"reveled" poems
S • Skin tight, skeletal cage
both ribs and mind.
K • Keep a strict diet, never break it, always hide it from those who would disapprove, so I learned to suffered in silence.
I • Internally a growl would emit, I reveled in the power I would get from it. To know I was structured, I wasnt a jumbled mess. Like the mass jiggling, clingling to this withering carcass.
N • Never could the fat girl come back out. carve her, choke her, starve her till she lost the will to shout. Shout for help, shout for freedom, shout for love in this life. Useless, everybody knows only fit people have that right.
N • Nobody would believe if I told a soul my struggle. "You are huge, big blue
whale how can someone like you have a disorder?
Y• Yell, scream "I WANT TO BE ME"
But I can't because of our society
deeming people like me are wrong,
why should my weight define wether or not I belong?
But because it does I hate myself.
I live this life with a wish to die,
all because my body is not
S•K•I•N•N•Y
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC
We are the kids – beautiful blank canvasses ready to receive the joy of life.
We are the kids – hope & love consuming our souls, grasping at the shiny & new.
We are the kids who played in the fields and danced in the sun.
We are the kids with innocence in our hearts and a cheekiness in our soul.
We are the kids who believed in a benevolent God and the generous teachings of Jesus.
We are the kids whose imagination was an infinite resource - bounteous, diverse and effervescent.
We are the kids who reveled in the fancy, the nonsensical, the romantic and the wild.
We are the kids that couldn’t wait to grow up,
We are the kids who believed in our future.
We are the kids who never saw it coming.
We are the kids who lost our innocence as soon we walked through the big school gates for the 1st time.
We are the kids who were told to “think of your future” and to suppress creativity.
We are the kids who were forced to grow up very quickly.
We are the kids who didn’t know we were “different” but there were plenty out there who did.
We are the kids who had to pretend to be what “they” wanted us to be just to survive.
We are the kids who came home with scars every day – both physical and emotional
We are the kids who endured the obscene words of Neanderthal hate every single day.
We are the kids who were screamed at by our parents to fight back even when we really didn’t have the capability to do so.
We are the kids who were told crying was a sign of weakness.
We are the kids whose so-called classmates stayed silent when they did their worst.
We are the kids where the school gates were no barrier to their lynching.
We are the kids who turned quickly from being wide-eyed & hopeful to being terrified & desolate.
We are the kids who dreaded every single weekday from first term to last.
We are the kids who fruitlessly prayed to a God who had deserted them.
We are the kids taught by teachers who were found wanting.
We are the kids who suffocated in sheer hate.
We are the kids who took our own lives or at least tried to.
We are the kids who self-harmed.
We are the kids who sometimes never came home.
We are the kids who survived but never really left the school yard behind
We are the kids.
Your kids.
June 11, 2018.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
No country’s history makes us proud.
It is mere exploitation and colonization.
the poor were suppressed and oppressed.
The rich reveled in utmost luxury
And the weak lived in extreme penury.
The kings were fond of eulogy
And the poets excelled themselves in their elegy.
In the countries like India, the money was looted
the temples were plundered, and the system was blundered
And her progress was greatly hindered
Slowly the kings and kingdoms vanished
the so called democracies and socialism flourished
the bureaucracy and plutocracy replaced autocracy
Corruption and criminality maintained their status quo
After Independence, a new class emerged in India.
They became the rulers in the name of democracy.
There have been un-imaginable scandals
Money reached the Swiss bank like pearls in the ocean
India is a poor country but the Indians are rich
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 3:59 AM UTC
an all purpose cleaner response to the
how-ya-doing-question,
as my vibe unmistakable;
the hatred in the world directed at
MY PEOPLE,
is inexplicable, beyond reason,
a hatred raw and pure in the
tiny places we humans hide it, lest
our ancient linkage to an unreasoned,
embarrassing emotion, be revealed
but now revealed it is reveled,
as the freedom to despise is a
valued thing
is an ancient scar, now freshly wounded
and the two thousand year old accumulated, callused,
surrounding wafer thin, layered upon layer of
tissue,
wiped away
in utter disbelief
cleansed,
a different kind of impure clean,
“like” an ethnic cleansing,
traceless, whisked away in a wink of moment,
a goner.
like hope, prior sentient optimism
sentenced to life imprisonment and
this sentence, and this very sentence!
written finally understanding that it is
a punishment
far worse than the quick relief of death.
c’mon, how about a few “fukk you jew”
cri de coeur, heartfelt, genuine, pointless
hate
no, not I, no, not me,
spare me the pithy comments,
the pointless sympathy, glistening
like evaporating water droplets
before disappearing, I ask myself,
not
why they hate, why it persists,
for this I understand and accept
the foulness of what we are capable of is,
beloved,
as a secret pleasure, now secreted in torrents.
no, I ask myself,
why do I write poetry,
for it is as pointless as
the hatred directed at me,
from birth, till death,
and ever after,
the humanity of poetry
just another fraud
another reason
why this man cries in the bathroom,^
not from any shape of shame,
because poetry is pointless
in times of hatred, and now we
know, recognize, it is always
somewhere, nearby, always
present and prescient,
pointless hatred,
itching to be pointed at me,
makes for
pointless poetry.
To whom shall I point my poetry?
Nov 12, 2023
Nov 12, 2023 at 2:08 AM UTC
She reveled above the film
of Central Park sun-rays
Angel of granite,
seductress
of seagulls
Perched above her iconic
feathered fingers
Angel of granite,
enchanter of flocks
of well traveled bodies
flecked with salty sea crystals
Angel of granite,
fountain May
Cascades dancing diamonds
from her feet
Posing for pictures,
frozen in heat
of
Summertime sailboat
breeze
Angel of granite, goddess of
brittle bird bones
wading in
chlorine puddles of tears
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
the tides swell
and hearts quell
my body shakes in anticipation
of profund ecstasy of liberation
and not the emptiness of libations
the bright moon light keeps the revelers out
thirsting for soemthing they cannot name
in a drunken fanatic frenzy they shout
claiming a new change in life when they remain the same
the ocean waves crash
and so do my thoughts
an uncontrollable maelstrom that spreads like a rash
only to find peace in the still silence I've always sought
Finally I am home and I bask in the light of the full moon
I too was a reveled once howling at the moon
but now instead I drink in the spirit of life
I might have spoke too soon
because my heart still feels stife
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
I used to believe in Santa Claus
So jolly and red and so fat.
I was a big fan of Christmas
No holiday was as great as that.
Not Easter with those funny eggs
Not even Halloween with candy.
No, that thing about tons of presents
To me, that was fine and dandy.
And we even got two weeks off
Nobody had to go to school.
Then coming back with new clothes
That made me look so cool.
Nothing compared to Santa Claus
The flying reindeer, ** ** guy.
I used to try to stay awake
So I could see him flying by.
It was such a great reality
To know that dude was up there
In the frozen north pole air
Making stuff for kids everywhere.
That was the world I reveled in,
Where everyone celebrated.
I knew I was not the only one
Who sat by the tree and waited.
I don’t remember being confused
By the Santas in department stores.
Santa had lots of helpers, I knew,
And this guy was just one more.
I did have a problem with chimneys
And a bag that he could lift
That carried things for all us kids;
Every size and type of gift.
But kids have a way of helping folks
To maintain a pretty fantasy.
We just ignored things that didn’t fit.
We went about it very easily.
But one day, and I remember when
I got let in on the confidence game
And Santa Claus was quickly gone,
Never to come to our house again.
The sad thing is nothing can ever
Replace the joy I once felt.
Santa was not supposed to be
Like Frosty and too quickly melt.
So, I have to make do with having
The grownup toys I buy myself.
Oh, how I could use a flying sled
And the help of a brace of elf.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
*An ecstatic poet, conjured up a full moon night so special.
Pairs of lovers got drunk with moon's white wine, reveled,
danced all night along the sea washed sands in ebullient spirit
till they were completely exhausted, slept there on the sand bed.
When dawn tiptoed, they transformed to lovebirds, away they flew,
did they want to get back to human lives; no one knows, even if they did-
wasn't possible, the poet that created them, in drunken stupor, had
already forgot the whole episode and was in a hurry for new conceptions.*
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
Rarely had my vision been focused in the past
and maybe for this reason the passage of time
felt as if it was little more than a forgotten dream.
I often found my eyes on an icy reflection
of a naked man standing before a fogged mirror,
fresh with the haze of a hot shower.
I would gaze upon him and he back into me,
pondering to myself "who are you stranger?"
I could only assume he thought the same of me.
I would wonder when he walked away
from that tooth paste stained portrait
if he ventured into the world with that familiar vigor,
that naive sensibility to battle
the demons,
the contradictors
and the liars.
If he too would laugh at these same fallacies in himself
with a certain kind of madness that could only touch
the ears of the few free men among us.
Those tragic spirits who dared to dance,
to transcend ancient genetics and modern culture
in hopes of touching a god they had long forsaken.
We may have given it a different name
but we were no better then the theologians before us,
we clung to our most primal desire.
It weighed upon us with such force
that hunger,
thirst
or even lust
felt like a pestering annoyance in the shadow of its glory.
Our appetite for connection far surpassed our need
to facilitate our biological deficiencies
and in those moments of understanding we reveled in the irony
of being minds trapped in fleshy bodies.
A smile crept across my face and one grew upon him.
I knew this man who stand before me,
unafraid,
bare in body
with a dastardly grin.
He was my oldest friend,
the ghost who spoke to me
in my most vulnerable moments
when no others did.
He cried for me when I could not,
would not cry for myself.
He had always been there
for me and for the first time
when I turned away from his reflection
I felt him follow too.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 2:35 AM UTC
This one time, my mom
and I said goodbye
to Juan's mom and we
walked from her apartment
to wait for the elevator.
Mom didn't like it
when I wouldn't stand still-
sometimes she'd smack me
upside my head just to
make sure I was there
(accompanied by her
motherly calls of malcriado)-
so I'd look in any direction
for a distraction or two.
Through the window a few feet
from my left, I could see two
older ladies in curler hairdresses
bochinchando like caffeinated hens
about the awfully friendly suelta
living next door to gallina #1
(they hung their hand-me-down
nightgowns and their husband's
boxers with such professional care;
if any article escaped the grasp
of family clotheslines, it was
roadkill forever).
I turned to the right
of the elevator doors,
counted the tar-black patches
of decade-old gum on the floor,
finished the half-written
sentences sprayed in *****
rainbows on the sweaty walls
by the zig-zag flight of stairs.
A boom and a click,
and the door creaked open
with the sideways grace
of a crab.
My toddler's impatience
boiled past the brim, I
exclaimed "FINALLY"
and began to walk forward.
Not a second later, I heard a
"NO" behind me, my mother
grabbing the back of my
cartoon mouse t-shirt,
letting out an ay cono, pendejo
that echoed eight stories down,
past the empty space substituting
for an absent elevator shaft,
soaring down that rusty freefall
at ten thousand times the
speed of a human boy's body.
Letting out a long exhale,
my mother did not allow
her emotions to brim over
the barrier-she recomposed
herself, all the while silently
chanting hymns of gratitude
in dedication to fate
and her reflexes.
We decided to take the stairs.
In my youthful oblivion,
I noticed a toy store
right outside the building
from the corner of my eye-
I plan to start begging when
we're at the bottom,
if we ever get there.
My mother took her sweet time
walking down those many steps,
reveled in the scratchy bristle
of the concrete against her sandals,
cultivated a newfound admiration
for my atonal imitation of a
Washington Heights car alarm-
it was a sign I was still there.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 12:14 PM UTC
The lark ascends
on light wings
Taking flight toward
a heavenly home
It lingered here
but a short while
Certain of the course
she must go
A delicate beauty
and playful grace
Her twittering eyes
revealed
Deep trust for love
and sturdy branch
Of her verdant
earthly home
We reveled in her
abundant joy
She fed our spirits
and fondest hopes
Her gossamer wings
a fragrant breath
Her heart angels
hath divinely blessed
The lark is light!
The lark is life!
Her song forever young
The lark is kind
The lark is Thine
The lark is winging home
LAP
Godspeed Beloved
12/20/08
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 9:21 AM UTC
Fate, the absolute tyrant -
Brings me to my desk,
And I sit down to vent
This infernal night,
As prose or verse,
Or utter hogwash -
My wasted emotions -
Which some termed rhapsodic.
I promised myself not to cry -
As the day would dawn,
And I'd wheel down the aisle.
Making myself fall prey -
To another trade
Of cash and silver and solid gold,
A car and bungalow and so much more
- Of which in detail, I wasn't told.
Though I was called a beauty
Who could leave people dazed,
With two curvy dimples,
That lit my pretty face.
People never touched me
And would look at me with shame
Tell me I looked fragile
Once they knew I was lame.
I grew within four walls -
Comfy cushions and space
And it wasn't my legs, feeble
That restricted my pace.
It was love from parents
Siblings' scorn and care
That kept me from the wisely world
To go outdoors, I never dared.
I grew up crawling on my limbs
And seeing people walk
I never wished for them to stop -
Only prayed that they wouldn't talk!
For it was not their legs, I longed for
I reveled for what I was!
I only hoped they applied thought
Before pitying, how crippled I am!
I grew up watching the world go by
Each day and night would fly
Fantasizing with what I had been blessed -
My free and 'abled' mind!
I dream of a world - filled with trust
And friends who would 'walk' with me
Who would talk to me for who I was
And not offer sympathy!
I wished for love,
And found mine, divine
In a fairy tale -
Ironic indeed!
I sang love songs,
Wrote mushy poems
Painted wild dreams -
All to him, which would eventually lead.
You must have known this little boy -
Though a flaw, he did make history.
"Pinocchio", he was fondly called
And was known as a puppet with zeal!
It was not his quest for love that struck
Nor his zest to live
For it was his gait with wooden legs,
In which I could identify me!
But my dreams were thwarted
When to a man, I was entrusted -
(Or rather, on me thrusted)
One - with no love, but legs instead.
Along with blessings
For him to take along
Ample gifts were bestowed -
To keep us betrothed!
And now I await
To be proclaimed his wife
In the presence of a world
Which always kept me deprived.
It will be dawn
And I will soon be gone -
Yet I will yearn
For my Pinocchio to return!
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 10:21 AM UTC
Upon a path of trepidation
Walked I along with hesitation
I trudged forth in contemplation,
Remarking on my indignation.
I felt as though the road would end,
Each step came forth again and again.
To pass the time, I counted sins,
Not religious exactly, just decision’s wind,
I thought of my own life, and how much change
Had plagued my mind and my own cage,
The prison in my head that I live through,
Even though there’s worse that I could do,
I closed that link before I could
Think of things I knew I should,
I “forgot” them throughout the years,
To push away all of my own fears,
With that then settled
The road I reveled.
I noticed the dust on this forgotten trail,
Each step disheveled the dirt so stale,
I noticed I hadn’t been the only one
To walk this trail and be undone,
But I was however the first in a while,
The steps i left behind me were straight and filed.
-
Withered whispering romance had wilted away
A faceless me, within I decayed,
The road was vast and all omniscient,
The weather indeed was quite consistent,
Muggy, dreary, a hint of mist,
Melancholy so, that I wished to be ******
I would have loved to be drunk again
As I had been so before like many men,
To take upon this journey but straight,
Would have felt like bringing train and freight,
It is important to realize
That I was alone and not in guise,
For to find myself, I was myself,
There was only I to seek for help.
-
about three days had passed along,
Wondering if I was even strong
Enough to find the cross in road
To decide which way that I should go,
When in sudden surprise there came,
The cross in road appeared to exclaim,
I could go straight, left or right,
As one would think it might,
But each direction had their own feel,
So much so, I thought it may not be real,
I gazed at each about an hour,
And witnessed their foretelling in my head as they showered.
-
The road ahead was static and unchanging
I found myself to be salivating,
Nervous, the feeling crept on through me,
The sensation of the same emotions, unruling.
I thought of the looming possibility,
That to change anything was not in my ability,
That I would be forced by past to walk this path,
Straight on and forward in a droning, mindless trance.
This startled me and I quickly thought
That I had best my chance be wrought,
Left or right, like straight, I felt both,
Like a voice somewhere inside bequothe,
“Lest ye not choose wrong dear boy,
Or you, I fear, will die empty in ploy.”
Chanting choruses of Gregorian nature
Repeated that stanza in mocking stature,
The repetition to the point of depravity,
I digressed, I became my insanity.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
I've experienced the exuberance of youth.
Through endless summer days, of blissful childhood ignorance.
I have drempt the most glorious dreams. The ability to soar with the eagles was mine, most any night. I was to live, forever.
I have know the delirious intoxication, of boyish infatuation.
And to such a degree, I have tasted the bitterness of rejection.
I have lived amid nonconformists. I shared in their ideological beliefs. Old Guard be ******
I have witnessed the gatherings of idealists, who's main purpose
was to spread their premise of the brotherhood of man.
I have seen them chained and gagged. Beaten for their beliefs. Shot down in their youth, by those who's superficial dogmas kept them from the truth.
I have been among the ranks of the tens of thousands, shouting my incensement's against a failing war. And I have been to the "wall" and wept for my fallen brothers.I have seen the rise of iconic performers. Some who would pay the ultimate price for their notoriety.
I have felt the power of their karma and reveled in their idioms'.
I have witnessed the miraculous wonder of birth. I've had the privilege to hold the embodiment of purity, God's ultimate creation, in the hollow of my arms.
I have walked among the Angels. And I have delved into the pit of my own iniquity's.
I have loved the un-loved, and scoffed at those who would be cherished.
I have lived as if, there were no tomorrow. I have learned there is just today.
I have lived to be a better man than I was. I live to be a better man than I am.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:40 PM UTC
If I were not a person who dealt in words
the same way others dealt in currency
(or maths
or measures
or facts
or any number of infinitely more practical things)
If I were not a person who breathed in the flow of letters against pages
and thoughts against spaces
I would never love an artist
because no matter the medium of the life
cra
wl
in
g
beneath their skin
No matter if they hear notes in the flip of her hair
(or paint galaxies of the breath against her cheeks
or create worlds hinged on his fallen eyelash
or build monuments to his unguarded laughter
or sway to whatever melody her eyes serenade beyond flickering boredom)
no matter the medium they substitute for the oxygen they inhale
Their hearts
do not exist
—cannot—
outside of the muse they substitute
to pump their passions through their veins
And if I were not a person who dwelt between the strokes of the letters
and devoured the length of meters
I would never love an artist
because their lives are forever forfeit to their muse
sold, clapped in heavy irons
to a desert oasis you cannot reach
because you cannot be his muse, if he has notched you onto his belt
For an artist would never endanger his muse, no matter if he loved her
(or worshipped her
or tortured her
or reveled in her
or whatever multiple definition love has contracted)
If I were not a person who knew the woes of seeing more
than what the world might first offer
But I am.
And I understand.
And I would never love an artist
For I belong to my muse and so does he
and She demands
that no competition come from the love
She allows me
outside Her chamber doors
and an artist's brilliance is competition indeed
And I can only ever love an artist
who
might
forgive
And who might understand
If I told her she is my muse no longer
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 5:46 AM UTC
Paris, France
October 12, 1889
It's been nearly a week now since the Le Premier Palais des Femmes has opened. I gander about, and see all the free faces. Misters in their best outfits slobbed themselves over the glories of an actual woman that was not their wife. They saw beauty and an opportunity for a feeling of strength and masculine power. Different attire worn by the women reveled much skin. The men gathered two or three mistresses and a bucket of *** and went off to their homes. I was disgusted and delighted to be here. I recently resigned the Misses just to do this tonight. It's 21:47. I look around for faces that I would be delighted in claiming my own for a night and two. Nothing caught my eye. I started to gather my stuff and leave, but suddenly a face I hadn't seen appeared in front of me. Her breath smelt of mint leaves and joy. She spoke to me and asked me for the night. Asked me! Such a remark from a woman of that low should earn a punishment, but she seemed like she was innocent. As rude as it was, I took her offer since I had no other plans for that night. She took me back to her home where she had set up a fire and food. It was as if she had planned it for me. It was so beautifully laid out. I looked around her home, it was astonishing. She then leaded me to her bedroom, where she left rose pedals on the floor and one candle lit. She grabbed me. That's when I met my Mistress from the Moulin Rouge.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 7:17 PM UTC
Not in voice?
If I want to know
if he really loves me so
in his kiss there's fire,
nowhere else I can know.
I felt this flame in one love
I find it again!
Because it's right
because I own this fire
and my lover owns same
No it's never too soon
or too late for true love
to meet half way masked
The Kiss! Anxient fire
ages asleep awakens díer
twin flames unrequieted.
Memory ignition the key
We long to see that face,
we die to hear that voice
our beloved breaths on.
Our grail lost found
so many times before
so many lifetimes on and on
twin soul ancient divine
the cosmic law of attraction
pairs up beings knowing
what we cannot unravel
we ask to see to marvel
as life times we struggle.
May we meet to tangle.
Let's not live of trinkets
dreams and memories
alone, sharks we are
no liquor can makes us
a sharks meal.
Why become ramora!
We're rascals Rhett
and his Scarlet renewed.
This world will never
own us, let's own it
we are the authors
of our own life and destiny
We know, we intuit
we are loved cherished
in ways so deep no words
exist to describe our
joy and happiness
the battomless loss
abyss free us in courage.
what we ask to see lifetimes before
is now reveled and revered.
~~~~
Oh the silky breath
my Angel once withdrawn
in sadness
my love returns priceless.
Softly as rose petals tikling
memory chip's lock snapping
the long gap banished.
~~~
By:Karijinbba.
Sep 8, 2021
Sep 8, 2021 at 8:23 PM UTC
You're properly pro
and exclusively first
I'm sloppy and slow
and obtrusively worse
you're steadily shrewd
and notably neat
I'm sweaty and stewed
and bloated and beat
you're refreshingly free
and benignedly blessed
I'm distressingly me
and resignedly messed
you're gold-plated and awed
and hairless and pink
I'm outdated and flawed
and careless and stink
you're so reveled revered
you're the death of my will
I'm disheveled and weird
but with my last breath I'll still
love you
©2012 Lyn
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
Falling down and down,
wings melting to wax
until he's submerged
in inky blackness.
Falling from the
clear blue sky,
away from the
glowing, golden orb
hung high above in the air
that he flew too high, too close to
in admiration and enthrallment.
Is this treachery,
is this betrayal?
Of the sky?
Of the sun?
Of the freedom
he'd giddily reveled in?
Is he not supposed
to consider it as such?
Even as he tries to steal
a breath from the cruel water
of the capricious and cold ocean,
gasping and painfully alone?
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 8:28 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
She was night when I met her.
The hills beyond bathed in moonlight,
though she seemed to hide from faint starshine
sheltered and hidden: wrapped in a mystery cloak
woven from fibrous shadows and dyed
in the deepest part of the ocean with midnight hues
untouched by the constellations.
She was summer aurora soon after her night.
I took her hand into the dewy field,
we reveled in the damp and softened earth
and the stars blossomed: points of bursting light
fixed among the twilit blue-greens
like the blinking bulbs of fireflies
who floated between our heads.
She was daybreak after her sky turned aquamarine.
The stars hid themselves under our feet,
the sun appeared on our horizon
and painted our faces in pinks and oranges: her hand
so soft and gentle, slipped from mine
trailing warmth against the flesh of my palm
where her fingertips kissed my skin.
She was high morning when the sky’s pinks faded.
I cradled her face between my two hands,
pressed kindnesses into her cheeks
and turned our noses to the sunshine: her celestial smile
played notes on her lips,
singing lilting aria in a rising melody
as the light radiated warmth across her face.
But now she is a rainbow in refracted afternoon.
She gleams in every color now her cloak is shed,
red in heart, orange in grin, yellow in mind,
green in energy, blue in veins, violet in spirit: but most of all
she is soft pink, pale white, and baby blue,
a harmony of hues
which she had kept hidden under her cloak of night.
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC
Realization Alliteration Poem
4/23/2013
Radical reforms
Revealed and revered
Reveled in without reserve
Reject rest until wrongs righted
Resistance looks radiant red like radishes
Recently reequipped with righteousness reacting like radiation
Rowdy crowds race like rabbits to meeting rooms
Rain and rapiers can't quell rampaging rallies without recourse
Reserves have been replicated, ready to razzle and rebuke, revenge
Reclaim rusted roofs of the ruins, wrecked in rural rubble's roots
Reality's reign can't be reversed so remember it, refuse to relive it
Run from its reach, relying on the rare reward you've received, a refuge
Recognize that regimes rotate routinely like roadkill riding on rail-cars drinking with rancid rats
Reach for the receiver, become a redeemer, referee your own rehab, require resolute ripples - realization.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
How far have we come?
Our masquerading insanity,
Egotistical sensuality
We bask in the luxury
Of our miserable depravity
Tumultuous cries and sweet lies,
It's only a state of mind
We malice, not chastise,
And give birth to anarchy
The world was an empty bliss
Reveled in the vast starlit sky
Now consumed by the beast inside,
Our inglorious unbecoming
iamthe_avatar ©2015
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC