"rended" poems
What Hope Remained?
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
When putrid plumes dulled morning into night
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent,
As mortals wept and earthborn angels went
With downcast eyes to clamber heavens height.
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
When panicked sirens wailed a lost lament
And backs were bowed beneath ungodly weight,
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent
As boots bore souls up treadmills burnt and bent
To scale a void devoid of dawning light.
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
For those in sight of angels heaven sent
Atop the world to aid their mortal plight,
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent.
When wingless brethren conquered feared ascent
To gift last hope to all who saw their might:
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent.
In The Fall
I chanced upon a stranger in the fall,
Cosmetic garb of office black and white
Portraying calm demeanor of his plight
As shadows panicked on a stricken wall,
And oft' I find my mind in numb recall
To look upon that helpless human kite
Who tumbled from the terrors of a height,
Yet graceful as an eagle in a stall
Before it plummets earthward -- 'Neath the pall
Of twisted steel rended by follied flight,
That stranger lives forever in the light
Suspended in iconic timeless sprawl.
I wonder, in the briefness of his fall,
Did he derive the meaning of it all?
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
Howls in the night
cross the threshold of savagery
Coordinated hate
of a hundred jackboots
stomping faces in the streets
Storefronts smashed
Crushed glass crunching
under the feet of unbridled violence
Doors bashed in
Swinging sledges smash
Women and children dragged
kicking and screaming from their homes
Beaten unconscious
then beaten while unconscious
Clothes rended
flesh roughly groped
******* mashed
by laughing barbarians
with teeth made of knives
Innocence of a generation *****
in a single evening
Ransacking hands
strangle the wealth of a culture
One thousand synagogues in flames
light cast magnified in the carpet of crystals
sparkle of hellish brilliance
Ninety one lives snuffed
they were the lucky ones
Avoided the camps
where greater horrors were wrought
in the forges of torment
from the pounding of flesh
beneath hatred like hammers
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC
Lo! I lament. Fallen is the sixfold Star:
Slain is Asar.
O twinned with me in the womb of Night!
O son of my bowels to the Lord of Light!
O man of mine that hast covered me
From the shame of my virginity!
Where art thou? Is it not Apep thy brother,
The snake in my womb that am thy mother,
That hath slain thee by violence girt with guile,
And scattered thy limbs on the Nile?
Lo! I lament. I have forged a whirling Star:
I seek Asar.
O Nepti, sister! Arise in the dusk
From thy chamber of mystery and musk!
Come with me, though weary the way,
To bring back his life to the rended clay!
See! are not these the hands that wove
Delight, and these the arms that strove
With me? And these the feet, the thighs
That were lovely in mine eyes?
Lo! IO lament. I gather in my car
Thine head, Asar.
And this -is this not the trunk he rended?
But -oh! oh! oh! -the task transcended,
Where is the holy idol that stood
For the god of thy queen's beatitude?
Here is the tent -but where is the pole?
Here is the body -but where is the soul?
Nepti, sister, the work is undone
For lack of the needed One!
Lo! I lament. There is no god so far
As mine Asar!
There is no hope, none, in the corpse, in the tomb.
But these -what are these that war in my womb?
There is vengeance and triumph at last of Maat
In Ra-Hoor-Khut and in Hoor-pa-Kraat!
Twins they shall rise; being twins they are one,
The Lord of the Sword and the Son of the Sun!
Silence, coeval colleague of the Voice,
The plumes of Amoun -rejoice!
Lo! I rejoice. I heal the sanguine scar
Of slain Asar.
I was the Past, Nature the Mother.
He was the Present, Man my brother.
Look to the Future, the Child -oh paean
The Child that is crowned in the Lion-Aeon!
The sea-dawns surge an billow and break
Beneath the scourge of the Star and the Snake.
To my lord I have borne in my womb deep-vaulted
This babe for ever exalted.
2.2k
Writing is easier than yelling out every emotions
Writing is calming, a soothing voice –your own- dictating what to write
Writing is an escape.
Your thoughts move from their dark place inside your head,
Travel
Down
your neck,
Down
Your arm,
Feel the tension of your wrist as they go up, up,
Up into your waiting hands, fingers ready to translate the vague into the precise
Words tumbling down the ink of your pen.
Writing is the blade I slash across my wrist to feel the pain
Writing makes it visible.
My emotions.
Raw.
On paper.
Right. There.
Like a line of blood dripping down the numbness of a hand rended useless by the power of sharp blades.
My blood is my ink, and each day I bleed a little bit more onto the page, a little bit
l o n g e r
Each day I shed my invicible suit to put on my poet cloak
For a few hours I pretend I'm a writer
I bleed to death everynight and then come back to life the next morning
I die everynight I peaceful sleep and when I wake up the blood is new.
The blood is fresh.
The blood is black.
And I bleed again and again my anger, my sadness, my incomprehension, my fear, my love, my hate, my loneliness, my grand feelings
I bleed them out
My blood is my ink.
My blade is my pen.
My pain are the words.
My redemption is the beauty of my pain
I lie down and realize my blood doesn't disappear, doesn't wash out.
No one can erase my death.
Because I am once again alive
And I will bleed forever.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
On the deserted riverbank
lay the painted boat
his youth glistening in the half baked noon,
the river wide beckoned him to taste her depth,
skim her stretch and see her other side.
The boat was raring to go
riding the wide river's tide
masts high up full steam
to wherever she would carry him.
At each call of the river
his oars rended a soulful cry,
the river echoed him back
holding into her his futile longing
her waves wreathing in agony on the shore
if that could fetch him to her embrace.
The half baked noon
dull empty unchanging
knew
there wasn't a way he could ever launch into her....
the painted boat on the painted river!
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
the Lord is sore
I can tell because he no longer lingers at the table after dinner,
and falsely claims the wine is tasteless
('tepid as the red sea in december' as he puts it)
no more rummy either (he never answered me
about the four-card problem)
instead he retires to his room,
half yawning half talking he utters,
"oh, I think I should like to haaaay dowmmmn"
or
"I'm afraid its all downstream for me... nighty nigh you sons of
Beeehhhhhnjamins"
I say he is smitten with boughs and therefore withered
its probably just old age, he doesn't realize it but he's getting on
"Holy Mount Vesuvius!" comes a scream from his room "not since the
Land of Egypt."
"what is it, what is wrong my Lord?" I implore
"my crown," he stammers, "my crown of flowers is fading"
"I'll look into it in the morning O' Great Lord of Right Judgment"
I say offhandedly, hoping for no rebuke
"what's that you say?"
"I say in the morning, for morning, by morning; we shall not be vexed by it now"
hoping some old carnage will soothe him
"be not mockers" he quips
"I love you Lord" I say turning off the lamp near his bed
"I love you too my Kadesh"
"to thee o' Lord, I shut the door"
he waves me off.
a city, once great, falls
and vanishes,
a ruin-mound now stands
occupied by consumption
one time when we were alone
he asked me to sit in front of him
he asked me to stare in his eyes
what could this old man want now, I thought
"just look at me"
so I stared into his eyes
and so deeply did I fall
into peace
until tears rended a river.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
to welcome my fall to earth's sweet rest
after heat of delirious growth
to call myself inside
and care for what's living
to thrive though missing sweet free moving breeze
safe shuttered from starlight and sun
to mend what I've rended
and re-imagine colors that swirl into one
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 11:34 PM UTC
Heart had been rended into a void.
Something ghastly.
A change had occurred, and the liberty ahead was suffocating.
This was a hurt, a reeling, preceding an exceedingly painful bout of shaking and the occasion of its call was not you at all.
Quite the opposite, actually.
You were the lofty feeling before a fall.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 5:20 AM UTC
While I Weep ...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hold me while I weep
Hold me while I weep
Only allow my tears to drench your hands as you cradle me
Hold me while I weep
While I shake and cough against you
Hold me while I weep
I will not ask you to fly to the sun
Nor build me a castle in the sky
Do not dry my tears nor try to make
that which has rended me right once more
Do not weep with me
I ask you only
To hold me while I weep
Solitaire @ 2007
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
There he was
"He"
But him
Peeking around corners
That house
The one on Balcom Lane?
Not quite.
The mammoth wooden doors and startling interiors
A mesh of the Waco mansion
and the Motyckas', God knows why.
Fancy houses are vessels for empty thoughts.
Oh, but there he was,
God of my past
I can't deny it.
He searched for me. He
seduced me.
But I knew.
I knew.
He wasn't unbetrothed.
No, she was there, somewhere.
Ah, yes, she interrogated me.
And I...
Was I honest?
My body ached for him.
Just like the night before.
How did he find her so fast?
Why was there dead air on the phone that night?
I think I just felt the wind shake my house.
God is blowing it all away.
My memory too, it drops away in pieces.
So I grabbed that pen.
I mean this one.
I hold it; it's "this."
I see it; it's "that."
But neither exist, neither are, right?
Thank you, Timaeus.
You showed me how the world once was,
how men once saw it to be.
But now, the "gruesome houses."
He's still there.
His face.
Just barely though.
Oh, life, how I love your perpetual motion, replacing each moment with the next, before I even know the first is gone!
sometimes.
But then there are the ones when I wish it would all slow down.
Or worse, turn back.
The will moves only forward.
Always ahead & never behind.
That's what I control.
Not 2007.
Heh, he didn't need me.
It ripped my heart out & rended it apart.
I do love brown ales though.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
A heart so callused as not to feel
Scars too deep for wounds to heal
A soul of kindred spirit seeks
The one, the same, however meek
And so a rip in flesh began
And blood, down tattered souls, it ran
For one to feast on demons grown
Gnawing, both through flesh and bone
Crashing casings over pain
The scars are what the feast remains
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
-
While I Weep ...
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hold me while I weep
Hold me while I weep
Only allow my tears to drench your hands as you cradle me
Hold me while I weep
While I shake and cough against you
Hold me while I weep
I will not ask you to fly to the sun
Nor build me a castle in the sky
Do not dry my tears nor try to make
that which has rended me right once more
Do not weep with me
I ask you only
To hold me while I weep
Solitaire @ 2007
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 11:57 AM UTC
Do you know what it's like
To give someone your all.
To stand in their kiln,
To burn as kindle for the fire in their heart.
How long has it been?
And you still feel phantom pain.
You still feel the fire tearing you apart,
And your first instinct is to swat your arms,
At nothing.
It's a selfish act.
You can't deny that.
You've been burned.
Chained. Beaten. Mocked. Drowned.
You still feel his presence,
even when he couldn't be further away.
You feel the water on your wrists.
You feel your skin being eaten to ash,
And washed away down into a stale pond.
It lingers with you.
It's a scar on your heart.
In your mind.
That can't help but be picked at.
Because all you ever want now,
Is for it to be gone.
So you stand where it all started.
Ground zero.
You drop your lighter in the fuel.
Watch your past burn away.
And when everything that hurt you has been rended to ash,
You fade with the flame,
To rise anew.
Maybe you've been made undead,
but it's just helped you become the phoenix
You always were.
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 12:43 AM UTC
(A Five-in-One...)
The seasons have been dreary,
My eyes are now weary...
I have read a lot, though i still read...
peace, following a good deed
seems so far-fetched..
though the days have stretched...
a tiny voice, i hear...
a whisper, and i quiver
telling me of malcontent...asking me what i want
what i am looking for...for long, not just this instant
there's time, it said
of a road i must tread...
something is lacking
can't explain this wanting...
it unsettles,
i end up in frazzles...
a feeling of vacuity arises
signals the inception of crises,
even more magnified ......
as i search my heart deep inside
looking through my soul
almost sure to find a hole
it must have been rended
waiting, to be mended
must patch it up with new beginnings,
anticipating enhanced endings...
these thoughts leave me with a sigh, questioning,
one that is continuing... never ending...
WHAT MUST I DO?
WHERE DO I GO?
HOW FAR?
NO GREAT LAUGHS LATELY...
ALL EMPTY, THESE ROARS AND GIGGLES...
MISSING THOSE BEAMS...
MY INNER SMILES OF JOY
PEACE, CONTENTMENT...
far...or near
by air, land or sea,
i shall travel that road
i must seek the light,
the voice,
the answer...
to give way to
the winter of my discontent...
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
Weary gaze's attention
drifts between dimensions,
mind eyes' pensive lenses
pondering past tenses,
my five upended senses
blended somewhere
in suspension.
Memory's tender reverie apprehended,
seeking splendid spring times
sweet scented;
garden's greener entrances
no fences,
nor damage from
relentless tempests
long since lamented.
When did
rhododendron's appendages,
flowering in a tremendous energy,
ascending to a trembling crescendo
end in
sour fruits of limes, clementines, and lemons?
Tulips' two lips
now whispering a slender mention.
Who else had rose blossoms befriended but their bodies' ornamented thorny brethren?
Men, lent their every hands extended
left with wounds weeping,
wrenched asunder, rended,
recoiling resented.
Pen's river runs
in quintessence,
drenches in each sentence;
blood can't cleanse
despite dispensing in
perennial attempts
as if gravity's
contention depended,
gentle tendrils built
tall walls defenses,
stems became cemented,
and how long have I been
within this glen hidden?
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 7:07 PM UTC
Collapsible lungs
Bendable fingers
Removable teeth
But the pain still lingers
It feels like we weren't made long for this world.
Pluckable eyes
Breakable jaws
If we look past the lies
We know it's because
We know we weren't made long for this world
Carve up your pound of flesh
Take from me my last breath
Cause I'm a stitched up limping mess
And only you can cure my death
Inflatable pride
Debatable truth
Preferable lies
Reimbursable youth
I know I'm not made long for this world.
Surrendered pride
Rendered truth
We rended light
Cause the darkness is cool
I know you weren't long for this world
I Carved up your pound of flesh
Stole from you your last breath
You were a limping bleeding mess
And you carried off my death
The transaction was made
But no one but me
Could say fair trade
And walk away ungrieved
I don't deserve to be long for his world
I don't deserve to be long for his world
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 6:28 AM UTC