"routed" poems
The deeps of darkness have been raised
As if their being was kindled.
The warm night of peace is at an end.
The devil is he that rages unchecked this night, and there are none to withstand him.
The shield wall breaks, the cavalry routed, and the meanest defence stands alone.
What shall become of these men?
Death surely, for the miracles of poetry give lie to no truth. The curses of old are set in concrete.
Death has gained his presence here. He smells victory. For the living in their mundanity see only their existence.
This existence that means nothing in the tomes of the greater good.
There is no life, only sorrow.
There is no victory, only decimation.
Only the naive think thus.
Victory is not that of arms and steel.
Nor of land or gold or tales of which bards sing
Victory is in the fight that was fought.
For they that wage the good war, and fight the good fight, all is victory.
Defeat is beyond question. Life is not of consequence.
The act alone reigns supreme.
This isn't joy. This isn't glory.
For victory chooses not the last man to stand, but the last to fall in defiance. Victory belongs to the departed. The victorious dead.
And such as it is. It shall end now.
And it's end alone worthy of song .
For all who bear witness to it.
We die, we do not flee.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC
A man is only half of what he is; always leaning towards the dim
Lacking a flouted need which whorls in the mute within him
A man bigots an ideal and will lark it away at the hold of his routed pith
A smile is not worthwhile if the smile does not have anything to receive or to give
A man is skyless; bound to his back with his dreams fixed on a rapture
He gorges upon tasteless feasts gasping for that sup he hungers to recapture
He does not know nor recall the times that did once befall
Of the lossless suffers and how they ever meant anything at all
He will become the most that he can ever endeavour
Be the creature he needs to be and whichever
Way it may engross him and how it moulds or claims him
It will be still him but leaning not so far in the dim
He would be a whole man who would give himself wholly
Who would be more and only more to her and her solely
His full heart would be tendered for it would not be his own
If it was still partial of the heart that had since budded and grown
A man would be raised and the sky would be without border
A bliss amid clouds where the undiscerning muddle finds order
There would be a sense to the road an approach to the wander
A reason for all a kiss a need to ponder no longer
There would be such rise in his depth and a contest behind bit teeth
To fight for the purposed kiss to hold her and keep her from grief
To offer her all embrace not too tense and not too slack
For her to breathe is to breathe; now half new he would never give it back
To be back upon his back with eyes busy to the sky
His bones broken as her feet glide indifferently by
Over his stare among cloud where she impelled his descent
He’d lay fallen and broken beaten and bent
If Half a man became whole does a whole man not become naught?
If he fights for a dearest never afore dreamt dream then what is left to be fought?
Was it his minds misgivings that would lead to such a trite giving reliving to doubt?
That surfaced more than he knew; the intended whisper instead a floundering shout?
Would it have been his heart that threw him from his felicity?
Could his relish overwhelm and mutate into potent toxicity?
Could it be fact that without thought nor without tact he impelled her?
Either overthought or over loved he would have fallen the hardest and he would not rise
No he would not rise anymore
If there ever was such a man and ever such a she
He would have her for as long as that may be
Her greatest gift is after saying all this to you
Is that after knowing all that you could you would feel the same way too.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
May the words of my mouth
and the meditation of my heart
be pleasing in your sight, LORD,
my Rock and my Redeemer.
Good Morning Beloved
It is good to be among you this morning.
Let us pray….
Gracious Lord
As we sojourn the pathways of life
You have brought us to the places
Of ecstatic splendorous peaks
You have blessed us with resounding joys
You have filled us with good things
The grace of your unconditional love
Is made manifest in the abundant life
you have promised to all your children
We bless you Lord for your provision
And your unfailing unrequited love
You have also humbled us Lord
With times of perplexing trial,
deep sorrows and pointed loss
Our earthly journey
has led us to places
of dread, devastation
sickness and pending death
Our plans and aspirations
Have turned to dust
Our eyes fill with tears
Our crestfallen hearts
have hardened
We fail to receive the
balm of love
We have been routed
We have lost the battle
We have been conquered
by separation, sin and despair
The spirit of life
Has evaporated
From our bodies
All that remains
Are dry bones
Scattered in the
valley of death
hidden by the shadows
In the nadir of our lives
Yet your abiding love
remains the
strong Present Helper
calling us to your light
May we rise from our
Afflictions as Lazarus
did when called by his
beloved friend Jesus
May your grace anoint
Our ears with the sound of
The Great Resurrectors voice
May you stir our hearts
With the wisdom of your will
May you bless our lips
With the grace of prophecy
That we may
Prophesy to the broken
And brittle bones of our lives
Prophecy to the bones
so they may be joined
With sinew and flesh again
May your words
Become flesh
May we walk again
In the land of the living
And rejoin the beloved
At the table of
Your abundant grace
In The Good Deliver's Name
We pray...
Selah
Music:
Eric Dolphy, Come Sunday
Readings,
Ezekiel 37 The Valley of Dry Bones,
John 11, The Death of Lazarus
Prayer of the Dry Bones
Faith Lutheran Church
Lavallette NJ
4th Sunday in Lent
4/2/17
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
Feb. 2015
this writ,
content so obvious,
it begs,
why even bother...
Pen Man Ship
this is who you are,
this is your scent, scripted,
the parfume that memory triggers
declarative self-examination passing grades
if pen and paper
are your skin and blood,
then you, man,
ship to shore,
skinned alive,
in poems verbose spill all
ship in ship out,
the glories and the dreads,
expel ink oceans glorious India blue,
rivulets of tributaries,
spillages of what~where,
you are pen
you are man
you are ship
where intersect these routed things,
one is voyage~bound
for parts unknown
the pen be the oar,
and the man, the ship,
and when the sails raised,
the wind never fails,
only there is no
dead reckoning -
for there are no
landmarks observable
when sit~stand
to commence sail~writing
each writ a latitude recorded,
each poem a longitude drawn,
all together, a
body of work,
all together,
your life's coursework
is the captain's log
Pen is the Man is the Ship
in everyday words
he answers
the questions life poses,
in everyday words,
he realizes
the answers he (doesn't) posses,
with each passing poem
the ship, righted,
though the heading
remans unknown
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
When the lucent skies of morning flush with dawning rose once more,
And waves of golden glory break adown the sunrise shore,
And o'er the arch of heaven pied films of vapor float.
There's joyance and there's freedom when the fishing boats go out.
The wind is blowing freshly up from far, uncharted caves,
And sending sparkling kisses o'er the brows of ****** waves,
While routed dawn-mists shiveroh, far and fast they flee,
Pierced by the shafts of sunrise athwart the merry sea!
Behind us, fair, light-smitten hills in dappled splendor lie,
Before us the wide ocean runs to meet the limpid sky
Our hearts are full of poignant life, and care has fled afar
As sweeps the white-winged fishing fleet across the harbor bar.
[Page 35]
The sea is calling to us in a blithesome voice and free,
There's keenest rapture on its breast and boundless liberty!
Each man is master of his craft, its gleaming sails out-blown,
And far behind him on the shore a home he calls his own.
Salt is the breath of ocean slopes and fresher blows the breeze,
And swifter still each bounding keel cuts through the combing seas,
Athwart our masts the shadows of the dipping sea-gulls float,
And all the water-world's alive when the fishing boats go out.
2.6k
Pods routed back and forth
Inside
Cells linked to the central nervous system
Soulless
The cry of a sapling
Lush, primal sounds
But deaf to the neighbours
All distracted by a stream
A tweet
"Doors closing..."
Repeated beeps
Launching sprints
Rivalling Olympians
But not all pass the finish line
The end of the line:
School
Work
Leisure
Three modes activated
Upon the opening of pod doors
A hurry
Never stopping
Never hearing
Never open
Of hearts
Wallets
A song from yesterday
The flower withers
Pulp for pennies
The flower withers
Only so much could be done
Outside the system
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
The day, I still remember-
When you captured my heart
On a cloudy phase of October,
That made my life, as your part;
I melted on the whole,
As your beauty locked my soul;
Little did I think
Of closing my eyes to blink.
Neither Shakespeare nor can Wordsworth-
Aptly verse your elegance
Which took me off the earth,
And routed all my sense.
Following your footsteps, allowing not to detract
Learnt all possible notes of hymns;
And at last, discovered the fact,
That our souls are the best synonyms.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
Used to be stuck,
so firmly rooted.
Like the ugly duck
had to be re-routed.
Fearfully and unluck,
my soul was muted.
Until to me struck,
and for once, all I disputed.
Can't do what's right
so I'll do what's left.
I'll follow this light
until my soul I put to rest.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
You were fourteen in Dr. A.’s class
when on that day you proclaimed
to have learned nothing and on that
day Dr. A. held no doctorate degree.
You were fourteen in Dr. A.’s class
when bodies: sick, overweight, in-shape
fell from buildings and into to TV screens
into history books, only to be stuck forever
in a New York newsreel in their Tuesday
outfits with Monday night’s love and touch
brewing, aged and earthy, from their falling
lives. If you listen closely on the eve of this day
the wind still whispers their scent of perfume
trails, still whispers what really happened
that busy day in the clouds, in the sky.
I was ten and can’t recall where I was
or in whose company but like the waters
stretched between Europe, Africa, and the
America’s, I was (am) far removed, was (am)
still putting together the blue-black lineage
of my triangular history that drowned
in the salty waters stretched, flowing
between three continents. But fifteen
years later, we (you and I) have overcome
the billowing black clouds of Tuesdays
the Monday night upsets, and the routed
maritime of our ancestors. 15 years later
you are still alive with your blue eyes
and clear face, are still four years my senior
are still my guiding light and sight of sun.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
As he lay waste her bed , her
Body, body-bed, bed-body
As he lay waste her cushions and
a saree unfurled
As he lay waste in a haste
To **** the marrow out of her
Lay waste her blankets,
And entered the bed which
Wasn’t one of Matrimony
But a bed raised in pursuit of mammon
To sort things , the easy way out
He entered a bed and she too ,
Was entered
Body-bed , bed-body,
As voices cooed and quivered
As flesh writhed and squirmed
Tamed flesh
As pleasure heaved itself
And guilt oozed out
Somewhere, unwary children shouted
Finally, oh finally , passions routed
And people fled , a temptress left
In the temptress’ lair
And though the bed still lay waste
The pillows had a lot to boast,
A reward for the magnanimous host
Young tongues savoured dead flesh
On the largesse of a bed lain waste
In a temple of flesh.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 7:20 AM UTC
I buckle to my slender side
The pistol and the scimitar,
And in my maiden flower and pride
Am come to share the tasks of war.
And yonder stands my fiery steed,
That paws the ground and neighs to go,
My charger of the Arab breed,--
I took him from the routed foe.
My mirror is the mountain spring,
At which I dress my ruffled hair;
My dimmed and dusty arms I bring,
And wash away the blood-stain there.
Why should I guard from wind and sun
This cheek, whose ****** rose is fled?
It was for one--oh, only one--
I kept its bloom, and he is dead.
But they who slew him--unaware
Of coward murderers lurking nigh--
And left him to the fowls of air,
Are yet alive--and they must die.
They slew him--and my ****** years
Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now,
And many an Othman dame, in tears,
Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow.
I touched the lute in better days,
I led in dance the joyous band;
Ah! they may move to mirthful lays
Whose hands can touch a lover's hand.
The march of hosts that haste to meet
Seems gayer than the dance to me;
The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet
As the fierce shout of victory.
1.4k
Arctic air ,
a Canadian export,
not ledgered in any book of trade,
replaced hunger as the body's sole attention.
There will be time for additional Canadian exports:
wheat, canola, eggs, bacon, beans, potatoes...
But the temperature plunge
routed the homeless last night
from their million dollar bridge encampments,
scattering their shanty collective,
into a forced survival march to heated shelters.
"Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.
Come in my children.
God loves you."
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 6:17 AM UTC
The Last Doughboy
went marching home
mustered up to heaven
to rest in perfect peace
never went over the top
when he was over there
drove an ambulance to save
the last dying bits of humanity
excavated from the craters
reeking with mud and blood
the turgid stench
of blessed death
wafts through the
muddled labyrinth
a ghastly kingdom
of rats and men
intractable mazes
of hate, hope and waste
led by inept generals
vainglorious politicians
promising triumphant victory
while begging disastrous defeat
bold shouts of advance
lead to routed retreats
global trench warfare
the sweet earthen coffins
empathy's last gasp
compassion's last stand
gurgling lungs
gagging on gas
imploding on
clotting blood
liquid ammonia
sears sensitive retinas
wafting flash of fire
burns eyes forever shut
concussive bursts
bludgeon eardrums
ripped bodies of friends
splayed onto comrades
the macabre rouge
a terrible war paint
liberally applied
with stunning result
by the industrial rattle
of cantankerous Gatlings
better minds thought it
the war to end all wars
the horrific scenes of waste
the pleading lips of starved children
the last Doughboy saw it all
a lucky Johnny who marched home
he thought the horror of WWI
would be enough to end all wars
yet all is not quiet
on the western front
Johnny's still got lots
of gruesome guns
distressed humanity
remains very busy
carting away human rubble
from our apocalyptic trenches
go to your reward
valiant Doughboy
*"leave us citizens
of death's gray land,
drawing no dividend
from time's tomorrows."
Siegfried Sassoon*
Dedicated to
Frank Buckles
(February 1, 1901 – February 27, 2011)
Godspeed Beloved
Oakland
3/1/11
jbm
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 9:11 AM UTC
In between shear white and jet-black
with a strong dollop of indigo blue,
lies the pale uncertainty of grayness
the most God-awful hue.
Grayness frustrates the senses.
Grayness stipulates malaise.
A shroud of indecision
arrests the imagination;
chained in wisps of doubt.
The definition of things
routed in a solitary
palette of insincerity.
Grayness negates options.
Grayness obscures landscapes.
Objects disappear
into walls of foggy smiles,
whispering repetitive monotones
of monotonous monologues
in incomprehensible language.
The mind is muted in a pall of haze.
Endless colorlessness of the days.
Days upon days of arctic blight.
Midwinter's endless drama.
White dust
sprinkled on the brain,
layering coats
of a suffocating
ashen pallor.
Dimming the wit,
Quelling the spirit.
Thoughts of light are captured
then lost
in craggy crevasses
of a dull blackened cranium.
Light can't touch the eye
Plaque builds in a hearts ventricle
Warmth escapes the body
and evaporates through
the magic of convection.
A vision remains;
barely an apparition
of a distant
dissipating ghost.
Belgian Café
Hudson St.
NYC
1/29/99
Music Selection:
Roslavets, Three Etudes
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
I am music
the cadence of soul
beat box of rhythm
lyrical poems
I am music
the inertia of dance
primitive passion
arising romance
I am music
of both hemispheres
intuitive and sensing
perception unaware
emotion in motion
routed in love
I am below
sent from above
I am music
I am love
Please never give me up!
Dec 12, 2020
Dec 12, 2020 at 5:09 AM UTC
There are rules and protocol,
movements and routine
not quite episodic and semantic--
non-declared transition and rituals,
rounded manners distinct
from infinite loop
and routed inner biplane
hemmed to a sight line,
spiraling death down.
Earth or Spitfire flare dare?
Grounded embrace forever comes.
I move, postponing
and extending.
The declared break is now.
Airflow ripples,
and eyes tear.
Straining shear forces
reducing reasoned response
to instinctual joysticks.
Old, new, modified,
learned sticky
quirks of friends,
Lost love lingering,
switching *****
adjusting yaw, pushing yoke,
subtle procedural affectations
stolen, infused in
to fly, bank, and escape.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
With its sinuous green edge and its delicately
decorative white venation this dewy cress laid
on a fine crystal platter would fit well next to that
chunk of cement facade ensconced in a vitrine
at the Art Institute’s new Louis Sullivan exhibition
There’s little cause to wonder why these particular
atoms once afloat on inchoate seas and awash
in the hummed mumbles of humble vibrations
chose to decohere into this one captivating pattern
from among an infinite variety of mattered schemes
even limiting their choicest range to those paired
colors A tree frog for example its narrow lime toes
suctioned on a broad leaf and its watchful pearl
eyes misconfigured with a blind spot too soon
exploited by a beak spouted peril Or the gallant rider
in uniform myrtle and mounted atop an albino steed
who at a mirthless gallop through routed troops
delivers this message Mother I am so far away
from everything They’re oddly jarred couplings but
with any choice whether slapdash had or carefully
considered what’s our guarantee it will live up to
the iron of romantically clad expectations I have
heard It’s always the salad that gets you in the end
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 9:45 AM UTC
thirteen men came together, who shared a common goal
each one persisted on the field, to bring glory to their football team
employing skills they'd been taught, on the oval they put in their best
struggling against the other side, to win for the team
they'd not be disgraced, their competitive spirit rode high
the lads unified in battle, they played as a solid team
each man drilled and trained, none had defeat on their minds
positional play was all important, they'd not be a routed team
their football team had a draw on Sunday, the thirteen strove to win
as a cohesive unit they tried well, but the time clock disfavored their team
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
I could find a way to make a voice so small become loud,
loud enough to influence hearts and minds with words.
We are routed in love,
yet our structure does not embody unity in full.
Empathy is lacking and eyes burn with ignorance,
peace can only be found through pure intention.
Time is a gift while everything is a choice,
choose to create moments that are a reflection of honesty.
Beauty exuded by the synchrony of our souls is captivating,
rich reminders to care for one another.
If I blend my thoughts with your thoughts,
you and I should feel safe-
we are all one.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 6:49 PM UTC
~~~<·>~~~
O, dear Lord, please give to me
the gracious spirit of fruit trees
they share their bounty
with those in need
without regard for
race or creed
spreading dappled
shades of gray
for weary travellers
on their way
~~ · ~~
the courage of a badger
o doughty soul!
a bear is routed from his hole!
he has a faith i do not know
without a Bible to tell him so
~~ · ~~
the wonder of a growing pearl
no such beauty in the world
it gets yet larger with each day
although it has no mouth to pray
~~ · ~~
the gentle nature of deep grass
which bends to allow
Your winds to pass
then stands again
with stately grace
to look again in
Your sun's face
~~ · ~~
the honesty of a sky of blue
the color reflects the truth of You
the freedom of a flock of birds
they have surely heard Your words
the cheerful ways of laughing brooks
passing boulders without looks
the industry of a little bee
the good of others all he sees
the patience of erroding wind
carving beauty in the end
the ferocity of love in bears
mothers die to show their care
the resounding strength
of a mountain range
wind or rain they seldom change
the wisdom of an ocean deep
it's secrets it will ever keep
~~ · ~~
all these things, i do believe,
my spirit will, in time, receive
it is Your will i must accept
as i do the
*KINGDOM
You have kept*
soulsurvivor
Catherine E Jarvis
(C) 5/27/1989
rewritten
(C) 7/15/2015
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
The rain has been coming down for days,
And I feel safe.
I am becoming my own, and beginning to accept the unknown that captivates my simple mind.
I over analyze and drive myself insane, but I have some deep routed feeling that through my hardships,
I will be okay.
As if this purge was some sort of release of fear,
Because a burden has been relseased off my crooked shoulders.
I feel genuine happiness, knowing you care.
That's all I ever wanted, I guess
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
thirteen men came together, who shared a common goal
each one persisted on the field, to bring glory to their footy team
employing skills they'd been taught, on the oval they put in their best
struggling against the other side, to win for the team
they'd not be disgraced, their competitive spirit rode high
the lads unified in a battle, they played as a solid team
each man skilled and trained, none had defeat on their minds
positional play twas all important, they'd not be a routed team
their football side had a draw on Sunday, the thirteen strove to win
as a cohesive unit they tried well, but the time clock disfavored their team
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
So strange, it was dark in the white room
People pondered over marshmallow figures all stood in a straight line
That one at the end, it has eyes
So it has
Godlike, we bow in awe
Hundreds and thousands applaud in unison
Chocolate legions stand routed
The eyes have vanished
Death searches in the night
Jelly baby heads abandoned as mothers cry in colour
Candy fish lead the cortege as the night floats downstream
One jelly baby saved
Adopted Tobleronian
Somethings brewing
Death in the afternoon
God speaks
Go forth to jelly mountain
Hundreds and thousands follow
Tobleronians in hot pursuit
Parting of the waves
Plague the Pharaohs army
He leaves the smarties
To climb jelly mountain
God gifts him tablet for the journey down
The smarties have built a chocolate idol
Furious he breaks the tablet in two
With the Tobleronians on one side
Smarties on the other
He came to his only conclusion on jelly mountain
You just can't get the Staff.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 1:49 PM UTC
Fuelled by love lost
Betrayal, paranoia, guilt and insecurities.
All in a conglomeration of fear. Routed and held steadfast by confusion.
Infusing into every
last
blood cell.
My breath has no navigation and its origin unknown.
The springs are clean and untouched but the water is bitter and dry.
Each sip I take burns a part of my throat.
Dryly drowning weak at the knees I can't move.
Im happy everything is going great, abiding by the doctrine of law of attraction and everything will be fine.
Okay let me offer you myself... Theres nothing left but it anyways, to stand
to cry
to laugh
to mock
to laugh
to cry
to feel. Its all yours.
With no hands I cannot take whats mine, with no legs I cannot run to safety. With only eyes I can record but with no mouth I cannot sound the alarm. With only one heart I give you its beat.
With this, theres nothing left for me.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 1:22 PM UTC