"readiness" poems
Full heart to full heart,
Clear quiet mind to clear quiet mind,
Ocean to Ocean.
Blossoming with Light,
The Pink Lotus
Resides in Readiness
Patient, Happy.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
slope of my cheek. On the
occasion, you press
above me, glowing, spouting
readiness, mystery rapes
my reason
When you have withdrawn
your self and the magic, when
only the smell of your
love lingers between
my ******* then, only
then, can I greedily consume
your presence.
9.4k
I call this blood
You call that bird
feather They are
feather They are
bleeding bird
a blood-colored bird
red and falling
full of readiness
as anything falling
Feather blood bird
bird Feather blood
blood bird Feather
Death is never obvious so
a bird can also fly down
and a catheter bleeds for life
Death is never obvious:
feather feather and feather.
Jan 16, 2010
Jan 16, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
It goes( as it
always goes, to )
: ! PENALTIES !
A chorus of "Oh Noooos'!"
rises from the fans like
winter breath from cattle
Hamlet, places it:
...steps back to take it
&. . .
"Do it England!"
the fanatic fans chant
"Dooooo....Itttt...Angle...la...and!"
Hamlet thinks
( No...nOOOO Hamlet don't
. . .think! )
But it is alas -too late
he has
already thunked!
"If it be now, 'tis not
to come; if it be not to come
it will be now!"
"Duh!" the fans think
"Agggghh...just
do it!"
The thoughts sprout
from his great big noggin like
a cartoon speech bubble.
"...if it be now now
yet
it will come!"
"The readiness is all!"
Hamlet runs up to
the waiting ball.
Hamlet hushes his
thought process
strikes the ball with his right foot &. . .
"To be or, aggggghhhh noooooo!"
After that comma that
negative sentence.
'NOT TO BE!"
jeer the rival fans
'GIT THEEEE...TOA...NONE...ER...EEE!"
Hamlet ends it all
with a bare bodkin.
"O, O, O, O." Dies
"Football is not...."
as Shankly so succinctly
put it
"...a matter of life and death.
It's. . .
much much more important than that!"
The rest.
Is.
silence.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars
<•>
fluids in, fluids out
wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,
so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive
make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their dire warnings repetitious
tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid
is strong transformed into words
water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again
water is words, words are water,
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate
place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
"The thought of the future we will never have was pollinating foul fuzzy particles in the air, slowly following the wake of all those tasseled dreams I had held onto for all those years but had to let go."
The most intimate revelations can often expose plagiaristic suppressions that we've most likely tried to already forget. Suggesting to anyone on the outside looking in, that there is a rancid cowardice secreting from the pores of all those who would deny the most basic of fundamental decencies to their fellow man.
All the while, boasting a loud tolerance that would be found on the very last Autumn-the very last colorful arrangements of watering oranges and smothered reds our world was ever going to be privileged to witness again.
The thundering drumming of my own beating heart gave my freshly dead and bland reaction a neon personality, with a few extra ********* lingering, successful gestures that reflected a sparkly prism of tracers.
Tracers that were birthed from the most brilliant of lasers, as I was radiating something that was blindingly gorgeous, something that was heightened with more sensitivity as it shadowed over the complexity of every kiss that I had ever been given in my life..
Spinning a silk and gold web around me that was almost as intricate as an alarm sounding earth quake.
This flaccidly tight response came at a price, leaving nothing but whispers and the wrong kind of impressions at the sight of it's unwanted face..
The time of dignity and grace felt decades away as your tiny little temperaments began to attempt to soothe me into a very still silence.
"Wooing" me and "seducing" me with such a strong touch of romantic readiness, I knew it would never be matched or found again causing me to feel a stroke of sadness at the single sentiment.
This dramatic departure killed any interest that might have supported the abortive sorrows and short winded elation’s of men, but instead the idea of a possibly new tasseled dream, sparked me into a shimmering prism bouncing glittering, glimmering, glowing rays off my skin, as I put the shine in the sun.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
Watching him write on the blackboard
More green than black
I was struck by the deep blue of his shirt
And how crisp the lines were
Folded and ironed
More effort than I care to put into a shirt
And even though I was shivering
In the dark, hopeless blue of
My bulky winter jacket
Sitting in that empty chair
I slid out of the room in my mind
Recalling summer
The windows, now with canvas
Blinds half lowered
Would, instead of frost and condensation
Allow thick, all-encompassing heat
To slither into the room
Our shirts sticking to us
Sweat stains would mark up our
Clothes, like chalk on the blackboard
And our legs would
Stick to our plastic chairs as we
Stood at the end of class, reinvigorated
Voices raised in shared triumph of the overcome
Backpacks would be thrown over our
Shoulders wet and tan and flush with
Heat of the summer season, synonymous with
Hope. Our shorts and bright shirts made the
Room a deafening testament to our
Readiness
For the day.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
He declared himself a refugee, and ran away from his country
Running away from hunger and poverty, to the overseas,
He roams foreign countries from one place to another,
Chewing foreign fortunes of historical efforts,
Of blood and sweat shed by the fore(wo)men of those countries,
He is prostrate and defenseless to foreign languages,
Begging for sympathy to be made a citizen in Europe,
His rapacious appetite wedding his tongue,
Swallowing saliva on sight of European fortune,
Feating into mad appetite for sweat of others proceeds.
He burned the bridges on the way back to his home
Lest he be told the piffling of going back to his emaciated mother,
He changed his names to become a foreign native
Out of laziness not to fight for political and social change,
An imperative need of his motherland and fatherland,
Blind cowardice made him to over measure homespun folly
In the patriotic spirit of verve-less readiness
To die for political goodness of his motherland,
A (de)patriotic syndrome to only which
Hugo Garcia Manriquez sang a limerick
The best of all poems in his time of solitude;
(The fear of representation, of going back
to representation, that is,
to animosity)
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
HAMLET AT THE WORLD CUP
It goes( as it
always goes, to )
: ! PENALTIES !
A chorus of "Oh Noooos'!"
rises from the fans like
winter breath from cattle
Hamlet, places it:
...steps back to take it
&. . .
"Do it England!"
the fanatic fans chant
"Dooooo....Itttt...Angle...la...and!"
Hamlet thinks
( No...nOOOO Hamlet don't
. . .think! )
But it is alas -too late
he has
already thunked!
"If it be now, 'tis not
to come; if it be not to come
it will be now!"
"Duh!" the fans think
"Agggghh...just
do it!"
The thoughts sprout
from his great big noggin like
a cartoon speech bubble.
"...if it be not now
yet
it will come!"
"The readiness is all!"
Hamlet runs up to
the waiting ball.
Hamlet hushes his
thought process
strikes the ball with his right foot &. . .
"To be or, aggggghhhh noooooo!"
After that comma that
negative sentence.
'NOT TO BE!"
jeer the rival fans
'GIT THEEEE...TOA...NONE...ER...EEE!"
Hamlet ends it all
with a bare bodkin.
"O, O, O, O." Dies
"Football is not...."
as Shankly so succinctly
put it
"...a matter of life and death.
It's. . .
much much more important than that!"
The rest.
Is.
silence.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 5:59 PM UTC
i might be turning into my mother.
after all,
i have her straight nose
and her broad bones
her stubbornness to
*hold on to the truths you know
and the lies you don't.*
i might be turning into my father.
after all,
i have his brown eyes
and his quick mind
his readiness to
leave things behind and *let the road
unfold like twine.*
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
Contemplating the dark
With a life neither bright nor stark
Shrivelled and fragile inside
Aiming for wonders of the glorious mind
With the sun peeping out from ominous clouds
Undisguised, yet elusive, towards an onset of doubts
Shrouding any fallacy
Cultivating mere fantasy
And the phantom of a far-fetched imagination
To bring out an electric, yet marvellous sensation
Shut inside a mysterious cage
Grasping poetry like some sage
Aiming for aloofness
While mourning over the senseless
Forever the beauty of words is a myth
Forever superficiality is a filth
The sublime scenery of sunset swish
Warms the heart, treasuring one’s deepest wish
Via the shimmering dawn
The azure sky I so adorn
To sniff the sweet odour of nature
All alone, as solitary as ever, with a hazy future
Nobody can gauge the depth of the imaginary
And taste the splendour of the ordinary
All this simplicity unravels a cosy palace
Where art is sacred; where the aesthetic is a solace
To end up in sensuous poetry
In which there’s no calculated geometry
Where the comfort of spontaneity is soothing
And readiness is but a blessing
For in poetry, a loner like me finds her grace
For via poetry, the solitary is free to embrace
And through the line of a verse, the loner dwells a florid universe…
-07/04/07
Feb 8, 2010
Feb 8, 2010 at 2:11 AM UTC
Oh, ponder, friend, the porcupine;
Refresh your recollection,
And sit a moment, to define
His means of self-protection.
How truly fortified is he!
Where is the beast his double
In forethought of emergency
And readiness for trouble?
Recall his figure, and his shade--
How deftly planned and clearly
For slithering through the dappled glade
Unseen, or pretty nearly.
Yet should an alien eye discern
His presence in the woodland,
How little has he left to learn
Of self-defense! My good land!
For he can run, as swift as sound,
To where his goose may hang high--
Or ****** his head against the ground
And tunnel half to Shanghai;
Or he can climb the dizziest bough--
Unhesitant, mechanic--
And, resting, dash from off his brow
The bitter beads of panic;
Or should pursuers press him hot,
One scarcely needs to mention
His quick and cruel barbs, that got
Shakespearean attention;
Or driven to his final ditch,
To his extremest thicket,
He'll fight with claws and molars (which
Is not considered cricket).
How amply armored, he, to fend
The fear of chase that haunts him!
How well prepared our little friend!--
And who the devil wants him?
2.8k
The writer sits and ponders,
filled with empty silent dread,
‘Sorry, this word cannot be found’
the smug spellchecker says.
Weary of petty complications
he drifts, searching for inspiration,
soaring through the African sky
with glorious, lofty liberation.
The yellow plains stretch far below
herds of buffalo, running free
the lions hide amongst the grass
dotted around sandarac trees.
He soars now, over snow-capped peaks
tableclothed in angry cloud,
by eagles, gliding with their young
their talons stretched in readiness
silhouetted in the fiery sun.
He conjures now, Fijian sand, lazy swaying palms
crashing frothy, roaring waves; silky banana ***
A sparkling ocean glittering, caked with yellow icing,
just a mirror for the setting sun.
But then wings of grace are stripped and
he plummets towards uncertainty,
falling back to swivel chair, staring
at desk lamps, coffee, burgundy.
The rain drizzles down outside,
the heating pours through well-placed vents
as Chinese Communism awaits:
confronting, mocking, dense.
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
Hatred and vengence--my eternal portion
Scarce can endure delay of execution--
Wait with impatient readiness to seize my
Soul in a moment.
****** below Judas; more abhorred than he was,
Who for a few pence sold his holy Master!
Twice betrayed, Jesus me, the last delinquent,
Deems the profanest.
Man disavows, and Deity disowns me:
Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;
Therefore Hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all
Bolted against me.
Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers;
Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors,
I'm called, if vanquished, to receive a sentence
Worse than Abiram's.
Him the vindictive rod of angry Justice
Sent quick and howling to the centre headlong;
I, fed with judgment, in a fleshy tomb am
Buried above ground.
2.5k
That night your great guns, unawares,
Shook all our coffins as we lay,
And broke the chancel window-squares,
We thought it was the Judgement-day
And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worm drew back into the mounds,
The glebe cow drooled. Till God cried, “No;
It’s gunnery practice out at sea
Just as before you went below;
The world is as it used to be:
“All nations striving strong to make
Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christés sake
Than you who are helpless in such matters.
“That this is not the judgment-hour
For some of them’s a blessed thing,
For if it were they’d have to scour
Hell’s floor for so much threatening. . . .
“Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if indeed
I ever do; for you are men,
And rest eternal sorely need).”
So down we lay again. “I wonder,
Will the world ever saner be,”
Said one, “than when He sent us under
In our indifferent century!”
And many a skeleton shook his head.
“Instead of preaching forty year,”
My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,
“I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer.”
Again the guns disturbed the hour,
Roaring their readiness to avenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.
2.5k
The epitome of greatness, a mark in history
Of discipline remarkable, a stellar victory
Defeating the unbeaten, knock and break the mould
International heavyweight of Olympic Gold
Strike in quick succession, opponents retreat
Delivery duration, a knockout of defeat
Tactical ability, step into the range
Catalyst created, set for further change
Of the highest calibre, man who beat the man
Delivery on target, a humble champion
Of opponents outclassed, discontinued bout
Dominant performance, within and without
With athletic excellence, distance travelled far
Gym of daily training, cardio and spar
Professional perspective, stood to set the pace
Dedication, boldness, motivate, embrace
Influencing globally, rank of the elite
Rapid combinations, uppercuts repeat
Powerful formation, readiness of stance
Daily preparation, practice over chance
An honourable service, magnificence abound
Celebrating victory, crowding to surround
Continuing the greatness, strength and stamina
The world is truly grateful, Anthony Joshua
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
*sailing on the blue-sea
sailing unknown-beauty*..
1.
the seas laugh in raucous-hacks
as the waves cough up the corpses of my dreams
at my feet, they come in from the swell of tides
seeming no more than
spongy sea-weed with sun-skin points
bloated fish who didn't make it
swollen seals with child
and the blue-boy on the whale's back
confident-smiles draped upon his demeanour
like a well-worn cloak of old-comfort
soft and velvety secrets hide inside the folds
of his true-age and pure-soul
nobody would believe
how many trips he had to make
to get to this shore
how many deaths he had to live through
to understand the purpose
how many tears he saw shedding
of nature's total-patience
how many of so much..
2.
on the back of a whale
he traverses the width of seas
the span of lands
the points of stars
the truth of man
and he grieves the piteous-souls whose backs break
so hard
on the interminable-wheel of penitence
turning and grinding
grinding
grinding..
always bent upon that gauntlet-grind
if they but knew how futile the turn..
carrying loads of mercy and goodness
only to see it seep out wounds ere journey's end
3.
cruel deified-laughter exists not
at man's readiness to crucify hope
with such four-square certainty
that redemption lies in suffering..
oh no..
4.
faint sounds of laughter on a broad-coast
whose sands give way to shy-dossiers
of nature's confidence
in the evening sun
secrets that I neglected to see.. first time round
have I failed myself.. ?
(but not again)
when awareness taps one on the shoulder,
is it not utter-folly to turn one's back on resplendence
that all the leaves and seas are willing to share?
*true-beauty lies in covert-blossoms
and opened-eyes
and saying.. yes
when the sun-breeze
dawns*
S T - sunnyday, 24 Nov 2013
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
Do not lance your hair
Just to satisfy those men in suits,
Or your woman, sat there with that expectant gaze
Reserved for only you.
Let your image be cultivated
Through the culture of the downstroke.
The lazy thick steel on the neck of the guitar
That shudders at your touch
And responds with the readiness of one thousand ******
Cooing their broken sounded and false approvals.
I see your fingers fumble across the chipped mahogany
And I recall on the benefit of all men
The first and forgotten lovers,
Buried beneath years of clumsy ***
And vicious disregard.
And from the shadows in the archives of your grey matter
You remember every wince of self-doubt,
Etched across the faces of your women
That you never cared to notice in the dizzy ecstasy
Of your youthful wantonness
And the hardness of your ****
So age will bite at your features,
And you will squint in the wind,
Cowering at the cold that clings to your bones.
At some age you will cut your hair
And iron your shirt.
Nurse your whiskey
And find yourself in receipt of all those women
Still tangled in the hotel sheets
In the back lodgings of your mind
And everything they did to shape you.
And you pick up that old acoustic
And play the tune of one thousands odes.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
Anchor
Blindly walk away carelessly forming a separate destiny
What heart hasn’t been broken from loss?
Nothing but these remain a certainty
Transitory lives and times
This tension ever exists
Security rock solid always will be buffeted by change
Fate continuously at odds with calm calculated reason always set to resist
Dark doubts the heart will pierce
Fear puts able thoughts in chains
The mind enslaved death enshrined
Who hasn’t known this cruel master’s reign?
Held fast as by a strait jacket useless to fight
Heartless people consumed by deadness
In the midst of laughter lies a specter
Decency and safety shifts treachery always at readiness
Impossible innocence shocked blood covers the land
There is no freedom dealt by mortal man
This race and special gift angels sift
Divine pollination needed for character unchecked
Grace everywhere at once without a trace of its origin
The face noble the heart captured perfect gladness
The rock of offence removed
Stiff necked pillar of rebellion finally moved
Paths now sweet a life hid discreet
The waters calm the breeze a balm
Thoughts unbridled burning intense
Arrows of gold feathers of silver
Blessed be the nation who finds God to be their anchor
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Tax man! The tax man is coming,
He is in company of the city Askari
Armed with clubs and sten-guns
In the militant spirit of field combat
Reconnoitering to the point of rampage
In full readiness to attack and wound
The street hawker in Nairobi city,
The dominant city tax payer is under siege
He has no option; is either tax or death
tax man! Tax man! Don’t **** a hawker.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
with what sense does
this sea of read
pirouette on?
the soot leaving black
blotches on the ****** sheets,
lampposts do not complain
of sudden twitches
as cacophonously, a line
of machines with their ravenous
machinisms create a seam of
crimson to a slender
rose's architecture.
i leave my engine on
so as to hand this road
my readiness,
Ely Buendia on the tattered radio
leaks outside the ajar windows,
chasing the dream of rearing
movements
as my flesh remains dreamless,
stationary.
there is a sequined gathering here.
erratic simulations of
naked eyes pierce the musk
of the austere air's gravity
of existence.
all of us
occupying space
and our attendance is our
sigh of dismay as our homes
decompose in waiting,
as our beds remind us
of our body's aging clamor,
as our ineluctable senescence
opens the dungeons of our frailties
with its trembling, wrinkled hands.
we are our waiting's consummation
as we are left here,
wary of our precise proprioception,
left in
the tongue-tied dark.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Your subjects hope, dread Sire—
The crown upon your brows may flourish long,
And that your arm may in your God be strong!
O may your sceptre num’rous nations sway,
And all with love and readiness obey!
But how shall we the British king reward!
Rule thou in peace, our father, and our lord!
Midst the remembrance of thy favours past,
The meanest peasants most admire the last
May George, beloved by all the nations round,
Live with heav’ns choicest constant blessings crown’d!
Great God, direct, and guard him from on high,
And from his head let ev’ry evil fly!
And may each clime with equal gladness see
A monarch’s smile can set his subjects free!
2k
Your life could be going smooth like a ship sailing in calm waters, yet a sudden change in your life can turn it upside down, suddenly this ship is caught in a raging storm.
Are you ready for the rough ride? With all of your planning, knowledge, and skills?
Have you prepared your survival boat to safe shores?
Hussein Dekmak
Feb 24, 2023
Feb 24, 2023 at 5:43 PM UTC
for Nave
Busyness makes one idiotic and forgetful. And we nearly sunk the night
didn’t we darling, leaning on the wrong swing.
(It is always the peach tree.) Katrina doing her Harpy on Fullblast thing
with such deftness and professionalism she leaves us no room to respond
to legs and offers of spread cheese. And poets cave in like lonely black holes
if they cannot response as fully as they have peaches in their coffers to do so,
or at least they think so and so do we so I escaped to shower, and tried to make
the water hot enough to round me straight again, but my skin still gets in the way.
I wanted to peel off everything and douse my soul straight in the hot and the lavender, questing
for a readiness beyond the pale, some state rare, and infinitely usuable.
It was only when, and this is true, when I decided to make a list of
why I love you that the water went in
and the lavender grew instantly between my toes. And Rosemarey Clooney
danced you in to me and you were a happy Papa at last, and we knew enough. And there
was finally room enough to
mambo home.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion,
Scarce can endure delay of execution,
Wait, with impatient readiness, to seize my
Soul in a moment.
****** below Judas:more abhorred than he was,
Who for a few pence sold his holy Master.
Twice betrayed Jesus me, this last delinquent,
Deems the profanest.
Man disavows, and Deity disowns me:
Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;
Therefore hell keeps her ever hungry mouths all
Bolted against me.
Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers;
Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors;
I'm called, if vanquished, to receive a sentence
Worse than Abiram's.
Him the vindictive rod of angry justice
Sent quick and howling to the center headlong;
I, fed with judgment, in a fleshly tomb, am
Buried above ground.
2k