"resiliently" poems
hospice is the admission
they bring morphine
the good stuff
it’s six months or less
a one way flight
of hosts and guests
now numb from the blast
there’s no turning back
it’s inside out
and your hardwiring
is resiliently engaged
to move you forward
into this final encounter
day after day
drinking red tea
with spoons and cups
of Bonanno and Kubler-Ross
their ghosts slurp
with you -
in your prepped room
your James Dean role
now flickers with light
on the ceiling
and you dream
a third stage bargain
that your son had been hit
instead of you
with this wicked sickness
then coolly counseled
by your wife
that it was no dream
just your mind
regulating - processing
you slump there
dying there
in front of a familiar wall
where you once taped
painted olives green
and sipped scotch
with your books
at night.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
Bellowing trumpets call the palace to order and servants,
Dressed from head to toe in exquisite lace,
Promptly wave their lush palmetto leaves while the Pharaoh
Ambles domineeringly down the marble corridor.
Though the floor rattles at the cries of enemy soldiers
Penetrating the once impregnable palace walls,
The mighty Cleopatra, exuberant in both beauty and intelligence,
Maintains a powerful, dignified forbearance.
Immune to cowardly apprehension petrifying those surrounding her,
The Pharaoh relies on only her brooding heart to guide her.
Though her once opulent eyes scorch in melancholy,
They look onward toward the cynosure of her existence.
Clad in dense armor, Mark Antony clasps his sword resiliently,
Pacing nervously back and forth throughout his room
At the thought of the danger soon to overtake him.
His breath hangs heavy on the seaside air.
Antony’s complexion brightens at the sight of alluring lover,
And he releases his guard, opening his arms as she approaches.
Shouting erupts from the neighboring corridor
Though neither he nor Cleopatra discern the enveloping chaos.
As Roman soldiers zealously round the corner and overtake the lovers,
Waving their weapons high in hopes of slaughter,
The couple’s lips merge together as one,
Producing an everlasting bond that no sword could sever.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
There’s something about the lonely hours,
Just you and me, our space overlapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
No passion-filled debate, no vying powers,
Lazy destiny dreams, eschewing plans or mapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.
Past today, the future glowers,
But reserve this sacred instant for reflection, recapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
The earth is straining, injustice towers,
Insidious corruption, pain and deceit chafing, chapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours.
The darkness consumes, seconds become hours,
Sorrow lurks at hand, irksome insecurities tapping.
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
Yet, peace resounds, the evil cowers.
Hope, the thing with feathers, quietly, resiliently flapping.
There’s something about the lonely hours,
The sky a meadow, constellations, flowers.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
There is a vacancy in my heart,
One that tears me apart.
A vacancy in my soul,
A gaping, ghastly hole.
I am shoveling things into the spot,
Oh how resiliently I have fought.
Yet the world does not see me suffer,
Its forces in response become tougher.
I am tempted to taste forbidden fruit,
Dagger, pills, then dresses and suits.
Solemnly bowed heads, grieving eyes,
A weeping woman whom I despise.
Alas, I would not see these things,
These awful things that funerals bring.
Like ants from the woodwork they'd appear,
As if they ever cared about my fear.
Mommy, drink another beer.
Go ahead and do it.
Mommy, cast another leer.
You will regret it.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 8:36 PM UTC
cw: ****** assault and suicidal thoughts
I want to combust.
Not into the traditionally red flames.
Red is my mother’s color; because, it’s
the one that suits her the best.
But the reason why I hate it, is that in a deeper shade,
it is the same color that runs between her thighs
and stains the bedsheets we clean
when men decide that they’re more worthy.
I want my flames to be purple,
the same shade I have been fixed on since I was little.
Purple like the heroine I always dreamed of becoming,
and the edges of my vision when I
swallow the cleaning products,
count out the pills,
pull the belt tight around my neck,
grow so furious with myself that I wish I was just dead.
When I told my mother I wanted to die,
she screamed at me,
“How dare you think you’ve gone through so much,
when I’ve gone through so much worse!”
That is why
I want to explode
into flames
that dare to justify my own right to pain.
But purple is the same color
I see around my little sister’s face,
concern in her gaze
as she whispers, “I love you."
How could the world be so cruel?
Locking a man in our home,
a man who tries to take away every piece that makes us whole,
and forcing my little sister to witness me in such a state.
I can’t live up to being a
college student
daughter
big sister,
yet
I can’t bear forcing my little sister
to witness her big sister
lifeless in the room next to hers.
When I go out,
I want to combust into purple flames
because I’m so
terrified, furious, disappointed.
Unlike the men who built the college,
I want to die
without a trace,
and my ashes to disappear.
I guess
nothing would change after I die,
except there would be more
purple little bruises on my sister’s heart.
But would I become
greedy, disgusting, memorable
because I would
leave her?
Leave her like our father
who forgot our birthdays
or when it was his time for child custody,
but could never forget his favorite beer?
When my mother’s boyfriend tries to break into my room at night,
I beg the flames to take me.
I’m too tired, hungry, and weak
to believe I have a right to my own body anymore.
“Traitors,” I whisper to the flames,
hoping my emotions would be strong enough
to ignite myself
and disappear.
But the following morning,
my little sister would knock at my bedroom door,
greeting me with a sleepy smile,
and sitting on my bed to chat.
How could the world be so cruel
to my little sister by making me,
the girl who can’t even protect herself,
her protector?
“I missed you.”
She says, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I just saw you before you went to sleep.”
I reply.
Suddenly
the purple flames that I once called traitors
remind me they were with me the whole time,
burning resiliently.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 1:51 AM UTC
A promise
Is when someone vows something to you
In order to maintain a temporary trust;
A strong
Abundant trust.
A promise
Is when we let that abundance of trust
Fill the whole in our hearts where we need reassurance-
And like the white whales in the Red Sea,
We are resiliently hooked.
A promise
Is when we are given a hope,
Even when we know It's sometimes false.
People make promises they can't keep;
In our hearts, we all know this to be true.
Sometimes false hope is the heart-pumping blood we all need.
Red in all its glory; It's our life support.
Sometimes a promise cannot be fulfilled, but only vowed-
Our involuntary recipients,
Harrowing over our grotesque stabs at being their very veins.
Like the vows of a marriage,
We say them to prove we can provide some sort of air for them;
Though as if we live underwater.
We give people their air, though it is only a bubble-
Just to put in their lovely heads that one day,
Maybe they'll get a whole breath.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 8:59 PM UTC
Poverty may not necessarily
laziness connote,
and riches may not
necessarily hard work
indicate.
The hand of providence
does its major role play,
as successes and failures
to each man is assigned.
Work resiliently before
the twilight of life,
extending the goodwill
of fortunes divinely
earned,
thus leaving indelible footmarks
on the paths of existence,
because one day,
die we all must,
and our deeds to future
generations will loudly
speak.
Aug 27, 2022
Aug 27, 2022 at 2:41 PM UTC
Her sprouted Soul eternally grows,
Her pathways manifest for them to follow,
Resiliently she struggles upstream as she flows,
Humbly she enlightens, inspires them all,
Oh, sacred spirit, guard her ways for she is our strength, our sole hope.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
i will remember you
(i)
in your onitsuka shoes you were wearing when we reunited at taipei main station after three weeks of silence
(ii)
in your old hoodie walking back toward me resiliently in the rain to give me an eskimo kiss after i repeatedly told you to leave
(iii)
in your skin that you slept in till dawn while beside you i wept from sheer fear of losing you
(iv)
in your spontaneity leaning into me leaning into you while we sang our thoughts to the waves crashing below us
(v)
in your unbridled passion when you kissed me for the very first time in the dark
i will remember you
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
In the kingdom of Saturday an angel holds nothing,
encompassed by picture frames.
A human trafficker bites a popped Tylenol,
Eviscerates the nightmares that circle his crown.
An optimist puts their hands up,
Envisions a tableau soothed with moisturizer.
A chieftain offers a beer to an orphaned
Child, lush with vermillion blotches.
A physician shrinks down in front of,
A simmered-out wife, head towards the door.
A gypsy considers being alone,
xenophobia resiliently grips her throat.
A mystified boy points to a girl,
Whispers inaudibly “I miss making her laugh.”
A priest begins an unimaginable service,
“My prayer is simple, my dear one,
Live for tomorrow, not yesterday.
Open your hands.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 8:29 PM UTC
Old Glory resiliently stands steady and silent
Yet tells a tale
Not of its darkest hours, days of doubt
But of hope
It tells of an ideal fought for, killed to protect
It tells of hope
That life will be granted with equality, freedom
It tells of hope
That no enemy shall bring us to our knees
It tells of hope
That lives lost in battle shall be duly honored
It tells of hope
That tomorrow will always have a brighter sun
It tells of hope
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
*
*Slowly the life disappeared
Thus road of LOVE widened
Slowly the thoughts disappeared
Thus the path to soul opened-up
The mundane lethargy of life
Lead to the glory of LOVE to bloom
The flower creepers grew
Beyond sorrow and despair
Everyone was swept with life's
Tsunami and hurricanes
Earthquakes and tornadoes
The cold and heat of life
Did consumed humanity fully
Now we understand why people are surprised
With FREEDOM
Oh.. It's LOVE blessings on them
Because "LOVE happening" breaks down
All the walls that life builds around
With ample hopes & no terror
No self-delusion and indulgence
Eluding imaginations & fantasies
Prayers of LOVE transcends
Millions of eons
Beyond visible contours of life
Thus...
When the history of LOVE is written
Everyone will tell folk tales
Of how LOVE remained "LOVE"
Under the skin of every human's core
Flowing as LOVERz breathe within blood
Resiliently fighting invasion
That was driven by life's aimless goals
Through harrowing and courageous tales of LOVE
Those who feel and realize LOVE
Will seek and find TRUE LOVE within...*
*
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 11:30 PM UTC
Parable of Torvisco: “branched among the thickets of ignorance, their foliated stems speak of the white blood that has fallen from the souls that resiliently endured the solitude of their limbs and who enjoyed their ruddy bark and the pubescence of the Daphnes that gawked at over them turned into Laurel, she being a spatulate flower of Vernarth, like Apollo elliptically adoring her with the underside, and something fuzzy hiccuping over the teachings of someone who is not loved. Being the Daphniform Torvisco, of appressed retractable sepals that are pronounced on the laurels in Dafnomancia of the pubescent Torvisco on the first ************ of Daphne, leaving the ovoid crusts near the foliate stolon of the grayish spurs on the fins of the Pelecaniformes Petrobusjos, leaving the Malloga the lice. of their plumage that they are eaten by laurels, as a carminative antispasmodic digestive degassing, in the flora of the intestinal Torvisco engulfed by their pride and eagerness of nobility.
Parable of Sacred Bud: “first the animals and the buds that emanated from the inflorescences were venerated, as gods of the occult sprouting from the long-lived saps being miscellaneous family taxonomies that were consecrated to gods trapped by the mists of their foliage, over the colonies of other species with outbreaks of bud expiration in the distant buds of the leaves, towards non-renewable woody plants, for critical tempering to germinate on the dogma of woody herbaceous plants, as sacred shoots of ferns without their cell walls. Here is the tree of evil and good, sprouting one of each but as hyper-sprouting, which deceived the eyes of those who wanted to cut it because of the human snooping in bloom, on the shores of Medea's hands, growing on the shore of a headless river deity, who was not yet poisoned by an Olympian gesture, agreeing to have long fragrant and rosy hair on the pubescent teenagers who dared to call themselves Medea "
(Prócoro redoubling his sinister imagination of the Rosé of the Witches and grotesques, he was still ecstatic at the expectation of the extensions of the Rosary of the Evangelista San Juan simulated in the crowned Torvisco, for purposes of the genetics of the world in the hands of pubescent bodies that were embodied in the bodies and their stolons, like retrograde shoots going towards the spheres of the pelecaniform Petrobus and its little lice that resided in it as vital alarms. Structuring thus, the grazing that ran from its wings with vigorous fine pediculosis, which was abstracted from the scalps Medea decked out in megalomania in the sprouts of the Enchanted Torvisco)
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:16 PM UTC
It could rain for 40 days and nights
flooding the streets incessantly
and he still looks on lovingly
as the water destroys everything
and he's left treading on resiliently
gripping my hand firmly
keeping my mind from drifting
singing to me steadily
as the winds pick up and pelt his face
the tears like stone engulf my place
yet he stands and braves the storm
carrying on
refusing to let me drowned in sorrow
A spirit so strong VS a mind so narrow
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:18 AM UTC
To smile, to laugh, to be kind and gracious.
To resiliently cope despite the stress,
To the outsider, life is sometimes seen as a mess.
I guess,
But what would I know, may I go, how low.
So I look, observe and respect, never direct, nor instruct.
To be, to see, no, not me.
To go up high, along and into the bigger world.
Forwards, onwards, but accept occasional backwards;
Fairness and kindness.
Love and warm wishes,
Skills, and the will to go ever upwards and onwards.
(From 'Storm Clouds & Silver Linings; My Journey' by Tom Stodulka)
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 10:57 PM UTC
The urges and thoughts
toy with my heart
my mind collapsing in
what feels like slow motion
Old habits revitalized
like a dying need
to **** in a breath
after my soul being
bound and *****
A torturous nightmare
intertwined with the shadow
of truth and surrealness
Funny how trauma can forever
stain the mind with so many
shades of colors from the
darkest of blacks to hauntingly white
My quiet hell from the past
where self-sabotage, fear
and delusional trust collide
Deciding to live resiliently
I stride forward while fighting this endless silent war,
to reclaim my sense of self-worth
Putting my heart on paper
I know I am alive
Jan 14, 2022
Jan 14, 2022 at 4:58 AM UTC