"prostrating" poems
*Supreme Love,
Through a land of barren fields, leads to a nourishing tree, that rhythms in the wind like a heart of bleeding green.
There, you will find me, prostrating in its lingering boughs, gazing into your sky with smiles of Eros.
A nightgown of innocence awaits you in the lotus, falling amongst the constellations of my parallel.*
©Copyright 2007 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
Watching night step-sitters staring at each passerby
abiding time as if counting sheep stepping with the city's cadence
Hearing sirens alarming in their BEWARE BLARING;
persistent fearfulness for evil and citizens securities
Staring-walking-bodies searching a barren land prostrating
before the great needle
Patched streets and decaying sidewalks by flooding night lights lay surreal
DECAYING fingers of poverty playing its fingers into every crack, crevice; into every pore, into every cell member
into one's whole being
Sounding the hip-hop generation street corners of hustlers
jiving away the night
The hustled and hustlers' overwhelming struggling for power; being surrounded by red brick and stone; being incased in poverty
Pounding city hysteria;
at times laying silent in sleepless depth
by the waning gradualness;
anytime readying itself to ERUPT
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
It's been raining for months and I can't turn the faucet off – which reminds me: the sea is yours if you want it, and you don't have to be afraid of a little rainwater anymore. When you walk to your car with your shoes off and most of your sanity folded in your jeans, when your feet slap against puddles and you are remembering that you left your jacket on the doorknob, don't ever wonder if I will awaken suddenly, crying because you never stayed long enough for me to write that song to the beat of your hesitant pulse. Your car, evidently can take you farther than my hands can, but no road leading to your house and no street lamp mocking you silently knows that I hang pearls on the threads of your sanity and my stairs groan loudest when you are trying to leave quietly. If you turn around now – if you run back and tell me that you want to be sky to me and nothing else, then I will let you, as long as you promise to bleed the next eighty thousand sunrises; I will stop mentioning you to forests and looking for you in satellites and in smoldering coals, if you promise to murmur my name when the horizon is stretching and prostrating itself across the late evening. I will tell you where the sun goes when the Atlantic swallows her whole, if you tell me about the streams of cirrus clouds backing up your bloodstream. And I never ask you to search for the wildfires under my shirt again, if you give me all of the starlight under yours.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC
In a frenzy
of exultation,
I found my submissive
prostrating before your
dominance,
considering you a master
entwining under the spirals
of your manliness.
I feel that I should
sing the psalms of
your manhood
to dangle my soul
to your body and
your soul to mine
prairie of captivity
welcoming me via
an orifice of your
supremacy.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
My soul is an empty crisps packet
caught in the sour mood of a shouting wind
She snarled and I careened
— a drunken trapeze artist
That moody spirit let me fall upon a mountain top
at the feet of a brick of a black man shouting
he has seen the promised land!
My heart cracked as an egg that slipped from the bench:
his people still stumble in chains
My shouting mistress carried me aloft and I fell
in the slit of a rock upon another summit
where the finger of God scratched Hebrew into stone
The wizard’s face burned as the Lord’s shadow
passed before him as the orange tears of a volcano
I know, I heard him call up to the Almighty. They’ll
melt their earrings and innocence and cast a calf
Beneath the roar of my mistress’s temper I heard the
wizard plead like a lawyer, forgive them Lord
They don’t yet know
That temper carried my dizzy soul to another peak and
I beheld a young man slap the Devil on his left cheek
Get thee hence, Satan, he said, rejecting a throne
offered by that beauty with the stinging face
I heard the wind hiss and I cringed awaiting another crash
I broke my fall like a child off a bed and marvelled
at the sight —Oh God what a sight!
ten thousand prostrating candles hurling shadows from a cave
and ripping sleep off a man with the bugle command, Recite!
My soul my soul! I am overcome. I begged the wind to return me
to my home and she took pity and swept me in a final gust
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Honestly I feel as though this entire time I've been pacing back and forth, accruing images of two ice caps slowly breaking themselves apart into tiny fragments of burning pitch that hurls itself onwards into the night, leaving bleeding trails of light as reminders, notes with coffee stains on the edges, written late at night without much light except for what scraps pour out from under the door from the reading light. You want to breathe normally but the bag won't inflate and it's so hard to calm down when everyone else is shaking and crying and prostrating themselves as though they'll consecrate the middle aisle with their cheap pleas for salvation, for their young childrens' lives, and for all the time they wasted ******* quietly in the dark after the reading light went off and even though they had a headache. They sing a song of mutual slump, of tacit awareness of the grandiose ******** of 75 years spent in too quiet comfort concerned with small victories and unconcerned with massive regrets. Then daylight breaks and you have to look your coffee stains straight in the eye and pretend they're just blemishes when they're sores and wounds and abscesses. And before long the paper disintegrates into brown pulp and you hate that you hate yourself because surely someone is more ****** than you. But that's just one moment out of the day, and you live them endlessly, you love them endlessly, overthinking, underthinking, drinking till you can't feel your extremities and then toying with a knife because you know you couldn't otherwise. Then you nick your pinky and realize how ******* stupid you must look, trapped in your own kitchen hearing your wife down the hall resent you more and more, her distaste, stained the color of sea foam off the coast of Cyprus, her frown fixed forever forward toward your back, and her face makes you sigh, and it's the same sound as before, sure, but now you know what is happening when these tiny admissions of regret escape from anyone else's lips. Then the plane picks up out of its nosedive and people cry and hold each other and you feel more dead than if your body had just ended up tangled in the wreckage of a turbine engine, your intestines laced between the blades like the back of a corset that gets tighter and tighter until you can't feel it anymore because you're numb.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
oh my gosh oh"is that what ur saying sir? umm excuse me but thats just not me, i always say the lords name in vain. and all the subliminal marketing of your consumer artistry is making meweak an gag, im puking out all over in the bathroom upstairs past the solid maple tables past the circle murals in pairs who is there going to hold onto my hair when ur busy drooling about grandfather clocks high as **** doppelganging 2 levels flourished below me all the tans and the colors of the north arre closing in where everyone and everything are turning into furniture store manikins stubborn geriatric commercials with one foot already on the conveyor belt to heaven and i just stand here and put the chips in, wrist here maam, forehead here sir just lift up your skin, living memory card into your left hand so u cant forgot all the horrible **** that u did, and ur on your way again back from indecision wht the **** else could u invest everything you worked for in, i can tell you
where to place your last faith in, you are going to die, people tell me laughing almost every-time so what the **** is the point of warranting anything, invest in a quality product that completely dissolves your thought process and rockets you into purgatory, where all the other good spirits are prostrating begging to be inventoried all the dead fathers and husbands and all other price tags shes still floating on that ocean signalling ships in with her omens and they are driving into the rocks just to hear a second of her laughing
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
Strapped to the moon like Prometheus bound
But the eagle keeps eating my memories
In their place remains black holes-
Spaces only my heart can fill
So my head pumps as I forget
Sailing along the Lethe
And yet I feel so ancient-
I remember a feeling
And that’s not allowed
If and when I shall be born again
I fell, prostrating instantly
But who was receiving such reverence
Aliens, gods or devils?
Auras, halos or space helmets?
Then you came and rescued me
But your ship was dark and obscure
The safety net disappeared-
I was back to the future in chains
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 8:49 PM UTC
In a pure world
music and birdsong
spinning
the lingering
melancholy
no more sadness
only memories
and longings
prostrating on the trails
of yellow leaves
counting the rhythms
of loneliness
the handsomeness of the island
the dreaminess of
the susurration of the beach
the elegance of the sails
the water as always
beating the stippled quietness
awaiting the next dawn
a ketch drifting on the ocean
shining a turquoise light
portraying the poetry
of the predawn
or the predawn hilarity of
the fish and shrimps
in the ocean
this is a pure world
and there is music
and running water in it
and the samisen of moods
and the psaltery
of the nature
whats more
the happy pixies shuttling
in the forest
of purity.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
a wake
sprung light from death
and streamed the heat to my face.
A column, and a call
“leave your mask in bed!”
And it’s light
(though it won’t seem like it.)
Here:
below our crests; over our troughs —
I’m climbing a wire: an altar!
All is white and I am The Starkest Black
Now prostrating and revering myself.
He speaks: “tame a wild animal”.
I am.
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 10:29 AM UTC
My beloved, the desert sand and I are alike
Prostrating and burning since our painful birth,
Where from we rippled through a roving death,
While love shades our existence at bask
We drink the sun a fake water light,
And thirsty freedom creeps to mirage's bound,
And pride moans with a cry of squalls' sound,
While love cuddles our thoughts close and tight.
My beloved, the desert sand and I are ineligible,
Drifted and assaulted and broken up into particles,
And carried away on echoes of discordant canticles,
Where love remains truthful for the negligible.
My beloved, the desert and I are a color of a mould
Deliberately chosen to adorn beauty and free fingers
For those who wish, the meek sweet strangers
Are melted to keep true love audacious and bold.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 9:53 AM UTC
i am powerless in your presence,
you’re the evidence of things not seen,
a beauty i can’t un-see,
see, you’re everything i’ve been praying for
my mind stays on you, my lips can’t say much more
your essence is the evidence of
prophesies; your presence is deific
magnificent is your image as you
baptize me in this new religion
you got me prostrating, your heavenly body is so amazing,
you make *** feel like divine revelations
i run my hands down the small of your back and it
is smooth as the ponderosa of a harpsichord,
spine subtly dimpled like the pebble-grain of a hymnal
this union we’ve made is not holy,
dulcet notes hit my ear the second you spoke to me,
you must be a goddess, baby
you radiate with the same intensity as the countenance of the sun
i get between your knees and
bless you with a thousand tongues
you’re dripping a lovely tincture;
it runs down my lips like holy scriptures
concupiscence is slowly
evolving into firm convictions,
throw away all inhibitions and
give into our carnal rhythms
i know our spirits intertwining,
for the first time, i feel christened
though we broke free of tradition…
you may be the goddess, but in the end,
i’ll be giving the commands
you’ll try to get a grip on reality
while you’re gripping the bed
you’ll feel a “hallelujah” deep down
without you clasping your hands
i’ll have you calling on a higher power just for you to call on him again
we are birds of a feather,
our souls merge perfectly together
our bodies intercede, while your hips reply to me,
it’s always sweet communion when i’m looking in your eyes
your smile is bright white ivory, something unrivaled
i could die in between your thighs and experience revival
{j.c.c.}
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
It is a whisper of a word
Foolish, or explosive.
It is both prostrating and proud,
Igniting swaths of hope in the eyes
Of adolescent girls who catch onto it—
Stroke it and dance with it, doe-eyed.
As if they've never heard it said!
as if they've never felt
It hit that place inside
So raw and tissue-thin
It leaves a bitterness to float
Up, and spread across the surface?
One too many times
I've closed my skin to the bright
sky, wrapped up in you and
the sins beneath our fingernails.
One too many times
I've wrangled with my own hands
To sever the cords,
To drop the **** word at your feet,
To fall away.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
God is neither an 'it', nor a 'who'
At odds with religions and people too.
Is, was and will always be – they say
Kneeling, prostrating, devoted, they pray.
God isn’t a deity, an idol or divine
Nor dwells in temples or craves for a shrine
Oft summoned over rebuttals, belike;
By mono, poly and atheism alike.
God is the perpetual rain that can fall
Over the cold and unkind hearts of us all.
Soaking them in hope and flooding them with light,
Kindling the love and rinsing the spite.
God is the credo people should be told,
To be gentle with young, polite with old,
Kind to parents, loving to wife,
To be loyal to friends and call it a life.
Mortal is a universal axiom, hitherto.
God is a paradox, just waiting to be true.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 4:50 PM UTC
Can I dream
A wonderful dream
One of fae
Two of heartbreak
Three of redemption
My many fantasies,
All left unspoken
Is it wrong
To live in a dream
Let the dream wrap around me like a comforter,
So I may go to sleep
I see it as the sun
My thoughts the revolving planets,
Starry details thread it together
My quilt of the solar system
Of course, I know it's wrong
The bickering in my ear is constant
From peers and blood,
I duct tape my mouth shut
Imagine ripping out my vocal chords like blue and red wires,
I've skinned my knees on rocky pavement
Unconsciously prostrating myself
"Let me dream. Let me breathe"
The girl won't stop begging
Her gasps are sloppy
Her voice is carrying
How troublesome
When will it become apparent to her
Dreams are weights attached to one's ankles
She's sinking
She's drowning
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC
as an Ocean fully prostrating
to a shore, again and again.
how deeply I-I have fallen
for you, please count me among
before I go for good.
there's no other way but this--
left forever with this, how can't
I love you for All you've given me?
you're cherished wish comes thru
these eyes.
as now I-I behold the Love of All
my lives.
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 1:56 PM UTC
Weather is squeezing 365
Matters of squealing deep inside
The future is precarious…
as usual, we’re precocious
Simon says God is dead,
but the sign says, “God ahead”
Screens got us facing down more,
It seems we're prostrating
to the “ground floor”…
Nah.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 7:35 AM UTC