"reveres" poems
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the George Washingtons
of my generation.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Thomas Jeffersons
and the
Benjamin Franklins who
aren't afraid to dream of
words that haven't been
created
and things that have
yet to be
designed.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
Revolutionaries who
have yet to be
born.
For the Paul Reveres
who have yet
to take their midnight
rides
one if by land,
two if by sea.
one if by land,
two if by sea.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the
modern day
Lewis and Clarks who
explored a land beyond
exploration's eye.
For the Sacagawea guides that
guide from a shining sea
to a sea of gold.
For the immigrants who
traversed waters of salty tears
made solely of their own fears.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the slaves held captive
not by their captors,
but by their own fears,
hopes,
desires
and dreams.
Afraid to pursue a land
just slightly beyond their own
R e a c h.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the conductors of the railroad
that was unseen.
The one that ran not on
coal and steam,
but the one that
ran on
Dreams.
I wanta write a poem for the ages,
for the Teddy Roosevelt
conservationists
and the Stravinsky
concert pianists
and the Maya Angelou
performers,
and the,
people.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the soldiers battling
for a cause they didn't
even start.
For the lives that gave their
lives for a cause,
because they believed in
The cause.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the Daddy who's still
looking for work,
For the Mommy who has
given up
Hope.
For the widow and
her orphan,
For the soup kitchens
that can't
stay open long enough.
For the failing
Economy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the mustached
man in Germany
rising to a power
ever Grand.
For the nations willing to
ignore it if they can.
For the day that everything
changed.
December 7th, 1941
will forever live
in infamy.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
For the unconquered Jews who
fought back.
For Anne Frank and her
family.
I wanta write a poem for the ages
For the modern day
Martin Luther King
Jr.'s.
For the ones
who
Aren't afraid to challenge a
System designed to
fight against them.
For the
modern day
Claudette Colvins.
The ones who
aren't afraid to sit down
to make a stand.
I wanta write poem for the ages
For the modern day
Buzz Aldrins
who are
altogether underrated
Just
because they came in
Second.
I wanta write a poem for the ages.
A poem that speaks louder
than words
and goes beyond
generations.
So I wrote a poem for the ages.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
every day brings
such magic
such disappointment
where did things go
so wrong
energetic shifts
female
male
exhaustion
weighs heavily
waking to
the patriarchal
********
how weary
i am of
fighting the
status quo
one wonders
why others
opt
to check out
of this manifestation
deep deep eons
of exhaustion
tired of fighting
the contemporary
masculine mindset
tired of
swimming upstream
when did it become
so common to
dismiss
the sacred feminine?
all beings carry
within them
both energies
being guilty of
dismissing my own
feminine energy
i now pay the
karmic debt for
that way
painful after
painful
encounters
chips away at
my soul
the soul
incarnated here
weary is this soul
of interacting with
males
tied to the current
cultural norms in
most societies
while appearing
different
they quickly become
like all the rest
tired am i of
seeing the unlimited
potentional
in these small beings
it steals my energy
it constricts my soul
there HAS to be
another way...
one that reveres the
feminine....
in ALL
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 9:46 PM UTC
Interactive poetry: This poem to be read in a stereo-typical Tennessean female drawl
Why Elvis, let me tell you Elvis just loves Cadillac automobiles
And Elvis he is passionate for his sixguns
Why Elvis is simply devoted to his Mama
And don't you know Elvis he idolizes The Colonel
Now Elvis is wild about Harley- Davidson motorcycles
Truth is Elvis worships his fans
Oh Elvis he's quite mad for The Beatles, all four of them!
And naturally Elvis adores animals
I can't begin to tell you how much Elvis dotes over Lisa-Marie
and Elvis just adores animals...Oh heavens to Betsy didn't I just say that already
Oh my oh my Elvis is a peacock for fancy stage wear
Elvis Aaron Presley praises The good Lord Jesus
Oh The President, Elvis truly admires The President
And Elvis reveres The Stars and Stripes
Oh did I mention Elvis is crazy for cheeseburgers
Why Elvis he just loves drugs
Why Elvis just...
Why... Oh Elvis why?
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
The mirror always laughs first
Spilling light onto imperfections
Alienated from the image in the dream.
A silent curse,
The accusation must remain to this world unrevoked.
Instead pretence must tissue tear stains,
To sundry up a surface glycerine.
Social man has broken all ties with nature’s earth,
He created machines capable of producing images
So he needn’t deny it.
Social Woman was always more comfortable inside
She expressed no claim of love for the landscape
Found no comfort amongst the soil
No romance laying in the dirt.
But yes, the mirror attacks.
The symptom is always one of weakness,
Of the self not having the power to leave itself alone.
The body distorts the mind at first,
Paving the way gradually for more active decline.
We hold it to ourselves to feel worth, or lack thereof.
You can’t sing the tune effectively, without first trying to think like you’re someone else.
Someone that same mirror fails to recognise.
Keep ahead of the crowd so you’re not held back
Expectations will ruin you more than your fears.
Talent is to others that which they lack
Mystery and purpose are all the mind reveres.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 3:00 PM UTC
Watch from your fancy TV screen -
Hypnotized
as your illusions of choice atrophy
A trophy, at your feet
Conceived in rage
From the place where miracles abound
The Eschaton will Immanentize
Dark energy entities
emanating from every corner all around
Hi - Def Surround Sound
Hide - Death Surrounds Hounds
It will bring you to your knees
When the Earth and all its Majesty
Crumble at the hands of the One-Eyed Messiah
The one I despise
You are all deceived
And to him they will scream
"Save Us"
Disenchantment following
Falling victim to his folly;
False exalted flesh reveres no seer
Neither those seared by his imprint
The prevelance of his contrivance
an resemblance of penance
for lack of repentance
And I'll cry to the sky
For the impending hour is nigh
And all things will seem unreal
Perchance a dream
When the duality is truly realized
The wailing and lament
of innumerable disembodied voices
will dually harmonize
The masses will chant
Praying for requiem
And then duly perish
Silhouettes
Pendulously suspended by strings
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
Clashing at gold, is a folly surely,
As bashing at skulls; is a scarring thing.
Turmoil for those who weep but rarely,
ye have set aflame the fiery king.
He burns those who persecute under his wing,
Whom he reflects with a tornado flame.
His realm expands and as his subjects sing:
“Ye King Of Fire triumphant your reign.
Forever may you stay as king and all be tamed.”
He pardons all who try to be godly.
And he destroys those who are not trying.
The King Of Fire Singes the unworthy.
And protects those who are under his wing.
He commands the skies and the one sighing.
He always protects his queen just the same.
The flame he controls mirrors the stunning,
The force he utilizes reveres his name.
The force of ground, and fire and sky is his fame.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:51 AM UTC
#for the one who wages war from her father’s house
*There is a room
where the mirror is cleaned
by hands that pray for her return.
She draws a blade with manicured grip
and calls it liberation
but the war she wages is funded
by the very peace she pretends to renounce.
Her rebellion arrives
in first-class comfort,
her prayers echo
from marble bathtubs
and curated playlists
with titles like
“healing”
and “rage.”
She is the daughter
of the one she claims to flee
but the mansioned roof above her ache
is paid in his name.
And the poetry?
It is not born of blood,
but Wi-Fi.
New iPhones every season.
A bed delivered in twelve boxes..
of fatherly love she does not unpack
because it’s easier to sleep
on metaphors.
She does not kneel.
She poses.
She does not fast.
She captions.
They gather in awe,
praising the deity of her discontent,
not knowing
her god is a trust fund
and her gospel
a curated pout.
This is not exile.
It’s a vacation
in the palace
of grievance.
But even velvet grows mold
when worshipped too long.
And no one asks
why the daughter never bled
while calling it war
why the dress of defiance
was stitched from a name
she no longer reveres,
and driven in a car
her labor never earned,
to places that dishonor
a wealthy father's
whole household*
#
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 9:43 AM UTC
Blessed is she who comes across,
A man so pure and full of love.
Who devoutly reveres his beloved,
To miss out would be a vast loss.
A man like mine,
Perfection in human form.
Oh how he is flawless,
A personality which endearingly shines.
He posses a touch to admirable to be factual,
A voice that makes you feel at home,
A smile that says you’re not alone,
A body so desirable, so **** so practical.
A love like the finest of wine,
Each day it gets better,
Nothing but better,
A love so sensibly divine.
When you have a love like ours,
You’ll learn there is fate,
None of this is fake,
Days seem only hours.
Blessed is she who comes across,
a man such as mine,
A love so divine,
to miss out would be a vast loss.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
Donald Twittler, not a pretty picture
Sees himself as some kind of king.
Makes constant promises,
Doesn’t know what integrity is,
His word really doesn’t mean a thing.
Donald Twittler reveres Adolf ******
Wants a Nuremberg rally of his own.
He craves mass adulation
From a battered nation
From the mistakes that are his alone.
Donald Twittler phones from the *******
Rages online in the middle of the night.
Each complaint anyone makes
He claims they’re all fakes
As if he's ever known wrong from right.
Donald Twittler, the personification of a drifter,
Has no relationship with the truth at all.
Don’t bother asking why;
He’s the best his Dad could buy,
And he’s never had to be on the ball.
Donald Twittler, a slimy sort of critter
Gets climaxes from national attention.
He has never had morals;
Buys his way out of quarrels,
If he had a soul it’s far beyond redemption.
Donald Twittler, thinks he’s better than ******
And we should all kiss his big fat ***
More than half of us disagree
And urge him to quickly flee
Because most of us would just as soon pass.
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
Awoke to the sound of gunfire
Chewed teeth pacifying the burning rage against the disease
Mother's Milk a distant dream
And the sweet salt of your super nature
Caressing the cavities in my head
Swallowing the holes in my soul
as metal shards make more young soldiers whole
completing an illusion of control.
How long can you hold onto a necessary reverie?
As long as you need assuming you both agreed to dream tonight,
To face to face the side by side
To never ever lie
To reprobate the profligate
And accept the overwhelm
All allowing of the atmosphere
Loving every moment hard and soft
And every crevasse in the journey between.
Revive the sight of yourself within the mind of one who reveres
the eyes with which they have been blessed to look upon
a ****** deity,
and to worship fading gold and cracked plaster,
knowing it was born to age and die.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
“I have let go of friends who are not friends.
I have let go of, “I love you’s” that leave the after taste of, “for now”.
I have let go of the men that want to crawl in bed with a woman black,
fantasized exotic.
I have let go of boy who reveres my loudness
But only when it doesn’t interfere with ego.
You mistake hubris for confidence and fail
to stand next to,
work next to,
build next to,
something more than real.
I have let go of woman who deems me not worthy of respect but
of her unnecessary redundant jealousy.
I have let go of his lips that seek release instead of pleasing me.
I have let go of hands more prison cell than wanderlust…
There is something worth touching here,
Worth more than just ******* here.
I have let go of bodies assimilating for comfort
instead of adding to the peace that my vibe brings into any room.
I have let go of you women more foul milk than friend,
More siren than Goddess
More damsel in distress than Queen.
I have let go of darkness for light
but, I will never choose between the moon and the sun,
Because they both feed me.
And people drain me.
So, I have let go.
I have let go
of giving in
and bowing down
of staying silent
of thinking myself 2nd
And wanting to be chosen 1st.”
-Indigo Morrison
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
Of Anchor babes he cries foul
but it seems an empty howl.
Just look at HIS life
A Serbian “Anchor” wife!
Plus a Russian first spouse
what a hypocritical louse.
And He reveres Vladimir
why, He holds him so dear.
His claims of innocence belie
perhaps HE’S the Russian spy.
Give Donny the code?
not well does that bode -
He’ll repopulate the earth
using his daughter with mirth!
Heaven forbid we elect this toad
for our fair States it’s the wrong road.
He’ll be busy building a wall
while the crazed shooter's at the mall.
With this whacko in charge
and his cabinet at large
All we’ve worked for is gone
while the lemmings follow the “Don”
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
Could you imagine
What it might be like
To be a camera
You might see...
France
A family
Beautiful forests
But what if your owner was a serial killer
Then you might see...
Blood
Death
Pain
Yes... a camera is a daring job.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
In the search of a true face
across the world
I see many faces…
Some unfold what they are
and some persist
under the veil of futile glare…
While one being a saint
emits divine fragrance
and evinces the ultimate path,
another behind saffron
keeps usurping
the modesty of the earth…
While a doctor justifying his duty
works a lot and
returns someone’s breath,
another with sham assurance
and selfish gain
revels in welcoming
the naked dance of death…
Where one reveres women
as fortune
and
one pushes her in to
the jaws of inferno..
Where a net of conspiracy
lies behind a crooked smile..
Where illusive tears
play with emotions
determined to drown others in woe..
Beauty there is deified
And yet
carnal desires rule supreme..
Hiding under
honeyed speech
man proclaims
deceptiveness is alien to him…
Giving a blank look
he projects himself as innocent
but there remains in him
a hidden criminal mastermind…
Who promises himself
as the Truth’s son
is in reality
a matchless fraud…
Swearing to be a true friend
behind you
he walks with your enemy
hand in hand…
Unpredictable and strange
are everyone..
But the time’s rain
washes away
all pseudo makeup,
drags out the disguised
of his castle…
But all of a sudden
my search seizes the real point
I find Nature and child’s heart,
with truth, are not poles apart..
Ceaselessly
display only beauty and simplicity..
That’s why on earth
the living incarnation
of divinity, both are..
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC
Right On Mike!!
Here's a strategy
Surround yourself with Generals
old glory and the anthem
Pick fights with ethnicities you don't like with twitter rantings
Trump is an Emperor there is no doubt
A self absorbed narcissistic caricature born of empirical arrogance
Government is no longer in entity that needs to be studied
All you have to do is run it like a business and reject the proclamations of Jefferson and Madison as mere *******
Banksters become Patriots creating wealth on Franklin's printing press with interest
While Paul Reveres ancestors boo the players who protest
White privilege never ends
White privilege never sacrifices it's position
Instead deflects by omission creates hallowed traditions
Calls it history or sacrifice
ghostly heroes
rise from the dead
Gory glory hallelujah
Congress raise your fists
Your purple stained fingers plugging your ears
Social and economic justices
fell behind and now are in arrears
And there is hell to pay
In this American way....
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC
A tide imperceptibly rises,
a sun dies just a little more.
New lamppost starlight
blooms but fails to hide
a carpaccio of night
pounded thin and fried;
autumn thoughts of all sizes
clot in the gut, a bezoar
that might be a bitter cure
for tomorrow's sweeter troubles
which double and then redouble.
Yet even a heart-worn raconteur
reveres leaf-fallen days;
wind rips a brittle baize.
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 10:20 AM UTC
I cried today in my car
While I went on an extended drive
I just want to be touched
Held in the embrace by a boy that reveres me
Gently sway in the dark
With our hearts pressed against one another’s chest
To the tunes of cigarettes after ***
Softly playing in the distance
I crave a matured intimacy
Where another sees my authenticity
And accepts me in my full mystery
But I don’t have that
And it ******* hurts
Viscerally
It aches in the center of my chest
And the tears slightly make the pain subside
The romance novels and late night self-love sessions
Provide some sort of escape
But they cause huge crashes after the chemical highs have dissipated
When will my time come
Tomorrow
One month from now
Two years
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 2:35 AM UTC
The womb of a mother is a cradle for a child to grow in
a nine month gestation grace period is a child's sweet elation
Mother tenderly sings to her little one as she waits to give birth !
A mother is a vessel of purity, also a
Mother's heart, is full of love for her child
Object of her desire, "a baby with ten little toes and ten little fingers"
Tenderly woven thoughts arrive at the font of her pregnancy
Hieroglyphical sounds and body rotations, she is mesmerized
Enchanted by a human life growing inside of her she
Reveres the treasure within her and prays for safe delivery
Search the whole world over and you will never find a purer
Love, than the love a mother has for her child
Over the moon and infatuated with her infant she cradles
Validating her affections to the gem before her eyes
Each time a woman delivers a child, Angels pluck their harps of gold.
Copyright © Mystic Rose Rose | Year Posted 2022
May 3, 2022
May 3, 2022 at 7:45 AM UTC
Be a poem, O’ Prettiest, not mere breath—
A song that lingers past life and death.
Not dust in the wind, nor fading light,
But verses born of truth and might.
Do not doze in slumber’s keep,
While dreams like stars in silence sleep.
Be the lamp that greets the morn,
The spark from which the soul is born.
Within your veins a rhythm flows,
A secret only silence knows.
Time bears a tune that waits in you—
A golden song, eternal, true.
Kindle your core, let spirit rise,
For heaven sees through watchful eyes.
Be not a whisper lost to air,
But voice of fire, bold and rare.
You are no myth, no fleeting flame—
But sacred blaze none dare to tame.
If storms of time you do not bind,
Then be the tide that stirs mankind.
This world’s a stage, a shifting mist—
Be its refrain, O’ Prettiest.
A cry, a kiss, a sacred sign—
The mirror where all truths align.
Ask not the worth of your own name—
You are the self, the living flame.
Be melody the soul reveres,
Love’s voice that echoes through the years.
May 9, 2025
May 9, 2025 at 1:53 AM UTC
Distance measured in time,
Darkness replaced by sight;
Sanity now a faint sound,
Rarely seen in the light.
Time passed by, by distance;
Normality replaced by sin;
Silenced is each breath,
I now no longer depend.
Years merely moments,
Laughter drowning in sand;
Happiness dripping with blood,
Is a death so carefully planned.
Moments, weighed down by the years;
Distant is the chaos
Of which no-one reveres
Years filled with moments
Of Self loathing while drowning fears;
Dreams no longer visible,
Unable to see beyond the glass...
Dec 23, 2019
Dec 23, 2019 at 8:41 AM UTC