"quakers" poems
(WE ARE!)
The space pioneers, planetary colliders seizing the heavens and placing them on earth, pop pop big bang brain busters that spin galaxies into milky ways and planets into candybars, the alien humanoid reflectors reflecting the sun back into Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
(WE ARE!)
The fire-starters, self-combustion, canvas arsonists. IGNITE! Light the streets on fire with your blood. Explode, implode, and explode again. Pilot to bombardier, we’re dropping bombs like Guernica.
(WE ARE!)
Wild creatures born out of black magic, black mamba, bear your ******* fangs! Be a predator! Find you’re prey, rip it’s ******* guts out, and paint something with them. Then scream, scream so loud that Munch himself would tell you to turn it down a notch.
(WE ARE!)
The creators, the ground shakers, the earth quakers, inventing ideas, gushing thought, and gushing blood because remember, you are alive! Alive with creativity, passion, and energy to create, because we are artists.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
Disregarded, no thanks.
I no longer fall for the pranks.
I withdraw my cash from the bank.
On a scale of one to ten how do I rank?
Poverty stenches & stank.
Stale & untrusted.
Broken, abandoned, & undusted.
Defeated, hobbled, & now rusted.
Felonies & misdeameanors busted.
Lawbreakers, corruded & crusted.
Marry a man with a job & a van.
Who does all that he can.
My secret wish on a shooting star.
To stop getting drunk at the bar.
A walk to his momma's house isn't far.
Work ethics get my kiss.
Employment was my wish.
Success is our bliss.
Like jawbreakers dangerous & senseless.
Civilization settlers & makers.
Pioneers, homemakers, waiters, bakers, & Quakers.
The towns folk are usually broke.
Different walks of life is no joke.
Occupations & professions of a wife.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
They warn us that fever travels in the air,
so women pull the shutters closed and keep
children out of the empty, heady streets.
Grandpa tries to assure me we are safe,
that yellow fever will stop when the ports
close. He never speaks of how the victims suffer,
shuts the curtains against my anxious eyes
as the bodies are removed, but rumors catch
the breezes, too.
Vomiting, bleeding from the nose and mouth,
the eyes yellow, and then victims reach out
in a last fit of delirium, demanding forgiveness
from God’s wrath as He turns them the sallow
shade of the September sun. This is the color
of a body when salvation fractures
from the depths of their souls.
Each day, the count of the dead rises.
My cousin, the milkman, a widow down the block—
all pass within hours. The Quakers deem
this the Almighty’s will, his “rod.” Physicians
bleed the sick, and I think not to rid them of disease,
but to account for sin.
We all hope for frost. I know Grandpa will not leave
the city, but I do not imagine his eyes yellowing,
for pride keeps them clear of exhaustion
and glaze from inviting liquor or laudanum.
My whole body sweats from dreams
of corpses the color of tobacco-stained teeth,
blood pouring from eyes like tears, each one dropping
to the ground. I wake up, dizzy in smeared-red sheets,
my nightgown smelling like a mausoleum, but I do not
call for help because I’ve been waiting to look
into the face of God, to see my yellowed city’s reflection.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:17 PM UTC
my own mind
robs me of serenity
delusions seem real
and fears of the future
seem imminent
a huge weight is lifted
when I trust in a loving power
I do not know what
but it's not me
Quakers call it the Divine Light
Taoists call it the Great Tao
and Yoda called it the force all around us
I choose to call it Love
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
Its Louder in the centre,
Enter my nucleus centre,
Blood soak soul with graffiti on its wall,
A wall of sound,
A beat so neat with some emptiness that quakers a note hard to speak.
Whether loud or clear it sometimes shows its neatness, its politeness silences its weakness like war is about to begin.
But louder in the centre come closer, Sense its bullet proof soul listening out for a linking which way road out where.
How dare these intrepid molecules of sound bite words blood flow soak and leak my outer shield,
If all things hidden surely they won't get far but mainly quietly written with out a doubt coming louder from the centre.
Oh but when's this circus to commence?
This circle of life drowned from each day without a change,
No need to sit and crumble no calls for sin.
But louder from the centre you will hear the echo's of its sitting begin.
Not leaving yet no faith from a patriot
A divided wall of large and small, good versus evil with some sort of escape from it all.
Louder from the centre words fog form from a vice versa,
Forming this epicentre a true understanding copied from whatever is on the agenda.
Small leaf's clover covers it all gathering its mud blood dust from this voluminous mess,
Louder in the centre.
Sweet eyes ride upon these lines,
Providing its goodness re energised its epicentre which comes from within to be
Louder in the centre.
O'Reily@22082014
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
We all friends in Earth's society
No reason to start quaking
The Society of Friends are friends
The Quakers aren't shaking
No Quaking in Rome?
Nor the Sistine Chapel?
Black smoke, White Hope
White smoke, Black Pope
Does this seem dope? Just wait,
White State, Black Faith
Black State, White Fate
The impossible a possibility and a dope bomb
Start with a Quake, make a Quaker
If its a shake, make a shaker
Where's his taker of notes
penned at the Apostolic Nunciature
He heard a friend tell a friend's friend
Its getting late; confess your faith
If you ain't straight, you'll be left by the gate
near the wall with the writing
No thunder nor lightning
while I AM walking and all
In the city of the Monk
Graffiti: Writing on the Wall
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 12:44 AM UTC
Dear dear Melania,
You came to us as Slovene.
Your anchor hubby has a mania
By which he daily vents his spleen.
Oh dear me, Donald J. T.,
Your mummy's Scottish, your papa's German,
Yet you say "What have you to lose?"
To native folks you treat like vermin.
Yet from these lands they long have hailed,
Many generations shackled and sold,
While you only recently
To our shores have sailed?
Muslims and Mexicans, migrants and mosques,
Catholics, Congregationalists, Quakers and queers:
Oh my, Mr. Trump, you're so **** weird.
Of what exactly must we be afeared?
So Donald, when you talk about your *****
Please do not wave your hands between us.
Joe Twichell
(with apologies to my cousin, who is a real poet)
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
Farc chica
de Vene
is velvet
scripture but
a muskrat
that's amore
she's made
for lunch
where canta
is sweet
for laughing
while the
bossa nova
teri was
poolside for
the Quakers
of Mohave
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Well, I’ll be ******
Trump and Putin are a sham
Perpetrating a flim-flam
They just shot Uncle Sam!
In Helsinki with a battering ram
Is it necessary to draw a diagram?
In order for you to understand
That all of it must have been preplanned
They met in private
With no notetakers
Under the guise of peacemakers
Just like your average lawbreakers
Doing their best to throw haymakers
See neither one of them are Quakers
But they’re con men outright fakers
Playing ball like the new Lakers
I blame the one,
But not the both
Cuz Putin didn’t swear an oath
He wants to stymie our growth
And Trump’s playing with half a loaf
For his base which he betroth
But which of them hates us the most
It’s hard to say, yet he’ll still boast
He doesn’t care about us
So he’s betrayed his sacred trust
In order to do what he must
To protect himself and to adjust
Even if we all go bust
Making America how he discussed
Despite the economy being robust
He’s unworthy of our trust
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC