"reeve" poems
Mother superior had dropped the gun,
Seeing the victim was her very own son.
There a saint was made to run
Drowned before the rising sun.
Messiah born on the first day of June,
Posing as a religious boon.
Preaching that the end is soon,
All in a tone resembling Sinatra’s croon.
Superiority held in the form of prayer,
Faith maintained at the behest of a dare.
Professor Lodz has lost his bear.
The Omega deemed this loss as fair.
Tammuz is smoking all the vegetation
Asherah has stopped all gestation,
Coming from a fit of ************
Working on a new form of taxation.
Jesus just took one huge dumb,
In the sink after snorting a quick bump.
The man had reached quite the slump.
Catching HPV from Fergies’s ****
Mohammad is eating all the pork.
Using hands, forgetting the fork.
******* chicks, with all kinds of torque,
Misinterpreting the path of a wayward stork.
Dinning on delicious swine.
And the finest forms of delicate wine.
Prophets of the world align.
And drink from the deceased Christopher Reeve’s spine.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
Do you know what it's like
to feel the limits of time
against your heart
to rest in a fallible place
seeing clearly the last grain of sand fall
declaring the moment
the end of hope to carry out a mission
a vision
from decisions
you refused to make
steps you refused to take
'i love you's'
you failed to say
or even whisper
have your eyes ever looked in a mirror
and seen such a glare
D I S A P P O I N T M E N T
from missing an appointment
filled with blossoming orange and fuschia gladiolas
and even some in full bloom
with nectar at their center too saccharine even for a bee's tongue
i wanted to taste you.
and instead of using my index finger to scoop up your essence
i let fear paralyze the progression
and it's much deeper than even kryptonite to superman
i mean it's more like Christopher Reeve
still
yet aging
not able to go backward
only to face what lies ahead
Now i'm sleeping
left dreaming
of all the NOW infinite IMpossibilities
my eyes looking out
while traveling over the deep sea of self apologies
for never trying to even hold your hand
Oh how i wish i could flip this hourglass back to when i was 10...
and fearless of
rejection.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 9:54 AM UTC
I’m the sickness,
the grotesque singularity that envelopes and gropes that sick nectar.
The sickly substance drains so subtle upon the cut edge of lips
and the pillar draw strings stitched and bound between cardiac flesh.
I’ll cleave,
cut and seethe,
suckle upon the sin I glower as I twine
and tug at those piano puppet strings caught in twain with every heart beat,
just trigger happy nerves spackled in misunderstood concept called love and impulse.
Pluck the collar cuff at your guttural sing and sentence,
those ballots fluttering from between pearl teeth,
I’m stealing those breathing gasps and loving longings;
they’re all just flecks and fragments of lackluster human baggage,
just mannequins treading sluggish,
fractured splinter frame and hinge fickle.
I’m the socio experiment,
the fiendish distaste of a chimera,
the zealous of corrupted cold hearted,
faux feeling skin wearing thing.
Just a copulation of electrical splatter and liquid tissue,
inorganic animal,
snapping jaw and glass shard fangs.
I’ll rile and reeve between the click and snap of your heart beat,
coddle the smoke of prey’s scent,
I’ll parasite the life blood that courses and holds beneath your emotional connect.
My cancer’s a slaughter fed consolation,
ever feasting malignant circumstance,
it rallies a thousand eyes,
irises blood thick,
fragments my moral conscience with teeth riddled limbs,
claws that chew and tear.
A multi-armed fiend,
segmented soulless and black tainted blood lost long ago,
all that remains ***** is the tissue wearing skeleton I claim domain,
fragmenting the soul into steel shards,
all’s just razor edge mechanical once the human feel falls to ash amongst the clutter of bone.
You’ll find the soulless circuit board in the gulf of your cancerous conscience,
as the human corrupts to cancer
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 7:50 AM UTC
I was suprised to see Robin
appear at the onset of dawn.
Looked on at my withdrawn self,
tucked on my shelf,
whereupon I return his look.
With his wings, he made a gesture
pointing out, out and beyond to
fields in a vesture of green.
Never I had I seen such pastal pastures,
nor known them to be so near.
Robin started to sing
of spontaneous adventure,
away from my miscellaneous thoughts.
Extraneous in nature for they did discouraged
this possible venture.
In an act of defiance,
I went to move, and felt a strain
tightening around my brain.
Denying the laws of science,
the frightening shackels restraining me
and my plumed heart from taking flight.
I struggled against the chain, I wiggled until bruised
and blood and sweat covered my skin.
The sticky heat of desperation consumes me,
wishing someone smuggled the key in
and remove these chaotic chains.
"I can't move," I cried to Robin,
expecting him to disapprove.
"I'm not like you. I can't just go and do what I want,
it doesn't work like that."
Even though I wanted to go.
My soul longs for it, to be like the Robin
where its only goal is to go
faraway like a bird of prey, flying high
complying to no one, just like Maslow wanted.
The reclamation of self-realization.
Robin did not reply.
Robin did not leave.
Nor did he grieve for me.
He simply waited.
This wasn't a rue.
He was glued to me and thus
Proving the legends true; of how
he got the mark of Christ's blood upon himself.
For he waited in hope
'til the day when I can cleave the chains
and he'll supply the rope
and reeve the opening of my escape.
But that day is not today.
Today's untimely end neared
with the threat of an upset sunset,
warning Robin that he must retreat
to avoid being a prisioner of the dark.
Yet, before he left, he nodded,
as if tell me not to fret.
For he will be back at sunrise
His wise eyes conformed
him to be sans falseness.
And I prayed to empty skies that I was right.
From my spot, I watch Robin's flight,
as night fell with gravity, pushing the sun down
and for a split second it turned to a green jewel.
I smiled like fool at Joule's "last glimpse"
feeling the chains, ever so slightly, loosen.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
A river among a stream
forecast only myriad of dream
when early dew easily derived as mad
while peace here is now our dream
with thinking that imbed these orchid pastels
once weight did keep it from debt only seemingly then
but the river quay abscond many hats to wear again
while canoe does display this garden wall
with a dream of a lifetime so it's shone
when into darkness finding a rainbow
and each river there a quay did find a reeve
for contaminates as water must goldenly flow
as their sustenance can keep evermore alive.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 7:01 AM UTC
In the winter stands a tree
Its branches withered swords
And here it weeps eternally
For the coldness in its cords.
And if you ask its birds to sing,
They will laugh and cry and call you names
But not one note will ring.
In the springtime sprout its leaves
With flowers purple orange and green
But where melodious harmony should conceive
Still the birds they do not preen.
And if you ask the birds to fly
They will flap and fall and curse your name
And leave you with another sigh.
In heat and love and summer rain
Trails the vestige of a tortured king,
And at his fingers and in his veins
Pumps a sap so aptly named.
And if you ask the birds to dance
They'll stumble jest and fall at best
But not a one will prance.
In the dying, brittle autumn breeze
Sway the heavy dreadful barren things
Of a trunk infused with sad disease
That brings to ground those with wings.
And if you ask the birds to leave
They'll squawk and say, “but here, we're kings!”
And forever you will see the reeve.
But if you ask the birds about the tree
They'll look around so nervously
And out of key and harmony
They'll tell you how they killed her gracefully
Now ask the willow why she weeps,
Why she cries herself to dreary sleep;
She'll just wave her withered fingers low
To some mesmeric ancient flow.
But you need no explanation
For the dead decayed and dying--
Silence is the song of passion's passing beauty.
Oct 5, 2011
Oct 5, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
Is love like riding a horse?
Is it like straddling big
powerful steeds, jumping
over rails, and lazy
brown foxes?
Sometimes we need a crop
to whip our pony to that final
spurt, stretching a Black Stallion nose
across spent finish,
glistening with sweat at besting
the crowded rest.
And if we fall
we're suppose to just get
right back tall
into that saddle set
Superwoman like
rather than some crippled
ghost rider, a Ritalin
paraplegic Reeve coming out
only to fake her maudlin bout
around another racetrack night.
Maybe love is like jumping
out of a perfectly good aeroplane
without a parachute
hoping
falling
watching
to see if a ridiculous Bond
James will HALO
drop
us desperately out of danger, a ripping clutch
released
at ten thousand feet.
Love sure is like an action-adventure movie!
Our love in mundane lives
spills laughter till our sides
burst,
till our hearts explode
sending
pieces too far off
cities
shell-shock
amnesic
and hungry for new horse races
with a spotted Mustang.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
Steer clear, there's no middle man here
just the main man Reeve.
Dont be naive to what limits and highs this kid can achieve,
he's flying through the skies, no room for compromise nor second prize when it comes to the plan he has to devise.
He is simply blessed, a golden child, a manifest,
a perfect being with unquestionable finesse.
With indistinguishable poise and stature,
far superior to that of others in every aspect possible......
Whom walk the earth as just mere mortals
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Thirty years ago today, millions of people were surprised.
Christopher Reeve fell off a horse and he was paralyzed.
Reeve's accident occurred on May the 27th of 1995.
The accident didn't **** him, he was able to survive.
He survived for nine years and he spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair.
Life was once great for Christopher but his life became so unfair.
When he had his accident, he was paralyzed from the neck down.
When he died, I felt sad because he would no longer be around.
Even though Reeve got hurt, he didn't give up, he went on with his life.
We had to say goodbye to him and we had to say goodbye to his wife.
People were devastated when his life came to an end.
Christopher wasn't just an actor, he was also a friend.
May 27, 2025
May 27, 2025 at 7:36 AM UTC
of events in the past
each person has his or hers
own memories
different of perception
not alike
the occurrences
not recalled
in a sameness
of
light
which of the story's
do you believe
as neither are of one
united reeve
an account of a tale
has many sides
they vary in the wash
of the tides
what eye view of an episode
we reckon to be accurate
depends on the information
written in our recollection slate
tis true for you
tis not for me
the story
affixed
in
our
individual
memories
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC