"requiems" poems
My mirror hangs stoic,
as silently it absorbs all it could with unbiased eyes.
All it receives under the day's sun.
Yet it never stores...
Not memories recent...
Not images perceived from the distant past...
My mirror
exists in the now.
It gives me only the present.
It reveals unequivocally the ground
upon which I stand.
It divulges only in the brutal and honest truth.
The kind of truth photographs could never tell.
Today it showed me what I've been seeing
with eyes half shut.
It showed me that,
I am older now.
Older than I was yesterday.
Older than I was a second ago.
Every wrinkle told a silent tale.
Every tale left quiet scars.
Every scar sang requiems of past mistakes.
And every mistake costed me my youth.
My mirror showed me that...
I'm older now because I've learnt much.
And I'm learning much more
because I'm older now.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
I am so very broke, I can’t afford to pay it thought.
Fettered in a cage by poverty, left only to pray and rot.
The feathers of my soul have been tarred and stained by life.
So much so, I'm not sure if they'll ever again shine bright.
This Bird in my heart used to sing for my hopes and dreams;
Mourning every tragedy with requiems that gleamed.
A little Canary to be all mine until the very end of time,
Staving off this cold world and reminding me I'm fine.
This poverty starved her slow and deep, down to the very core.
Melodies that once remedied despair gone forevermore.
Nowadays, all I can ever do is reminisce about that yellow bird;
How she'd bring warmth to my life's cold hell of a blur.
The way our voices would harmonize on little notes;
Prophecies of a better future foretold from our nook.
That's why I still cling to the distant sound of their words,
Because they ramble on in me until nothing seems absurd.
I like to think she still sings sometimes, though no sound is heard.
That music of hope rings in my mind still, all thanks to Bird.
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 4:31 PM UTC
Glances in passing and nothingness,
I'll drop out and take up gardening.
And you are so cool, all German bred,
and sometimes braided. I see you, so
well-read and rather regal. ***** blonde
nuclear, alabaster, aluminum rods -
electricity dripping from the soles of
your shoes. This classroom, my own
ink blotted incubator, the radiator sits,
flatlining. Your jaw as two razor blades,
your shoulder blades, broad, gentle.
I wonder how you look in the morning,
How you look at yourself in the mirror.
Do you practice smiling, and
how often do you wash your hair? Oh,
you exist in glass, and I will not try to
know you. Leaving this poem limited,
and yet. Your jam drop mouth houses all
well-spoken soliloquies, radical requiems.
So, what would happen if we brushed
shoulders in passing? Your little accent.
Accident, we appeared in the same
huddled mass. Literary plugs in the
drain, and your new American. So,
why don't we just go walking on
airplane wings? Some transcontinental
affair. Frequent flyer ******* stranger.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
【A Mosquito, Killer’s kisses】
By Angel. XJ 09/08/2019
Gentle, but deeply ...
Mosquito whispers to herself :
Will I have the last kiss with him tonight?
Shall I forget how much it hurt,
when he left from my sight?
Shall I ever speak to him agian
I am not a killer, only I love to kiss,
gentle, but deeply...
Mosquito toned up her silky voice,
she was singing to herself,
in the spring a paradise,
in the summer a hell,
and in the autumn a heaven..
But is there another lonesome heart that I could kiss?
Dont keep reminding me about
The Valley of the Shadow of Death
I am no killer,
but addicted to kisses,
I am no killer, but only like to kiss
Likewise, Mozart’s requiems where hidden the code,
A mosquito’s love and destiny.
Gently, but deeply...
Mosquito stops her whisper,
No more kisses and only shows teeth,
desperation in her eyes
it pierced her bones.
With sweet, painless,
a Mosquito, killer's kisses,
gentle, but deeply...
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 3:49 PM UTC
We celebrate Juneteenth as if the war was not still being fought
Across news stations and echoes of Jefferson's dreams
The last slaves freed, but this country was never
Reconstructed, just patched up just replaced
Chains with debt, a Theseus ship of spoils pulled
From the wreckage of **** And I sit the echoes
of police sirens slung like clubs across the backs of the
Boys that sat in my classroom and wondered
Why every white person they met always had
To yell so much. As if there was nothing at all
to be exchanged besides recreating Hegel’s dialectic.
As if the only way to win was in blood. And perhaps
That is what Juneteenth really teaches us, that blood
Shed long enough will lead to ghosts, whispered
Warnings we ignore. As if a million bodies buried across
The South was not enough of a reminder that we needed
To **** to have the enslaved seen as people. We celebrate the
Day we no longer had to bury bayonets in bodies
To treat humans as humans. And they still can't see it.
Don’t realize that if you take away the last plate of food,
That if you turn off the power, that if the dollar can't fill the tank
What comes from desperation is a blood-born tsunami
full of the ghosts of dead racists and stolen children,
full of collateral damage and crackheads hooked on crystal
Sold to them by the CIA.
This country cannot swallow the blood needed to clear its cup.
But at least we gonna barbeque and vote, and Dream, and read.
At least we gonna explain to the children that this was the day
The last slaves were freed when there are still hungry mouths to feed.
At least we gonna sit with Baldwin, or Miles, or Kendrick, and unhinge
Our throats like snakes swallowing what the storms sing from suffering.
At least we can carry that truth. If only for a day. If only to free the last
Mind slaves still believing that the war is over, the dead silent,
The constitution holy, the senate fair, the president controls gas prices,
The bullet not already loaded, the school doors not already locked,
The rich earned it, the news aint propaganda, the children martyrs
The blood in our bodies not singing requiems to the pain of our ancestors,
At least we gonna pretend that this country actually free.
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 5:48 AM UTC
My brain too long has had the sound
and shape and nerve
of breathless requiems.
I want to feel my own rebirth
in time and space come throbbing through
the tips of each finger,
flooding my dry veins with rich green sap
and giving me new sight
to every sense;
making me whole again.
I want to feel my spirit as before
rippling with joy
and dancing through my skull,
so that, merged in adoration with my soul,
I may once more have that power
to fill my cup of life and love
and find this consummation
in her arms.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
A bell tolled
through the fog at dusk
to summon passage
across the roiling waters.
Through the mist
a ferry appeared
but not the same as called -
afoul with death and sorrow.
With dread our forefathers
boarded ship and listened through
that storm filled crossing
to howling wind sung requiems
echoing from distant fields at
Manassus - Shiloh - Gettysburg.
When the gales had spent their fury
they disembarked in a new land
with both far less and more
than they left on the opposite shore.
March, 2008
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
~
*Elegies
entering the lists,
in absentia,
the prayer of blood
broken at its spine.
Ah, how minding days
trampoline and joust,
like those days beyond recall
thrown into the fire.
The persistence of memory
is a series of F-stops,
the fountain of youth
a spring of well-being
and then forever nothingness.
We've reached the prophetic day,
I feel the coming wrath
in the whites of their eyes:
I dream of wires
and sleep by godless windows,
the sound of untamed rivers
chanting passions misplaced
and of the absence of belief
—the true ***** of man.
Take one last look
at the structure of morality
before it closes down.
One last look...*
~
Jun 26, 2021
Jun 26, 2021 at 12:14 PM UTC
Mozart fades into Monet,
you are the ivory keys,
piercing the silence,
tangled in echoes of an angel's voice,
awaiting to explode into the
mystery of my colours...
Hushed within a silence,
fading beyond something grey,
always meant to shimmer in sapphire.
Love is never bound to soft silhouette's,
though the fault line is so fragile,
the hush can rupture the ballast,
deteriorate the fingerprints
left, moistened, in an exploration of hands
christened in worship of the journey,
sliding between the hymnal of thighs
scarred in the numbness of quiet bruises,
aching for the press of your needs
to awaken the ache, and kiss the morning
held fresh in my eyes,
with a glance into hunger,
still fresh upon your tongue...
My soul rests within the ebony shadows,
straddling your fingers, as they
pound the song from your heartbeat
descending into a crescendo of requiems divertimento,
unraveling all of these unspoken words,
in soft whispers of your embrace
Curve the edge of my thirst
in that place where the heart stills,
that place, where the pulse quickens
so deep inside the quiet of your benediction
redeem me in the corners of your smile,
and I will paint my love in Monet,
so soft, upon the canvas of this
Mozarts serenade of us
The aftermath, a concerto,
a delicate stroke of crimson
smeared upon the ivory parchment of my skin,
"I love you" etched
beneath the wings of your song,
...I am the unspoken lyrics...
you are the music of my life
fading into the colours
...of love's last breath...
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
Arched across the balustrade,
Silently keening
A poignant, broken elegy
Unceasing refrains and requiems;
Touch of death unveiled
Ever so gentle,
Wicked in its false lies
And beguiling sweet façade.
Crimson, staining
Seeping through the depths,
Oh how savage,
Cruelly taunting, vicious.
And yet all that we saw,
Was a halo shining bright
A bringer of of life and death
In calming repose, an angel.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 6:16 AM UTC
Love is Poison
Brings such emotions
My dear, it's like drinking stronger spirits in pray
But We do know We are poisoned by
Are We fool creatures for let it in?
Are We thirsty enough to **** it in?
Roots of heart welcome it
Is it heart's pleasure?
My dear, it is growing to branches
Unseen liquid
Rushing to blood spiralling in veins
Pomping heart too often,,,
Pushing it harder,,,
Getting tired,,,,,,,
Dying,,,,,,,,,,and then
Dies,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
What hymne or ode for Us?
What We have when our hearts die?
No requiems but another poison.
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 6:38 AM UTC
I wake up
No breakfast today, life's much to fast.
A cup of coffee will do
So I set the coffee maker,
turn on the shower,
And lose myself in the mirror.
All the while watching,
Waiting.
Waiting for something
But finding nothing in the end
This morning is not my own
It belongs to someone else
I once read on a dollar bill a few years back that
“You can't sing the blues without blood on your hands,
And you've got blood on you hands.”
I spent that dollar but the blood staid on my hands.
We absolve our tender memories
Of what it was like to be children
To not have worry on our brows
To have an unstoppable imagination
which could build floating boats
and mega droids the size of skyscrapers.
An imagination that would make us all ninjas
and princesses and cow boys and girls
Each of us have saved the world with a cardboard swords
and index finger barrels and gun hammer thumbs
Now, we sing requiems of missed messages
All for a few lousy blood soaked dollars.
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 2:47 PM UTC
Stolen warmth gone for now, followed by melancholic uneventful sounds. When I walk, I walk away from seeing. Everything I thought I might've been. This skin trying to fly away from me, like a misplaced shadow searching for a body to shrug off its grief. Bending, arcing, aching thumbs that have too much memory to allow them any fun. The old time might have agreed, with the girl lost for at least three weeks. Sugar and a can of milk condensed, heated up over campfire coals in the woods near Libereć.
Twice I'm too scared to talk. After a boxing match with a raging bull. Staleness lingers over these sweating hips, where half a moon quaffs down Verdi's Requiems. I told you I'm hiding in the jungle now. Through these cufflinks I speak through a startled jowl. First that dying tone, the startling sound of a fading D Minor song. The mines of the forest grieve, until the hours born sell the rights to sleep. Taken and away from grief, where wiggling children's fingers are seen. Only to find the child was not a realty.
Let your hands make amends to me, whether you're here for the pistachio ice cream or vanilla almond dream. Princess pleas for a pauper's being.
Looks like the child bit off half it's tongue, to ignore all inquiries into where its gone. Minute games and clauses of flesh, I tie her up using her own belt. Chasing The Rockies for a festive blue, then I gorge myself while she enrolled me too. Quiet bandits filled with starlight.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC
*in a sea of adolescent geeks and nerds grown to be adolescent college corruption
holding pistol shaped hands high above their nodding heads to form an endless ocean of "W"s
lip-synching every word to the sweater song in perfect drunken harmony
i'm stranded here where i don't belong
trapped in a human cage of drunken fraternities and prudish sororities
pass the expiration date of such antiquated requiems
i stand shoulder to shoulder feeling nothing but the crushing desire to sleep
the crushing desire to escape out into the wild*
Where are we going?
We're going nowhere.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
it's true that the more poems i wrote
the more women i made feel uncomfortable.
sometimes this made me cry: it's tragic, after all,
when people don't recognise greatness.
and i am privileged to have been witness
to my tears
and the algae their oceans bloom,
and the violence of understanding so luminous
that i keep my vision black
for fear of what might
come to light in the shadow of my eye.
i think someone once told me
that i'm a good listener.
i've never heard what i wanted said.
don't forget me,
i never follow my own advice.
i find myself in some of the empty rooms
of my soul, and shout:
what are you doing?! it's mysterious outside!
i couldn't keep a cool head
and now the ice caps are doomed
which means the rainforests are doomed
which means the ocean algae is doomed
which means the permafrosts will melt
which means we're all doom bound.
of course, given Man, we're on course to be early.
the echo full halls
of my historicity are painted
with disaster
and haunted by the light
of a collapsing star.
there's always a lot playing on my mind
and i never really want tomorrow to arrive.
these depressive episodes have been put on a playlist
and set to repeat. the screen has our attention hostage.
i leave my sleep to the genesis of sunlit dreams
and let it eat the majority of day.
already sick of my share of time;
force fed countless pointless hours
of whining, pining or hiding
by my own hand that i'm biting,
and platefuls of pressure and fake faces
that i ***** behind;
binging on escapes destined to forsake me,
guzzling my own requiems to the potential for strength;
but i'm getting ahead of myself.
we share the shelter
of my lonely head.
so much to do.
my body is a temple
desecrated.
sacrificing commitments
to addictions.
such a repugnantly reactive creature.
there's a child somewhere inside of me
and he's crying his eyes out.
he annoys me so much
that i locked him away alone in a dark room.
i didn't actually lock the door,
i just told him i'm locking it
and he's too timid to be defiant
and too weak to lift a body laden with freedom.
so i just told him he's staying in that room
and i told myself to set the structure on fire.
there's a child somewhere inside of me
and he's crying his eyes out.
his incessant tears have waterlogged the entire tomb
while outside lie monuments of drought.
in search of
blue mountains,
sun hidden.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
The evenings cold enough to require a sweater
but still too warm for the biting winter wind,
to cut through our clothing
like hot knives through butter;
these are the not-quite nights,
the dusks of the almost-autumn
and the too-late summer,
with the drizzle dripping requiems
for sunshine longings and July dreams.
These are the nights that I am torn
between walking alone with the chill in my bones,
sedate with the cold but alive,
or begging for a body
to drift alongside,
radiating an unreciprocated warmth;
someone with hands stuffed
into night-bitten pockets,
too cool and stiff to really chatter
but hoping for the shared sympathy
of frozen, rain-speckled skin.
We are gliding across the fallen leaves--
the dying brethren of the trees--
that crackle slow beneath our feet
like summer candy wrappers, drifting.
But we’re still slowly freezing,
shrugging threadbare shoulders
under threadworn sweaters
that still reek of the past.
And we’re still gently waltzing,
disinterested fingers on uninteresting waists
trampling scarlets and golds under
careless heels in three-four beats.
As the twilight fades into ink,
a hollow, whispering breeze reminds
of the clouded distance between us
and the heavy, rain-laden sky.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Dressed in the night the women gather
Riding the wakes across the waves of the sea
Kiss the ghost lips of those who lie lovely
Running their hands along the scalps of their sons
They have come to break worry
Silence an orbiting fear
Seal up the sliver in the sky
Where the nights slips through
See the old men in their taverns still trying to name all the stars
After those who tread dirt in the stillness of a tombstone sea
Trading eulogies with the last ministers of light
In the funereal home of the sun we have come to call sky
And still the women whispers secrets to their sisters
Lay down lullabies on the heads of their sleeping sons
And hang hymns on the hopes that their boys might return
From their pilgrimage into the paths of bullets
Through the blooming fields of mortar shells
And down into the tunnel throat of the dead
To meet the waiting darkness, run their thumbs
Along such casket skin until they cannot tell the difference
Between hells heavy requiems and the faint symphonies
Of their wives across the sea, singing as if it could save them
Singing as if their songs could rewind the hoc spit seconds
Between the open door to heaven and the bullets kicking in back windows
Harmonizing as if it could resurrect these boys as men
And though some may be swallowed
Learned to lie lifeless in swift lessons of lead
Their brothers will one day name stars after them
They’ll sit in those taverns, learn to call creation by a better name
A bastion of light for their buried boys
A crucible into which lives are poured
That burns down to widows and heroes alike
As old men they will trade eulogies in the early hours of light
And cry when they think of their sons in the same fields
As red rose pestles bloom from bullets
As the caskets get delivered home
And the women the wives will continue wait for them
As sea foam along a shore longing for the lights of their ships
As if they shined brighter then the sun
As if they had held back the night
Counting their blessings as the children
Who cling to their skirts like a song to their lips
Too tired to stand but they are waiting, waiting still
Singing out over the water to bear their men home
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
As he sat the trash can back down gingerly
He sighed Well, it’s a long story.
We were drinking beer in my backyard at four in the morning
On one of those sticky September nights
Where sleep was more rumor than reality,
And, as I noted the time on the clock for the umpteenth time,
I heard a song outside my window;
Not some drunken caterwauling of “Danny Boy”
As rendered by some stray tabby in a Dublin alley;
This was…singing, like you’d hear on a CD
Or, perhaps, Live From The Met,
And at first I thought some poor sot with an artistic streak
Had pulled off the main road to sleep it off,
But the singing was punctuated
With the clatter of can-lids and the occasional grunt,
Until I understood that baritone and trash barrel
Were part and parcel of the same man.
As I handed him a second bottle,
He recounted how his lifelong dream of riches, glory,
And a glorious career on the world’s great stages
Came to a sudden halt after a Manhattan debut
(*I sang my *** off that night*, he recounted)
Was met with mild praise, the odd bit of outright scorn
And a healthy dose of apathy.
I ‘spose, he said between sips, *I could have done all right
Givin’ lessons, singin’ bit parts here and there.
You’re on the road a lot, but the money ain’t bad*,
But one day, just before an audition for a supporting role
In a regional production of Carmen
Up in Binghamton ******* New York,
He simply left the theatre, got into his car,
And drove some sixteen hours
Until he hit town here, and then he stayed.
But, I countered, why not go back?
The years of lessons and Julliard,
All for celebrating our refuse and squalor
With roadkill requiems, arias for rats?
Well, some days it’s a hard way to make a living,
He said, stroking his chin thoughtfully,
*But it does give me a venue to sing,
And, to date, I ain’t been panned by no **** cat*.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
The red maple tree
was a chord you set down
planted at the edge of the lawn
when I was born
you said it was
for the butterfly catcher
who will grow up
to gather up the cosmos
I disappointed
by staying low, a shrub no taller than your irises
Your granddaughter
inherited your songs instead
understands tempo
that shapeless country
of time signatures that counts ideas in seeds
She rambles across sheet music
turns that scattering
into the glitter of song
You've crossed the bridge of night
now you are lost in the stars,
You add to the Milky Way
your off-beat insights
still singing poetry
with Kurt Weil, Lenya, and Lees
your words traveling through
the heavens with Mackie Messer
who knifes the mysteries
You give it all verse
counting inspiration in the deep
your genius out there
where the moon's white mask
appears on stage each night
with requiems and prayers
giving stage directions
to the earth below.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 1:38 AM UTC
He held some Romantic notion
His years of love and devotion,
The exposition of emotion
Could overcome the troubles.
He tried to be meta-physical,
Raised his crucible to the celestial,
Prayed to move the unchangeable
To overcome the troubles.
For years he toiled in his realism,
The jobs, debts and persistent requiems,
The slugging burdens of their tediums,
To overcome the troubles.
He was Dada, then Grand-dada.
She was Mama, then Grand-mama.
Once an in-law, now an outlaw,
Yet always there was trouble.
Now he's lost his generation,
Learned the cost of retribution;
Still sourcing out his frustration,
Considering the final solution
For dealing with his troubles.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
Moonset slips beneath a steel sea;
crescent sailing on the starless deep.
I sketch the hallowed sky in my dream.
Sunrise lifts from under the hills,
music stirs as dawnlight spills.
Horizon bursting,
a choir rehearsing
requiems for fallen friends.
Moonchild in the lap of a pine
singing for the wordless divine.
She wanders on the waves of her mind.
Feb 17, 2024
Feb 17, 2024 at 10:27 AM UTC
one day
whey you're gone
in that void
out of you
i will write
laments, and
my dreams;
they'll sing you
like requiems
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 1:59 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Told you my struggles of this nation that
I'm raised in,
And you just recented me,
Told you my alias,
But you just have no lucid frequent memory,
Pretend like you care,
Lowering my guard out of all measures,
I fell in love to marry,
You fell in love to plunder,
You had sunny weathers,
While it kept storming in my life,
Swear I could barely par,
I thought you understood me,
Wow ! Some Christian you are,
Your father hates me,
Coming down with a case of racism,
I have no remorse for him,
Whatsoever,
Up and coming requiems,
Life is bad enough with knowing who you once
Were,
Go and drown in your tears,
You don't match my worth.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
you are slow like daggers or
cancer.
this is what it feels like to travel
on a discourse:
something about you metastasizes
in my mind whenever the silences
are no longer beautiful;
and just like that, I thumb a prayer
to the fallen obsidian,
this harbinger of marvelous calm.
sometimes all the rooms are white
and I am immersed deep into pallor –
when both our eyes do not meet,
I wring out a cockeyed miracle:
dragging the blood of the trees with me,
these bushy polyps,
these benign volcanoes skin,
ashen and dull like a heart – these agonized
appurtenances, I gleam like light
cut from the mirror and fade out
as my visibilities hide.
something in me smiles when you
are flattened out – cross-legged, interconnected
unloose a star fettered somewhere deep where
hands cannot reach for the inside of a tomb.
this suchness that when I feel your sensations
press their threats against my skin,
you are a salutary squelch
in this pure-iron condition, or a heavy-earth machinery
moving inside my marrow, that deep
into death like a morning waist-high
with tears, walled in by requiems.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC