love
when so many noble women debased themselves to *******
and false prophesying of men?
let’s end it with: lenny’s my love
stands shoulders above in height above any hendrix output,
it is above whatever lottery wish in tremor
of finger aching crossed could ever burn to with
a guitarist doing crescendos in a#, or toothing the horse’s mane;
‘cos kravitz is a lyricist and not a virtuoso -
as his piano signatures prove - genteel;
hendrix give me your best signature rhythmic rubric!
oh wait, you can’t, ‘cos so so much solo!
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
A laureate once wrote of how earth's pale history runs,
Equated it to "the trouble of ants in the gleam
Of a million million suns."
Frankl lived the **** curse, abused and almost killed;
Yet spoke of his countrymen's sins
As a father scolds food spilled.
I'll neither justify or condemn actions, many or the few;
My righteous judgement is saved for me,
What holiness have you?
Have you walked the steps of the Austrian man who took
Power to avoid abuse? Lived to love the torture
For which your fragile childhood shook?
What god or demon lifted you from the despair you only knew,
That you'd blindly follow - just for thanks -
Upon the corpses your hand slew?
Ideally, pundits and anchors both are true in what is spoken,
Yet only the blind, the deaf, and fools
Blame the builder for what is broken.
Instead of pallid horror...instead of prophesying to the doomed,
Maybe we can pause a second, take stock of all that's blessed,
And expend a little effort to leave callousness entombed.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
Life is like a camera, so,
We must capture each moment
Like a pro, with the important
Of being sweet and innocents as
We held them closer to our hearts,
the eyes of her grandmothers
The fingers of her father,
Said its all, a princess of both worlds
Our number one girl, Nyla
And old saying, if we raise our children right
And without spoil them,
We will not have to end up raising our grandbabies,
Her mother smiles when her baby smiles
A grandmother laughs out loud
When her grandbaby gurgle at her
As she coo and make eyes contact,
We just have to listen to find real poetry,
As we make any day with Nila our favorite day,
Pink looks well on her, as we capture,
The beauty of an adventure future Queen,
I saw adventure,
I saw the colors of the rainbow,
I saw Ilene smiling in heaven,
I saw prophet, prophesying,
I saw two families coming together from different world,
The cool color of pink symbolizes the joy of happiness
As I listen to the sound of real poetry
My cousin, our sweet pea, my cotton candy,
Our baby Nila..
,
Jan 8, 2023
Jan 8, 2023 at 12:22 PM UTC
Long before I noticed you, you selected me,
and there you set in motion a star-crossed destiny.
I miss so much the playful rhythm of our countless conversations,
and the spark I felt each time we’d jinx a phrase, sans hesitations.
I miss the sweetness of your voice, once ever-present in my mind,
and now the recollection of that reassuring rapture I cannot find.
* I see you; still, I see you:
I see you sitting on the outskirts of my thoughts throughout the night,
and your expression is unwavering: please give up this fight.
Solitary moments bring me so much fear,
as I know if I thought long enough, I would bring you near.
Wrapping your everything around me as my gestalt,
and rebuilding us piece by piece with not one fault.
I realize, in peril, I could wish you back into my arms,
for I secretaried all your nuances, your soul, your charms.
What joy to spiral down and acquiesce to my obsession,
and spin my life around a faux-world of a secret, strange transgression.
Our dialogue would resume with near perfection,
and would cultivate within me that lost affection.
Boxed-up artifacts and memories would produce intoxication,
but once unleashed would in time transmute to devastation.
My neurons and synapses were shaped by every expression of your love,
and it’s now impossible to undo a decade’s etchings and rise above.
* Even as the months have s-kate-d by so quickly,
I now realize that during our first innocent adventure together,
Emily was prophesying to me:
“I love you all, everything –I can’t look at everything hard enough.”
In her death, she became aware… and now so am I.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
Poet,
For thyself can speak great murmurings and swelling's from thine aperture,
Tis,
That's easy for anyone!!!
But canst thou expatiate prophesying philosophy???
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC