"reproaches" poems
These hands have clawed with blind eyes
Chipped nails on fingers working on knots and ties
Fingers that recklessly point to reproaches and blames
Never to self, righteousness through arrogant claims
Now aware, these palms have covered my face in contempt
For they've partook in activities; indulgent and unkempt
Rubbed skin raw on life's coarse sandpaper
Ever searching for the coming of the unanticipated saviour
Broken flesh hopeful for newly formed skin
Like tattered souls pleading for absolution of sin
Only skin deep but unfavourable experiences do fester
Expecting the proverbial infection to blow over
Here they are, held unclenched and riddled with pocks
Weathered and sore from time's infinite mocks
Maybe thereafter, will be awaited healing
Perhaps soon after, I will be forgiving
See now... Hands faced up, parted as halves
Asking not for alms but instead your acceptance as salve
Take into yours, these knackered, gnarled up palms
Let your porcelain-like touch relieve like life reforming balm
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
Midnight approaches
Tick tick tock
Won't someone stop
The Doomsday Clock
From striking oil
Drilling rock
Thirsting soil
Aftershock
Deserted hourglass of sand
Shifts to resource hungry hand
Tyrants of time assume command
Greed consumes
This wasted land
First come the roaches
Tick tick tock
The bugs can't stop
The Doomsday Clock
With beehive brains
No voice to talk
And droning minds
Comprise the flock
As lone wolves feast
On sheep they stalk
Then fear encroaches
Tick tick tock
Too scared to stop
The Doomsday Clock
As violence claims
Each city block
Blood drawn on streets
Like sidewalk chalk
When Hatred's loaded
Gun is cocked
Beyond reproaches
Tick tick tock
How could they stop
The Doomsday Clock
When despots trade
In human stock
Waging war
Upon this rock
As profits slaughter
More livestock
The end approaches
Tick tick tock
No hope to stop
The Doomsday Clock
As poisoned skies
Corrode this rock
With toxic lies
Controlling hourglass of sand
Clenched by Atlas choking hand
Titans of industry command
Still Chronos rules
This dying land
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
I have a friend who still believes in heaven.
Not a stupid person, yet with all she knows, she literally talks to God.
She thinks someone listens in heaven.
On earth she's unusually competent.
Brave too, able to face unpleasantness.
We found a caterpillar dying in the dirt, greedy ants crawling over it.
I'm always moved by disaster, always eager to oppose vitality
But timid also, quick to shut my eyes.
Whereas my friend was able to watch, to let events play out
According to nature. For my sake she intervened
Brushing a few ants off the torn thing, and set it down
Across the road.
My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains
My aversion to reality. She says I'm like the child who
Buries her head in the pillow
So as not to see, the child who tells herself
That light causes sadness-
My friend is like the mother. Patient, urging me
To wake up an adult like herself, a courageous person-
In my dreams, my friend reproaches me. We're walking
On the same road, except it's winter now;
She's telling me that when you love the world you hear celestial music:
Look up, she says. When I look up, nothing.
Only clouds, snow, a white business in the trees
Like brides leaping to a great height-
Then I'm afraid for her; I see her
Caught in a net deliberately cast over the earth-
In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set;
From time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall.
It's this moment we're trying to explain, the fact
That we're at ease with death, with solitude.
My friend draws a circle in the dirt; inside, the caterpillar doesn't move.
She's always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image
Capable of life apart from her.
We're very quiet. It's peaceful sitting here, not speaking, The composition
Fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air
Going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering-
It's this stillness we both love.
The love of form is a love of endings.
2.6k
Be my baby canopy,
cover me in emerald joy
in gales and gusts, sprays of rain,
Be the shield I shan't employ.
By the seaside running out
of staggered breath, though you know
how cherry my cheeks do get;
hurry, kiss them while they glow.
Be the leaves upon my arms
Flutter, whisper, rustle down
Till all I am is but a noun
held in your mouth, your throaty charm.
Brave the hurricanes with me,
I'll be the one who will not fly,
You'll be the baby's lullaby,
above the rain, so anchoring.
Watch the window, hear it creak
above the pitter patter plain,
bathe in the sorrow of the rain,
come up cleaner, with a squeak.
Be the breath upon the hearth
breathe deeply so your lungs are warm,
feel orange among the grungy storm;
grow a greenhouse in your heart.
Follow me out to the Mar,
walking down into the deep end
and down reproaches Heaven will send;
the solemn tear drops of a star.
Up we go, and all around,
Spin with me, collapse and cry,
Until the clouds do say 'Goodbye',
All we hear are hearts that pound.
In the aftermath, it shines,
Angelic pools, a chorus clear,
The silver light plays softly here
like no one once had shed a tear.
Now my heart chokes water, dear,
So hold your pluviophile near.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
Certainly our city with its byres of poverty down to
The river's edge, its cathedral, its engines, its dogs;
Here is the cosmopolitan cooking
And the light alloys and the glass.
Built by the conscience-stricken, the weapon-making,
By us. Wild rumours woo and terrify the crowd,
Woo us. Betrayers thunder at, blackmail
Us. But where now are They.
Who without reproaches showed us what our vanity
has chosen,
Who pursued understanding with patience like a ***
had unlearnt
Our hatred and towards the really better
World had turned their face?
Who knows? The peaked and violent faces are exalted,
The feverish prejudiced lives do not care, and lost
Their voice in the flutter of bunting, the glittering
Brass of our great retreat,
And the malice of death. For the wicked card is dealt and
The sinister tall-hatted botanist stoops at the spring
With his insignificant phial and looses
The plague on the ignorant town.
Under their shadows the pitiful subalterns are sleeping;
The moon is usual; the necessary lovers touch;
The river is alone and the trampled flower;
And through years of absolute cold
The planets rush towards Lyra in a lion's charge. Can
Hate so securely bind? Are they dead here? Yes.
And the wish to wound has the power. And tomorrow
Comes. It's a world. It's a way.
2.3k
Our love is so special,There is just none like ours...
what we hold is a truth; others can only hope for it
You sleep with me always.... each and every night..
you're always so quiet, hold no reproaches... make no remaks.
That's why I love you and no one could love you more than I...
You are my only treasure, my love for you has no measure
Sometimes when I come home drunk with anguish
you let me come close to you ......we kiss and embrace softly
But you fall fast asleep... and you dont feel a thing...
I Still hold you close to me... and sleep with you tightly
But later when I awake... you are no longer with me..
And only my pillow is there
Sometimes when I see you...... so quiet and lonely...
That's when I break down... and become like any other...
I wanna cry out to you My Love I want to beg you
" please come back to me"
my whole breath and soul is meant just to keep loving you...
But my time keeps passing my cries and pains forgotten...
Like the wind they keep blowing.... forever lost and stolen..
That's why when I come home......drunk with anguish
you let me come close to you ......we kiss embrace softly
But you fall fast asleep..... and you dont feel a thing...!
I Still hold you close to me and sleep with you tightly..!
But later when I awake you are no longer with me..
All am left with is just my pillow
Forever only my pillow
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 7:56 PM UTC
with each passing day, I understand less and less, for
who could ever claim to know it all, yet, the simplicity
of our base-ic basest instincts makes evil so easily attractive,
that now, I forgive almost nothing, anyone for the cruelty
inherent in on the surfacial skin of our normalcy, so easily,
revealed, and reveled in, wrecks me, and the poetry
sparks are not doused, but wick and ember shriveled
oh the irony, that foolish me should write of the
commandment to love just as the world displays
old levels of hate historically deep… .I am hated,
to many who would know me only as Jew,
and this refresher course in my brain, reminds me,
that love thy neighbor as thyself, can morph into a
generational opposite, that my former degree of comfort,
beliefs, was only skin deep…and Tolstoy was a naïf, a romantic,
a royal, who hoped for the best in each man, and that
cannot ne achieved for hate is so easy digestible, so sweet a treat
for humans, who desire no compass other than simple baseness
to know which direction to take….
————————————————————————————-
”There can be only one permanent revolution—a moral one; the regeneration of the inner man. How is this revolution to take place? Nobody knows how it will take place in humanity, but every man feels it clearly in himself. And yet in our world everybody thinks of changing humanity, and nobody thinks of changing himself."
Tolstoy
”To perform evil deeds a person must discover “a justification for his actions,” so that he can regard stealing, humiliating and killing as good. “Macbeth’s self-justifications were feeble,” and so conscience restrained him. He had no ideology, Solzhenitsyn observes, nothing like “anti-imperialism” or “decolonization” to allay pangs of guilt. Solzhenitsyn concludes: “Ideology—that is what gives evil-doing its long-sought justification and gives the evil-doer the necessary steadfastness and determination . . . so that he won’t hear reproaches and curses but receive praise and honors.”
Solzhenitsyn
Oct 20, 2023
Oct 20, 2023 at 3:08 PM UTC
And He said to me: “My grace is sufficient for you. For virtue is perfected in weakness.” And so, willingly shall I glory in my weaknesses, so that the virtue of Christ may live within me.
Because of this, I am pleased in my infirmity: in reproaches, in difficulties, in persecutions, in distresses, for the sake of Christ. For when I am weak, then I am powerful.
I have become foolish; you have compelled me. For I ought to have been commended by you. For I have been nothing less than those who claim to be above the measure of Apostles, even though I am nothing.
For what is there that you have had which is less than the other churches, except that I myself did not burden you? Forgive me this injury.
Behold, this is the third time I have prepared to come to you, and yet I will not be a burden to you. For I am seeking not the things that are yours, but you yourselves. And neither should the children store up for the parents, but the parents for the children.
And so, very willingly, I will spend and exhaust myself for the sake of your souls, loving you more, while being loved less.
My grace is sufficient for you. For virtue is perfected in weakness.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
Chamomile lines
In a cup filled with sorrow
As they swirl, rise and burst your eyes burn on.
Ice-blue, yet warm
As the morning in winter
Feels like I'm breathing dragons and walking through fields of silver.
Spider web catches
The rays of the sun
Rising on the horizon, is it called a horizon because of the rising?
Hawks drop and whirl
It's all so romantic
And it makes me feel sick to my stomach because I'm just a wandering girl...
You're a beast in the den
You're a wolf in the lair
You're the wood for my fire
You're the breeze in my hair
But I never asked for a den
And I wanted the lair for myself
And my fire should be burning with coal not wood.
And the breeze in my hair? Well that's just annoying
The affection you lavish on me feels like cloying
Reproaches from some kind of horrible clown
All lathered and slathered in wet eiderdown
It's leering towards me, its horrible face
Lifts into a smile, an ugly grimace
And I realise suddenly
That my mind is painting grotesque scenes
Over the beauty of the one that I love
But then how do I stop it?
How do I stop it?
How do I stop it?
You make me feel putrid
We laughed when he said that
Yet love lies niggling at my insides like a blister
That I don't want
And yet it's mine
Mine
All mine
And I want to keep it
Forever.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
her fingers trace a delicate pattern
on a photograph with her soft finger
while her lips caressed his name with the tender care
of desperate loneliness and remembrance of
of carefree passion
now missed
with heartfelt ache
but hand in hand with such sorrowful faces
always comes the bitter reproaches
for self and the enemy
sketches of who she thought he was emerge
slowly from her angry words
and flow uneven thru our conversation
as my views of her changing nature
etched into the wall
with deep and wide hand-tool
portrait of our failure
portraits self delusion
finally faced with a heart killing sorrow
she trys to make me do ****** with her
i leave her sitting there
and flee on foot
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
Your outgrown shadow still follows you faithfully, with due silence; you still stand hesitantly, putting one foot after the other, pondering over the paraphernalia of your wasteful, shipwrecked life, because the ethereal telephone voice has frozen into a silence; the mill wheels of Time are slowly grinding you down, just like anyone else who was not lazy to scrape up some chestnuts for himself first.
Between stifled reproaches, you still excuse yourself with your childish naivety, you. what haven't you done for this, or for that vile, nothing promise. Confrontation is in many cases unavoidable; not only in the showcase of exhibitionist superficiality - but rather in the depths of spiritual immersion, because it reflects the grotesque-nonsense Present.
The unspoken truth grows inside you, consumed, which you deliberately keep to yourself so that you won't be fired or advised to leave one day. - Inside, it would have been better if you had lined yourself with patience, so that you could have faced the petty weaknesses of others more boldly. You are standing in front of gates locked with a hammer-heavy key, but you have already passed forty years, and you can no longer turn back at will to change what you thought could be changed; because you tremble inside like overstretched strings, and you are rather just naively and childishly ashamed of yourself, you cannot protest, since the permanent, corrosive dark river of bitterness flows through your overworked veins.
And no matter how firmly you stand on the foundations of your selfish protest that you believed to be stable, you remain alone, so that you don't have to deny yourself endlessly again!
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 12:32 AM UTC
alone
With a lot
But alone
No reproaches
No hustles
but alone
In a world
Around me
are standing friends
'friends'
Alone
From an other time
they are
strangers
for me
I don't know them
And I've been knowing them
since a longtemps
They are together
They're laughing
About a joke
one I don't get
I don't want
to get
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
The most fascinating desires and activities
are often times prohibited,
they demand us to love, to procreate and
then, detach us from this thought,
a need which we occult bellow a
tender, gruesome shade of indignity.
They demand us to work, and gladly we do it,
we are unsatisfied, yet no effort so far has succeeded
and not submitting to the voice is appropriate so long as
you remain unnoticed.
For then you'll be dragged into their cages of insolence,
Are not all but one single being?
How many degrees and efforts are required to rule over
another one's heart?
The heart is its own,
it knows better than anyone else
the solemn, perpetual voice,
amongst the others, escaping breathlessly,
uttering madness.
Yet, after the world has sunken into
a frigid state,
it is there - beating;
even if you try to silence it,
its presence prolongs.
No one is capable of ruling over a mind or heart,
or whatever terminology pleases you,
so long as it is that pure grasp of
eternity's profound breath under your caved chest,
that feeling, that very one,
the one that holds the truths and passings
of existence, yet it remains silent.
Though undecipherable, it is understood,
It is felt.
It does not follow the reproaches of
the mind, for rather,
it governs it,
and entices it in such way,
that it allows it to be free,
the latter speaks a language of its own.
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
My dear damsel of glaciers and scuttling roaches
In Andean splendor you startle my heart.
Still seeking a summit, your coldness reproaches;
So little I know you – in whole or in part.
Now that winter recedes as the springtime encroaches
Envision a greening of sorcery’s art.
Lighten up, dark enchantress of icy approaches;
I hope and I pray global warming may start…
Does another bad sonnet addressed to her highness
Allow for a thaw to begin in her soul?
Get over your winter of taciturn shyness!
Or is frozen entombment your element, witch?
This old necrophile waits for a smile (or a twitch).
Hell, I’d marry your corpse – but mere friendship’s my goal.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
Alone. Between lonely hearts
understanding misunderstood others
with attention, my password
the master key in my genes
Kicking I already did it
not yet capable of anything else
as a baby, as a grownup
no one should unlearn it
no one should claim it
when he feels hurt
by hurt people, wronged
by the world
of sham adults
Come, I'm coming, just swallow
your reproaches
for a kiss
Oct 2, 2022
Oct 2, 2022 at 3:38 AM UTC
And would it have been better, after all,
after these months full of suggestions
leading all ways to find the one
that would
perhaps
point to a chance
for change in stasis,
running the risk it be
revealed as but another dry oasis
adding to those we left behind?
Would it have been less painful
to postpone, again, the action,
have suffering continue as before
when it appears to have become a habit,
but does not seem, for that,
less of a pain that daily tears your heart?
How to improve the second-best solution,
feeling the best is out of reach for now?
How not to hurt the other,
driven to take the first step
out of tune
in the prevailing dance of possibilities
that threatens to go round and round again?
How to let temporary logic
rule over whispering love,
how to ignore my pain
that looks at me out of your eyes
in shock and disbelief?
How to explain
that I do love you even more, not less -
when your blank look cuts me
in half and lets me know that you
believe old fears have now come true?
So, would it have been better,
after all,
after the pain, the hard words
and the crying, the mutual reproaches,
to have left things unsaid, untouched
and stumbling as they were?
I do not know.
If it turn out
this change was for the worse
and not the better,
I will have learned
maybe you, too
and we can take our steps
into our futures
sadder and wiser
for all the years
spent separately
together
* * *
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 5:20 AM UTC
Oh sweet bird who grants
my dreams, I pray to you
for sweet guidance.
Instill strength, where my memory
proves weak. May my memories
be vivid, and hang thick
where the reproaches of time
may deter them.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
With stifled tightened lips
we swap an icy bitter silence
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
“…or if we must be wakeful, cheerful…”
-from St. Thomas More’s evening prayer in A Man for all Seasons
Soft, healing sleep now rolls away, away
One’s senses flicker unreliably
The electronic weather panel glows
The CPAP whispers a leaking-air hissssssss
Awake. And why? The day was cruel enough
And now the night reproaches with things done
And things not done, all mixed in raw reproach
Life-choices laughing, mocking, taunting
Perhaps sleepless Macbeth can tell us why
With mirth displaced, all through these haunted hours
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 3:37 PM UTC
サタン:
and you will know me...
by my reproaches...
my ridicule...
my condescending humour
fabric of riddle...
you will claim to know me
for my love for
the mediocre...
you will come to love me
for my adventure into
your unwillingness...
to.. seize tthe prospect
of... this little adventure we
are demanded to share...
between all.. that's time:
before us!
for as much as i love you...
i'l be the first: to thrist
having to... disgruntle you:
in relation to me...
in relation to that...
awe inspiring! grace!
in who's presence all democracies of men:
decry themselves...
and all return to
the cauldron of:
beginning with the heave
of the pyramid...
saved by the sunrise and the song of birds...
can i at least: be... deemed...
a... welcome surprise?
let me just check...
haven't i been subjected to...
a case... of... identifying wrong...
of a stolen identity?
if i have been...
let the ravens rain down fire: with their
croaking!
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 11:14 PM UTC
The shadows sit,
under the words, to torture,
to bring,
perse memories.
A downfall,
precedes,
before the crash of
existence.
Ah, you know,
what makes your saints
blue? The sematic shooting
stars?
The anxiety was,
how to stop thinking
of becoming,
a vigilante.
The mid-night raid
was most unsuccessful attempt
to ****
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC
I will not say
that my life was a shipwreck,
because I never forget to bring a pious tribute,
I'm always humming, even in the lifeboat,
singing in sad verses, but with so much fervor;
that for your rose I wanted to go back,
but the door was already closed.
And your pictures...
I put them in a scrapbook,
hoping not to seek love in reproaches,
in indifference, and I am able to make
my kind of review of life,
which in appearance should be clear,
without any minimal error,
wanting to be the only ambassador
of your heart and your body.
I will not say
that my shy eyes have also loved your eyes
from the first day of the spring when we met,
that through red roses and blooming bushes
secrets were lost in the air,
winking from the back of some delicate leaves,
and I saw two fireflies dancing,
trying to apologize for spreading the love
among the hopeless,
those who were rolling their tears of rain
in their exuberance,
softened by the perfume of the night
until it cracked for a new day,
with cheery souls,
wanting to make innocent jokes.
I will not say
that my elegant, velvety hand,
with tanned skin now, like bitter chocolate
cracks its unhappiness like a too heavy satchel,
and leaves it as a warranty in the desert of monotony,
that my hair was like the feathers of a croaking raven,
but invisible spiders put their laces around my eyes,
while I had my lips whispering your name, sighing forever,
loaded with a tone of sincere, tender syllables.
But I'm gonna tell you
I've been snoozing in the abyss of love
and this caused us a temporary blindness
in the heart and reason,
and without wanting,
two tears that have been restrained for so long,
one of yours, one of mine,
made our souls united,
and we thought we were able to go both further,
not knowing whether, how, when, where
to play one last card.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC