"prouder" poems
We had never even talked;
I really only knew of you.
We passed by each other in the hallways,
Consumed by all we had to do.
Now, three years later,
I suddenly discover you are gone...
Makes me wonder if we had been friends,
Could you have found the will to carry on?
Maybe just a weak "hello"
Or a smile of silent understanding
Could have been enough to keep you here
When life had gotten more demanding.
I wonder if my friendship
Could have simply helped you to know
That life is hard for all of us
And that you were not alone.
The feelings must have been raw,
As the voices in your head got louder.
Maybe if you could have foreseen the fallout
You would have lived your life a little prouder.
I don't know what you went through
And I probably wouldn't have been a huge difference
But perhaps, for you, I could have been
Some sort of interference.
I'm praying for your families--
Because I wish you knew that you had two.
There was the one with the same last name
But also those friends who chose to love you.
I wish that you could see
How much everyone here is grieving
Asking what more they could have done
Just to keep you from leaving.
And I am sorry I couldn't help you
That you felt there was no other way--
And I wish I had given you a bit more thought
Than just finding out the other day.
Even though I didn't help you
I just wanted you to see:
In one day, you touched so many lives--
One of those being me.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
practicing mental gymnastics
insipid memories
seeping their way past
defensive buffers
remembering repressed poisons
as a catalyst for making
wiser decisions
lackadaisical reactions to
sharply defined parallaxes
warrant an immediate shift
fractal spectacles
the labyrinth of my innards
inhale the cosmological smoke of suggestion
words become meaningless
when repeated exhaustively
semantic satiation
slicing away at true intentions
paving the way to
false inventiveness
shallow river beds are loud
prouder than their counterparts
insecurity overshadows
a lack of faith in the faint of heart
everything worthwhile
falls apart
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called
Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean
From her white altar and with goddess lip
Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine,
I could not deem thee purer than I know
Thou art indeed.
Once, when my triumphs rolled
Along old Rome and blood of roses washed
The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels,
And triumph's thunders round my legions roared,
And kings in kingly ******* golden bound
Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din
Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound
Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain-
My soul on prouder pinion rose above
The Roman shouting, to an air more clear
Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts,
Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere,
Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet
Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart,
Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up,
'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand,
As at some glory terrible and pure,-
For no man being pure, a terror dwells
Holy and awful in a sinless thing-
And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat
Above a doubt-as high above a stain.
Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad
Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke,
Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled
Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves
Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue
Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now
And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view
A stainless glory.' In that day my neck
Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke-
Man's master, Sorrow.
I know thee pure-
But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high
Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests
So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell
Can dash its lava up their swelling sides.
I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou
No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence!
My heart is hardened as a lonely crag,
Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky,
And where against its solitary crown
Eternal thunders bellow.
3.7k
At evening the autumn woodlands ring
With deadly weapons. Over the golden plains
And lakes of blue, the sun
More darkly rolls. The night surrounds
Warriors dying and the wild lament
Of their fragmented mouths.
Yet silently there gather in the willow combe
Red clouds inhabited by an angry god,
Shed blood, and the chill of the moon.
All roads lead to black decay.
Under golden branching of the night and stars
A sister's shadow sways through the still grove
To greet the heroes' spirits, the bloodied heads.
And softly in the reeds Autumn's dark flutes resound.
O prouder mourning! - You brazen altars,
The spirit's hot flame is fed now by a tremendous pain:
The grandsons, unborn.
3.2k
639
My Portion is Defeat—today—
A paler luck than Victory—
Less Paeans—fewer Bells—
The Drums don’t follow Me—with tunes—
Defeat—a somewhat slower—means—
More Arduous than *****
’Tis populous with Bone and stain—
And Men too straight to stoop again—,
And Piles of solid Moan—
And Chips of Blank—in Boyish Eyes—
And scraps of Prayer—
And Death’s surprise,
Stamped visible—in Stone—
There’s somewhat prouder, over there—
The Trumpets tell it to the Air—
How different Victory
To Him who has it—and the One
Who to have had it, would have been
Contender—to die—
3k
THE noon was as a crystal bowl
The red wine mantled through;
Around it like a Viking's beard
The red-gold hazes blew,
As tho' he quaffed the ruddy draught
While swift his galley flew.
This mighty Viking was the Night;
He sailed about the earth,
And called the merry harvest-time
To sing him songs of mirth;
And all on earth or in the sea
To melody gave birth.
The valleys of the earth were full
To rocky lip and brim
With golden grain that shone and sang
When woods were still and dim,
A little song from sheaf to sheaf-
Sweet Plenty's cradle-hymn.
O gallant were the high tree-tops,
And gay the strain they sang!
And cheerfully the moon-lit hills
Their echo-music rang!
And what so proud and what so loud
As was the ocean's clang!
But O the little humming song
That sang among the sheaves!
'Twas grander than the airy march
That rattled thro' the leaves,
And prouder, louder, than the deep,
Bold clanging of the waves:
'The lives of men, the lives of men
With every sheaf are bound!
We are the blessing which annuls
The curse upon the ground!
And he who reaps the Golden Grain
The Golden Love hath found.'
2.9k
There you are, boy, all apatter with
‘Whats the matters’ and those rainy eyes that
look out but don’t want to be looked into
for too long, drier now, memorising cracks.
Forget those useless stomach-drops you feel
you ought to feel, stand taller, be prouder.
Say goodbye to your knees from me, closer
then, the map of falls that took the gravel
with the breeze that were vision’s blinker-walls.
Thank you for the memories you put away
for rainy days, my repository, the
treasure trove of touchstones you didn’t skim.
Every tear and every maple seed you threw:
I still want to make sense of it all for you.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 4:42 PM UTC
There are crickets in my room
Somewhere not reached by my broom
They keep chirping
To alert me
Of what hurts me
They’ve made a mess
In my nest
But I can’t find it
To confine it
Like I’m blinded
Mistakes were made
Hurting my name
Bringing me shame
So I live in a grave
Where crickets lay
They can’t be slain
So their noise remains
The crickets are beckoning
Bringing my reckoning
With a sound that’s threatening
Because it’s so deafening
The crickets infest my home
So I’m never really alone
They live in my basement and attic
Chirping until I’ve finally had it
I jump out my window like a rabbit
To avoid their noise so emphatic
But out here the crickets sing prouder
With a chorus that’s even louder
The crickets buzz like an alarm
Reminding me of my harm
They’ll sing for me to disarm
Until I change or wither
So I’m a plagued sinner
Who’ll never be a winner
Wrestling with damage inner
I eluded their noise
So nukes were deployed
And my nation destroyed
By a sound that annoyed
Me until I couldn’t avoid
Not being conscience devoid
I ask for forgiveness
All I hear are crickets
And cops giving tickets
In this concrete thicket
That I need to picket
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 9:55 PM UTC
i knew a sailor,
ebbing with unknowns,
waves crashing fear,
his eyes closed,
i knew a sailor,
balancing into threat,
ocean spitting hate,
his hair dripping wet,
i knew a sailor,
fighting invisible power,
mastery feeding life,
his Will always prouder,
i knew a sailor,
feeling hope prolong,
separation’s pending knock,
his heart beating strong,
i knew a sailor,
hanging head reliant,
determination passing soon,
his mind becoming silent,
i knew a sailor,
breathing into end,
soft quietening looms,
his spirit with the wind,
i learned from a sailor,
who sailed better and worse,
who lived and swayed in rhythm,
who died with no remorse.
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
She lived in the shadow of a lonely girl
Her cry's were so quiet
They didn't hear a sound
Always talking but was never heard
You could catch it if you looked in her eye
I knew she was brave but it was trapped inside
So scared to talk but she didn't know why
Wish I knew back then,
What I know now
Wish I could somehow
Go back in time
And listen to my own advice,
I would tell her to speak up, tell her to shout out,
Talk a bit louder, be a little prouder
Tell her she's beautiful, wonderful
Everything she doesn't see
Little Me
But hands on the clock only turn one way,
And now that girl is gone
And here I am
Broken
Beaten
Bruised
Dead
And it's to late to be saved
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
When a love of humanity
Gives way to true grace
And it won’t matter one bit
Bout the color on ones face
Then I will swing high
Hit the heavens in sight
But life ain’t baseball
When a love of humanity
Allows no freedoms to be abridged
And it’s a given not just given
That all peoples have the right to live
Then I will soar prouder than the eagle cliche
When a love of humanity
Strips greed from our cause
Make justice our purpose
And we don’t need a legal clause
Fairness and equality
Success based equity
That each person is giving the same chance
The same education to help them advance
Then I will be happy
When a love of humanity
Reminds all who claim to be just
That it is not just us
Who deserve justice
Not just American because
I don’t see how those borders
Should define us
Then I will show you what it means
To reign supreme
As a good human being
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
When you fall in love
Love wholly,
Give him your afternoons, nights, mornings
And even the time between them.
When he speaks drink in his words
How he fixes them to your ear,
Let him dress you in a narrative of love.
When you meet his family
Always say thank you,
Even for the simple things like water
And listen when he speaks to his mother,
How his love for her is irreplaceable.
When you meet his friends
Always laugh at their jokes
They may be corny,
But you will hear pieces of him in their conversations,
Hear the passion in his voice
When he complains of them
He’s telling you what he values.
When he holds your hand
Hold his gaze
Let him know you see him for who he is
And keep your eyes sharp,
That way you will always be the first one
To see the stutter in his step.
When he takes you to special places
Breath deep,
You may be the only boy
Whose been this close to him
So hold the atmosphere
In your chest
That way when his eyes run
You will have the cardio to catch them.
But don’t think you always have to run for him,
When he lies to you
Let him lie
He may never have been caught before
Let his words build him a shelter.
When he ignores you
Let your pain remind you of your vulnerability
Time makes it too easy for us
To become dependent.
When you fight
Don’t hold anything back
Say what you mean,
Be fair to yourself
Never let your sentences end on eggshells.
When he stops saying he loves you
Love yourself,
No one in the world could need your love
More than you
Let his silence
Make you stronger
Prouder to love you.
When he leaves you,
Try not to laugh
Let his words reveal
How false a shelter he has hid under
Be brave enough to cry in front of him
But be strong enough to walk away.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 4:36 AM UTC
COME gather round me, Parnellites,
And praise our chosen man;
Stand upright on your legs awhile,
Stand upright while you can,
For soon we lie where he is laid,
And he is underground;
Come fill up all those glasses
And pass the bottle round.
And here's a cogent reason,
And I have many more,
He fought the might of England
And saved the Irish poor,
Whatever good a farmer's got
He brought it all to pass;
And here's another reason,
That parnell loved a lass.
And here's a final reason,
He was of such a kind
Every man that sings a song
Keeps Parnell in his mind.
For Parnell was a proud man,
No prouder trod the ground,
And a proud man's a lovely man,
So pass the bottle round.
The Bishops and the party
That tragic story made,
A husband that had sold hiS wife
And after that betrayed;
But stories that live longest
Are sung above the glass,
And Parnell loved his countrey
And parnell loved his lass.
1.6k
With my hair up and my hair down, I am beautiful.
With cuts or no, I am beautiful.
With tears running down my face and hateful insults in my head, I AM BEAUTIFUL.
My body should not have to fit into the cookie cutter of society's body expectations.
The heat from the oven that the world is has grown me and now I realize that is NOT THE WAY TO LIVE!
I may be bigger than that cookie cutter, but I am PROUDER, I may not be as pretty, but I know that I will always be beautiful in my own ways.
I will NOT be shaped by society's cookie cutter, it will sever my best parts.
It will destroy what is unique.
I know that I am beautiful no matter what anyone says, and that cookie cutter can't have me!
I know what is right and what is wrong, and SOCIETY YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG!!
HOW DARE YOU TELL US WHAT OUR BODIES SHOULD LOOK LIKE?!?
How dare you make little girls and young women feel as if they are ugly and not good enough?
These are not your bodies, you cannot make our choices, and you cannot control them.
They are our bodies and they are beautiful.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.
Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.
Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.
For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.
And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.
Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.
In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.
But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.
I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
Momma brought me up to fear
all of those four-letter words.
Two times two combinations that
stirred my interest and made me wonder.
Four-letters that I would
string together and spout off
louder and prouder than
a freshly lit firecracker
spinning and spitting on hot July pavement.
The same four letters that
slapped my fingers, flicked my lips,
lathered my mouth with bitter bar soap
and coated my tongue
with crushed red pepper
until there was nothing left
to touch
to speak
to chew
to taste
but my cautious curiosity surrounding
a apprehension of language that I refused
to acknowledge.
And when I grew up, like most little girls do,
I kept my nose in my books
straitlaced, like Momma asked,
and I learned
about my freedom of speech
and his freedom of speech
and her freedom of speech
and the same freedom of speech
that celebrates our right to use all words
in any order—
four letters or not.
In those same books, I learned that
freedoms come with their own price.
And trust me, I’m no stranger to their
single-syllable ugliness.
It’s their power to elicit such reactions
that makes them such forbidden fruits—
such juicy, delectable flesh at that.
In that same vein, I read the bible too,
and I know
when Eve bit into that apple,
homegirl wanted a little more than to just
keep the doctor away.
She wanted her own mind.
She wanted the same freedom that comes
with those four-letter words,
and she wanted the power
to fire them at Adam as she saw fit.
After all, her mother didn't
give her that mouth—
God himself did, and He knew
how that story would unfold.
But now I’ve grown up
and read a lot of things,
I understand those freedoms.
I respect them and use them
to color my communication as necessary.
I weave them into poetry and stories,
paint them with lush inks
and let them drip down
from once naked pages.
The truth though?
There may be one four letter word
that I’m afraid to speak,
and it has no mother-given stigma at all.
Anyone can tell you, its four letters
have more power than
any curse or swear ever conjured
by the evercreative tongue of man.
I keep it hidden in the thick of my throat;
locked away
until the L
the O
the V
the E
sheds its skin
and transforms into something
that I won’t refuse to acknowledge—
until I find my freedom
to scream it without a care
for its never-ending consequences.
Yeah, Momma should’ve of warned me
about that one.
****
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
From the beginning, the lesson has always been the same
to never rest responsibilities on no brow but mine,
and this counts for movement, creation,
production, prosperity,
repercussion,
function, and gumption.
All the times I am attached,
I am blessed and protected and cured,
but by all means,
it's too easy.
After a honeymoon's worth,
like any wild thing
without a real home,
I scratch to go outside.
For one truth being the weight of my footsteps,
and with each placement a wealth of self-reliance,
surely I'm prouder than any motor.
And most of all,
to greet the night as I greet the day,
I accept my stillness,
my unbottled moment,
which dictates I may breathe
the freedom to reap my bounty.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
my brush touches on canvas
with each whipping flick, a new stroke around the curvature of your smile
i paint in shades of black, white, and gray
yet nothing gives off more color than the radiance of your joy
and nothing makes me prouder to be alive
than the moment I've made you split the creases of your cherry blossom lips
and reveal teeth as white as the clouds where you must originally be from
high up above this area of space plagued by the formulaic symmetry between conformists
those who greet the sun in the morning with the intention just to get by
no my love, you wake each sunrise with a far greater purpose
and i wake to share a piece of it with you
so we can smile together
and feel high enough to be perched on a crescent moon
as I hold you close, and point out the brilliant star you descended from
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Zombie King
copyright me, 2007
soft-spoken because broken
amazed to still be here
louder and prouder than Lucifer
of nothing, for no reason
nothing more or less than a man
another man in a numberless land
done things to stay alive
compromised to survive
danced extremely closely to the flame
and stared into the fire
for as long as one could
longer than one should
stumble around now like a zombie king
numbly staring at a missing ring
like somebody stole the precious
just pushed along by drive
the only thing left
to seek pleasure
and avoid pain
beaten like a dog
just another turning cog
in the wheel of a machine
that he can't get off
but I can, man
saving grace
truth be told
is that you can achieve release
but you lose that right
if you leave the fight
to ****** the **** and jewels
while others go without
and so the zombie king
without his ring
stumbles around eventually to his grave
and there he may lie
for a million years
suffering no fears
concocting no plans
and avoiding the light of day
who can say
what would break the spell
and free him from
awareness without passion
easy style with no sense of fashion
and the spirits that he keeps alive
but not living
zombie king
missing his ring
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 3:35 PM UTC
I see my own features in your precious face
Each time you look at me
See myself in younger days gone by
The way I used to be
The way you move and gaily laugh aloud
Is like looking in a mirror
Reflecting back an image of long ago
Yet nearer and so dearer
Listening to you now, sing so beautifully
Like a lovely nightingale
Takes me back to another time and place
I can remember, oh so well
Your tiny hand was sweetly clasped in mine
Looking up into my eyes
Learning to live, just the way I taught you
Chasing after those blue skies
I could never, ever, be any prouder
As I look into your eyes
See you holding her tiny hand in yours
Chasing after those blue skies
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 6:58 PM UTC
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force,
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill,
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest,
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ costs,
Of more delight than hawks and horses be;
And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast—
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take,
All this away and me most wretched make.
1.2k
It is in our nature to immortalize.
Reify our god-ness, deify our emotions,
And every breathe that passes, must
Never
Die.
So we dream of books to write.
A scrap here, a piece there,
Rejoicing in the artistry, making
Picture
Frames.
It is a pain deemed necessary.
To know, to feel,
To make trauma the vocabulary, magnifying
Suffering
Souls.
So we call tears the crux.
The ****** is our pain, the sting of it all,
Death and loss not enemies; dear
Old
Friends.
It is sentimentalized.
The whole of humanity, the joy of bittersweet:
Call me a bitter harvest such as thee,
Let funeral bells forever ring
A dirge by children, for their mothers sing
A memorial in song for every thing
My heart is glad to finally sing
A wooing song for one like thee
But a better life for you and me
No game for two, but a crowd of three
What better chance for artistry
What prouder show of humanity
Than to have you stolen away from me?
If this is the sum of humanity
To suffer in such ways you see
Then begone with my humanity.
This I do not want or need.
Let
Me
Forget
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
Tic Toc at the midnight hour,
peddling along louder and prouder.
Clock my dear friend,
you've done it again.
Every single second I learn
that time has passed,
and you're consistent,
I hear it sixty times
within a minute.
And he continues.
Smugly taunting along
with that perfect timing
envied by all musicians.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 1:17 AM UTC
I heard the noise
from down the stairs
I tried to keep my poise
But it kept giving me a dare
I rose slowly from my slumber
Stairs creaking, under my weight
My fear i tried to cumber
it was early but so late
I heard the noises louder
The chills put me in a new state
But it passed, making me prouder
The noise slowly ceased
Turning up the stairs, I climbed
My head hit the pillow, the noise increased
The noise seemed perfectly timed
Once again I tried to muster
Something deep inside me
To make my courage cluster
This noise wanted me to see
Unlike the first time
I ran down, not being as quiet
In my house, what is making this crime?
Everything seemed calm, without a riot
I turned unknowingly to the right
And just like in my life
Everything I had, clean and tight
Gone. As my heart was struck by a knife
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 9:59 PM UTC
It was raining today just like yesterday and the day before that
It will rain tomorrow just like today and the day after tomorrow
Describing how you feel after 3 am
When everything in the world gets a little darker
Never was and never will be an easy thing to do
Unspoken words en hidden secrets will come out
After 3 am everything in the world is a little different
Some people open their hearts and speak their minds
Others will break down, give themselves more tigerstripes
she speaks with the demons and dances with the angels
In the end it doesn't matter what you do after that
All I care about is that after 3 am you will be still here
And I can hear your heart beat against mine, I can hear you breath
Because everything what happens after 3 am
Will be our secret and if you are still here in the morning
I just need you to know that I couldn’t be more prouder.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC