"ravages" poems
They say that over time, it dissipates -
it will drain from you, evaporate like smoke.
It will descend upon you, destroy you;
but will soon release you, and fade.
But with time it instead grows stronger,
demanding to be felt.
It knocks on the doors of my soul,
its urgency to be let inside unrelenting and ruthless.
Like an unpredictable storm, it lands and ravages,
leaving just fragments of a heart already rebuilt.
What is gone is the will;
the resiliency dulled, the courage spent.
It's a deep-rooted **** an unrivaled opponent;
It's a malevolent fire that refuses to be smothered.
The Hurt:
a wound that permeates, and remains.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
#I have a boy toy he's very ****
but that's too mellow, I want something wild
a man like you, eyes like dawn yet hidden deep within it all
an animal, a lust for pleasure
take me all, make me your treasure
cherish me into the night
make me laugh in pure delight
then make me moan
earn my surrender
leave me lying feeling tender
I want to hear your cry of pain
my body writhes in disdain
you're everything I wish he was
and yet I **** him just because
you make me laugh
he makes me wet
you kiss me sweet
my heart skips a beat
you leave me happy
he ravages my soul
maybe I don't need him
but i do need you.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
What is my motherland?
Is it the dust that ravages my lungs
Or the bones of my ancestors
Humming softly the old and forgotten
What is my motherland?
Is it where I was born?
A piece of land, a group of people?
Or is it the place where
It's mothers are graded
In layers
Where some wombs only give birth
To sub humans
Where some wombs are scarred
Born from the ashes of a thousand dreams burnt down
I'm a survivor
Of all they could throw at you
Of all their insults
The predicament
My mother's womb that withstood all it could
And some more
They tell me this is my land
That it is my mother
The birth giver and sustainer of life
I spit on their faces
My motherland never was this piece of land
Or the people who **** on its soul
Each and every day
My people lived in a different world
On this piece of land where we were worse than animals to you
Where is my motherland?
I have none
Robbed of it since my birth
Where is my motherland?
But in the hearts of all who are like me
Set in stone
Yet defying gravity
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
I am empty, yet I am whole
I burn with passion, desire, hot
Yet I am frozen to the core, cold.
My steps are surer than a Lions,
Yet insecurity ravages my mind like a bad disease.
My thoughts impulsive, extemporaneous
Yet cool, calm and calculated are my middle names.
Sometimes fear makes me weaker than a withering flower
But usually I'm bolder than a boxer, ducking, diving, bobbing, weaving
I can be loud, raucous, unbecoming
or quiet, shy and unwelcoming
I prefer my own space
But I'm your best friend
I can follow with the obedience of a dog
But I love setting trends.
I am an honest liar
A well read idiot
A losing champion
A logical creative
Beautifully ugly
Perfectly flawed
What I'm saying, is I'm human.
A walking contradiction
I'm an Oxymoron,
Yet I am not.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
(This poem doesn't belong to me. The rightful owner is the author Darren Shan who wrote the Demonata and the Cirque du Freak book series. This poem is from his first book of the Demonata book series: Lord Loss.)
Lord loss sows all the sorrows of the world, lord loss seeds the grief starched trees
In the center of the web lowly lord loss bows his head
Mangled hands, naked eyes
Fanged snakes his soul line
Curled inside like texture sin
****** curdle sheets for skin
In the center of the web vile lord loss torments the dead
Over strands of red, lord loss crawls
Dispensing pain, despising all
Shuns friends, nurtures foes
Ravages hope, breeds woe
Drinks moons, devours suns
Twirls his thumbs till the reaper comes
In the center of the web Lush Lord Loss is all that is left.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
split the atom an we get fission
mass becomes energy
but can we split a second
enter the essence of the present
what would it mean to us
to be that mindful
ask your self doesn't your mind
only occupy past future
abjectly incapable of living in the present
in the true present there could not be even a ghost of a thought
theres no time to think
can we enter
an incalculable split second
and totally take in that instant
with a forgotten organic technology
is it the big bang in perpetuity
yet quiet as a mute
a raging ever expanding sea in a connected
but distinct dimension
if you entered it
would it not utterly erases all of history
the thinkers and doers along with it
the step beyond the alpha and omega
the great underlining reality
imagine the penetrated moment
an all consuming unimaginable
trans-mutational merge
omnipotent
yet forever imperceptible
to those among us
time locked
an irreducible limitation
like an ant in a closed paper bag
a fixated reflexive machine
wandering aimlessly
with an unknowable mission
and a relentless survival mechanism
with no chance of survival
time as a cosmic metabolism
its medium space
a vast cauldron
an infinite vessel containing endless points of light
everywhere
myriad phenomena
its terrain and the temporal creatures that inhabit it
both exquisite and hideous
an incalculable zoo
histories victors and victims
one and all vanquished
by the curse
consciousness of dis-juncture
a merciless countenance of limitation
yet could time be an illusion
rooted in a narrow awareness
bereft of an eternal
inexhaustible self effulgent now
the rapture
an eternal ******
if we could only penetrate into it
would it swallow us
and blot out the drama of creations theater
is the
now
conscious
illimitable
ecstatic
a perfect meta moment ?
we hear from sacred texts
like the Vedas... Bhagavad Gita.... and Kabbalah
that we may enter beyond the veil
passed time and its ravages
passed mind and its distortions
not to the heaven of religion
in its endless
closed system precepts
anthropomorphic metaphors
theistic gobbledygook
and
sophomoric social engineering
a kind of cliffs notes
god for dummies
we can enter
the eternal abode of the divine
a point between
the splitting of seconds
revealed through the simple act of mindful breathing
pierced by the effort of a focused mind
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 8:09 AM UTC
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats. I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. francis from here to Natchez. Shunned are the games a parent proposes,
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other's abdomen. Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults, And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone's presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again, But not till after the party's over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover
7.8k
twice by god's accidental interference,
our crash vehicles, super sized shopping carts,
connect, we are manger-penalized for unnecessary roughness
and disturbing the supermarkets peace
what better way to judge character than to examine
a single persons shopping cart contents?
hers,
all organic, milk, heirloom tomatoes, even the Chardonnay,
grown upon the farms of the island and vineyards on
the forks that shelter the isle from the ravages of the Atlantic
mine,
Hebrew National franks, yellow mustard,
very classy brioche buns, a six pack of Corona Light,
and funny colored, funny looking, rusted russet potato chips
with a tremulous smile, and an overly loud, derisive sniff,
pronounces me dead man walking sooner than later,
to which, I respond,
then, teach me, where shall we dine tonight?
later that night,
after a thousand kisses of her fluttering eyelashes,
she props herself upon an elbow and
in a tone sincere and caring,
extracts from the poet promises of
natural exclusivity
from now on, healthy, natural only, organic and pure,
from the soul soil of our shared habitat
her suntan skin, garden-digging hand, I clasp,
softly climbing on top of her,
announce with total genuine sincerity and solemnity;
I swear it, from now on, all my loving will be sourced locally
rewarded with a laugh and a gentle but hard enough,
garden to table (with her free hand), head smacking,
I noting nod, good naturedly
that both the laugh and smack,
as well,
*sourced locally,
sourced lovingly,*
which then seeded
this new only love jointly authored poem,
planted in our mingling blossoming crashing
bodies
5/29/17 i
12:43pm
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
I could not go on
if I did not know
the 30 years you suffered
the 30 years you died
the 30 years your body bore these ravages and scars
You whose raiment was like stars
before you took upon my sores
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
So many days now,
hush,
I hardly remember.
The scarce tones
sung so swiftly
from my sweet love.
Her thin waist about my elbow,
her thighs
pressed beneath my chin.
So softly how I once caressed
the thin and delicate neck,
and stroked so gently
the cords of her being.
Those are days long gone.
My fingers now,
curled with the stiffness of age,
are innate appendages,
restages
of their former days,
now limp with the ravages of time.
May 13, 2011
May 13, 2011 at 8:43 AM UTC
The shouting face of the sea
Ravages rocks on the toes of the beach
Seashells glued to glass
laminate the reflecting rays of the baking sun
A pebble preaches to a mountain
Underneath an electric dream
Galvanize my heart,
It needs a jump-start
Stuck in a frozen tundra of fallacy
Chasing broken tragedies
I told her
I tried
Nothing seems to change the mind
So I guess I’ll have to lie
Praying a lion’s smile
captures her immaculate eyes
But my summer’s luck lacks the ability to clear cloudy skies
Now I am alone in a misty meadow
With taciturn trees
Yet you were like the warm belly of a manatee
And I was a calloused heart hoping for a remedy
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 5:28 AM UTC
A deadly combination
Of lust, of passion, of love.
Deadly, poisonous, treacherous.
Worst of all, stupidly contagious.
Compassion for another because of another can’t exist,
suffocated by gyrating passion.
Passion serves one, not both…
Selfish, passion encircles the one consumed, feeding the addiction.
Addicts chase the high because for a little while the world is as it should be
In the eyes of the beholder.
Love sighs as the well runs dry.
Throw down the bucket as you may,
the water will not appear.
Acceptance is the hardest thing.
Giving up? Not at all.
Only people with nothing to gain can
Give up.
Accepting, letting go, moving forward.
The steps of progress in self-realization.
Leave behind the fire of love that
consumes the heart and ravages the mind,
preoccupies the body.
Chase that fire which refines.
I await to wake from this comatose state.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 3:06 AM UTC
They said the fairest of the goddesses
Was the one to give us love,
The one to fetch the maidens
And bring the boys their girls.
What they meant by fair was beautiful,
Not just or right or equitable,
For it hardly seems fair
That she's a goddess,
Enthroned on a mountain with a mirror in her hand
And we're all of us mere mortals,
Hapless humans,
With our ribcages wide open,
With no bone to shield our vulnerable ventricles
And no sense to tell us to cover our chests.
It's no wonder that this otherworldly seduction
Can ****** us
And string us along
And consume us
Until we forget what life was
Before love caught us.
It seems impossible
That these frail, impermanent bodies
Can hold such ethereal infatuation;
It's too strong,
So it ravages us,
Strips away dignity,
Rips away common sense,
And seizes all control.
Our little human selves
Never stood a chance.
Tell me, Aphrodite,
Does it make you laugh to watch us struggle?
From your lofty vantage point,
Do you giggle when the rational become foolish,
When the thinkers become unfocused,
When the innocent become broken?
Does it please your fair reflection
When those devoted mortals go to ungodly lengths
For this love that you inflict,
Until they have nothing left of themselves,
Until they're worn to the very bones
That couldn't protect their unsuspecting hearts?
Do you revel in the irony,
Aphrodite,
When, exhausted and dejected
And downright tortured,
They still worship you?
When they bow
And sacrifice
In gratitude?
When we miserable mortals
Thank you for these feelings that destroy us,
Because for tiny moments
We felt transcendentally good.
Perhaps she'd had better intentions,
That goddess Aphrodite,
Thought that she was filling our open hearts
With something to give them meaning.
Maybe she thought
We'd left our ribcages open on purpose,
That we'd all simply been waiting for her,
Wondering when she'd reach down her power
And give us a love to cling to.
Or,
It could be that she had it right,
That our chests were left gaping
And our hearts were left empty
So that Aphrodite could look away from her mirror,
Smile from the clouds,
And send us someone to make us whole.
Nov 27, 2010
Nov 27, 2010 at 6:39 PM UTC
Accept my pity, ye tormented souls unable to raise and dazzle
all I did was earn my keep and walked in sunshine from the soul
but
When men are full of envy they disparage everything,
whether it be good or bad.
Now I know some minds never grow and thrive only in envy
For Envy, like the worm, never runs but to the fairest fruit;
like a cunning bloodhound, it singles out the fattest deer in the flock.
These wretched starved toxic souls, only see a man with plenty
The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous.
I did not countenance that faces are pale because they lacked
just thought that was the Creator's work on days when brown
and yellow, swarty, ivory and tan paints ran out
I knew a lot hated this insipid opaque pale colouring, but at least
they have beautiful hair and lucky ones have pearly white teeth
but unbeknown to me, real envy resides in them and blinds them and makes it impossible for them to think clearly.
Oh dearie me, our pale brothers and sisters die inside their souls
And age so quickly, radiant in bloom one day, grey and wrinkled
in the morrow like a wilted rose devoid of water and light
Their pain and envy, their self-loathing, their insecurities ravages
Let age, not envy, draw wrinkles on thy cheeks, dear friends.
For you see, God's truth judges created things out of love,
and Satan's truth judges them out of envy and hatred.
Our envy always lasts longer than the happiness of those we envy.
If malice or envy were tangible and had a shape,
it would be the shape of a boomerang.
I fear not and now understand why you envy and hate me
I can appreciate the bile and venom for Fools may our scorn,
not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.
Worth begets in base minds, envy; in great souls, emulation.
When people envy someone else, they want what that person possesses. As time passes, they develop hostile feelings towards that person, and eventually begin to hate that person because of their possessions and the unrequited desire to obtain those possessions.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 8:53 PM UTC
I hate my hips. I hate how the friction between my thighs makes
me feel I hate how the fat on my stomach goes outwards and not inwards.
those are the worst days. the ones when my skinny-fat-gangly body
is an odyssey all on it's own and my mother's home cooked meals
become saturated oceans of salt in my stomach and make me become
this uncontrollable monster that eats everything without mercy
and ravages my refrigerator until my self pity becomes obvious
in the mirror as my skinny-fat hips become more apparent and
until I am left by myself, surrounded by tears that taste like fries
that are much too salty and chicken that tastes all too much like diabetes.
I hate my hips. I hate how they don't move to the familiar beat of the
Spanish songs that always play in my house I hate how they are
not big enough to grab people's attention but not small enough
to please my ideals of beauty. my hips remind me that I am an outsider
in my own culture, a family where you see the women's *** before
you see her face and they remind me that I am not socially acceptable.
I hate my hips. I hate my face. I hate how my forehead is large enough
to be a canvas for the world and how my eyebrows are as
transparent as a Dominican ocean I hate how my nose stretches
when I grin and how my ears stick out like something someone
didn't mean to place. I hate my face. I hate how when people look at me,
they do not see the shape of my lips or my cheek bones or anything
I love about myself all they see is a girl with hips too small and
with a forehead to large and with everything wrong. I hate how I look.
being confident is not an option being happy is only a facade
and when my father tells me I am beautiful it takes everything
in me to not tell him to stop lying. insecurity is not something you
simply get over or something you can hide it is the small voice
in your head that tells you that you are a mistake it marches all over
your mind and sets your self-esteem to ashes. whenever I wake up in
the morning there is a pressing weight on my chest and the feeling
that I should live alone because all people will ever see is my
appearance and whenever I brush my teeth I try my hardest to
avoid the mirror but when I do look in the mirror and I see
my reflection the bitter resentment towards who I am strikes me
so hard that it slaps me into reality. I am me. There is nothing I can change
about my bone structure or the large canvas on my face and I will have
to live like this every day until I die.
how can insecurity not be a problem?
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
She saw people praying and using the violence in
the name of religion at the same time, while no
religion is preaching violence. She understood that
this kind of violence was too conflictual for peace, and
yet too diplomatic for war. And that violence no
solution had; nor never none. She thought those
people lived in black light having blind eyes not seeing
the reality of life. She had to accept that this wicked
goodness and this pretty badness belong to our reality
so vixen-like, vexing and hiding so many victimless crimes.
Suddenly, she realized that she could be a new victim.
She started to run while wondering where her safe place was.
She was better than to expect to be caught. She understood
her fear, that fear leading to frightening thoughts, those thoughts
leading to panic, that panic leading to derealization. She looked
around trying to recognize the place. She felt worry because she
couldn't see very well. She searched to make a sword of everything
around, but quickly after that, she thought that the swords are the
weapons of warriors, but she's not a warrior, she's a victim. She
started to give praise with idle tears, to give praise with wisdom,
to give praise with deep despair. She asked herself if God is there to
hear her, over those ravages of war overwhelmed by the natural
catastrophes and over the ludicrous effect of their transformation
into nothing. She, firstly, believed her religious man was a fighter
against enemies of God to conclude that he was an enemy of the real
fighters for God. This man was her husband learning in time to beat her
body and to hurt her soul. She saw herself as a little bleeding part of this
world wondering to know if her man is still the man she fell in love with
once, or he's an illusion. She stopped her run to sit on the ground. She
began to pray hoping that God is there to hear her and to bring a new light
to her crying reality. She stayed there to think how much a rose can
describe a flower, how much a flower can describe a woman, and how
much the feminine can describe many things around .She concluded
that no feminine thing can break this life down. She asked herself,
''What can happen to this world in the absolute absence of feminine?''
She found herself an innocent person dreaming at a new world without violence.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
step one: mark out your
territory, bordered by
sea surf on the one side and
beach towels on the other;
dig a moat to the left and right so
no one can intrude upon your
Fortress of Solitude.
step two: build a sandcastle.
ignore the imminent
tides and the omnipresent
ravages of gravity; they are
irrelevant to your
Dream of Isolation.
step three: come to realize
that you are not
happy despite
getting exactly what you wanted:
welcome to the real
world kiddo. I hope you
found what you're
Looking For.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
In African badlands,
the ravages of
famine starve
children daily.
In American ghettos,
African children
are given
guns and drugs,
and taught to make
war and profit,
or starve.
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 4:07 AM UTC
The picture hangs upon the wall
of a slender woman, une eleve
She is eternally en pointe
a Student of great Nurerev.
With Martha Graham’s Corps de ballet
She’d danced (before the children came)
Performed a beautiful Glissade-
enjoyed, for a while, a muted fame.
Light and shade proportionate
here catch her look of radiant joy
The dancer, ignorant of her fate,
seems more a heavenly envoy.
But you and I both know the rest-
The ravages of age and time
The sad result of little strokes
that slow the step and cloud the mind.
Here is her cane, her walker too
Their owner has succumbed to age
There will not be a pas DE deux
Nor bouquets tossed upon the stage
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
1.
If black humour is a sign of intelligence then who is the most intelligent of all?
The hurricane that swept the weatherman away while reporting on a supposedly tranquil day?
The ravages of nature which left Ozymandias all alone in the midst of the desert?
Cruel cruel uncertainty,
2.
Cupid sneezed, and let his finger go,
A fiat lust led my way,
A golden love gone,
So,
Why, o, why
Do you plague me so?
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 7:06 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Sadly Paris is
Feeling the ravages
Of those heartless savages
Whose numerous miscarriages
Of jihad on the average is
A total mischaracterization
Of what they claim is the Muslim nation
And frankly speaking I’m losing patience
This I hope you understand
There’s no justification in the Qu’ran
For what they do to their fellow man
As if it’s part of Allah’s Plan
Show me the sunnah if you can
That allows aggression in any land
Things have gotten out of hand
If everything you do is banned
You can spread your hate
But I have to state
There’ll never be a califate
That’s solely built on one man’s hate
It will crash and burn under its own weight
And heaven help those who participate
For them I fear it’s much too late
And that’s not open to debate
Paris is crying, naturally
Because of the carnage don’t you see
But they’ll continue to be free
And enjoy the support of humanity
We all must ask how could this be
While sealing the fate and destiny
Of those miscreants who **** with glee
And have the significance of a flea
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
I don't know what the day was like
But I want to believe that it was glorious
Cold
Clear
With the sting of February on the face of a doctor
A father to be
Hurrying his wife
Probably in labor
Down the steps to the car
For the trip to the hospital
Actually the sanitarium in Clifton Springs
Then, after awhile in the waiting room
The news
And the promise of a baby girl
His first child
The first of five
The child who won't die at the hands of a drunk driver
The only one who won't be a doctor
Who will marry
Have three children of her own
Loose a husband
Gain daughters and a son in law
Grandchildren
And who
Sometime later
After the roar of a hurricane passes
Will pass herself
Hiding the pain that ravages her small body
And tells her that she's still alive
But for now
In the sanitarium
In Clifton Springs
Only the promise
Of a baby girl
In the arms of a new mom
His wife
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
lost in the garden
of beautiful flowers
rising to meet the dawn chorus
the tides of reason
and synchronised breathing
devoid of reason
no need for meaning
senses linger
the emotions are porous
like monsoon raindrops
clad in storm cloud towers
she mirrors in reflections
of her milky white skin
and the amorous eyes
and Loki's broad grin
lead the Viking
to the valley of shadow
the heaving breast
of the raven haired siren
sheathed in wanton desires
the beckoning of lust
and the follies of jest
the arcane pleasures of sin
pressed ****** to ******
upon his battle torn chest
leaves little to the imagination
the ravages of the beast within
graced with the fingertips
of a females caress
lest it not be forgotten
amid the gamut of time
and the crimson red lips
dripping with the juices
of the ***** of her King.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC