"sainted" poems
*je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
Have not chatted in awhile,
me rutted in NYC,
a city of constant tear down
and sometimes flashy urban human
renewal...
While you,
you getting on with life,
growing up, growing down,
buying clothes for a new school season,
or growing children,
or boxing up now grandchildren memories of memories...
falling in love, writing poetry all about it...
You,
in Nepal, Malaysia, India,
Seattle, Portland, and the Florida's panhandle,
the US Midwest sainted hinterlands,
the South, that makes one love water,
water that has travelled from the faraway,
island continent of professorial Australia,
Did I forget the Philippines?
worse sin committed,
is that in
your poetry
I have not toe dipped,
quite the long erstwhile,
after loving it with
obsession devotion...
so just a Saturday afternoon
note penned just to you
and you alone...
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
So by way of apology,
craft a poem for you exclusive,
more than each word, letter,
every syllable, tongue tasted
for conjuctivity,
breadth and thus discovered
notes of red soil, raspberry, lemon,
even a hint of sweet masquerading as a
salty kindness in our veins,
our unique vintage of connectivity
Your hand to my lips raised,
grasped twice, by mine both,
slow lifting with stature, affection and respect,
kiss it and whisper just enough for
we two to hear...
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
even this seems weakly insufficient,
but care taken nowadays,
a new economy of words,
write less, think more, and
give up the truly deserved words only
as a mark of my fondness and respect
these come on no schedule,
often months in the making,
so forgive-me-not my unsweetened silences,
accept them with easy knowing that
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
the summer man wintered in discontent,
his journey now disrupted by forces exogenous,
stealing his vision, jailing him in between
walls of indecision, knocking down
his own twin towers,
but carelessly not making provision
to tell you well and often enough
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)*
Sept. 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell?
None of the sins,—but this and that fair deed
Which a soul’s sin at length could supersede.
These yet are virgins, whom death’s timely knell
Might once have sainted; whom the fiends compel
Together now, in snake-bound shuddering sheaves
Of anguish, while the scorching bridegroom leaves
Their refuse maidenhood abominable.
Night ***** them down, the garbage of the pit,
Whose names, half entered in the book of Life,
Were God’s desire at noon. And as their hair
And eyes sink last, the Torturer deigns no whit
To gaze, but, yearning, waits his worthier wife,
The Sin still blithe on earth that sent them there.
2.4k
The Buddhists Teach
There is a door
Between the conscious and the unconscious
On the threshold of awareness
Where, from this sleepy place
Mind-door takes in space
A snap-shot of what’s around
The shapes and the sounds
Be it red, blue or brown
Sensory fed and felt and judged
A conceptual conclusion
Based on memory and illusion
Served up ofttimes with a bit of confusion
The sixth sense of inclusion
Transcending time and allusion.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
The unaware
From where?
Memory Lane
What a pain
Insane and mundane
Tainted and sainted
Familiar and unfamiliar
It’s the object and the flavor
It only makes sense
To bring in the other scents
Can you feel it
Through my poetry?
Because I have no other way
I’m sending you the sweetest berry
In bloom
And tea scented perfume
For some lazy afternoon.
Starting out so poetic
Descended into the prosaic
I’d like to stay in those high-minded places
Between the sheets of my faces
I’m at peace and war with myself
No one else.
I know I shouldn’t get attached
Shrug it off with panache
When I think about impermanence
Makes me cringe and
create another circumstance
A twirling happenstance
A devil’s dance
A devilish lance
It’s getting better
Like frankincense
Then it fades
Like the past tense
How does one let go
When clinging’s become a way of life?
A hunting knife couldn’t pry
My pathetic fingers lose
Holding on to
A hangman’s noose
I’d scream and rail
Holding on
To the nail
That pierced my travail
As life stomped and pounded
grounded me down
But, I wouldn’t let go.
Oh no, not me
Fool that I am
Was it a question of pride?
A fear of the night
The ego chasing its’ tale
Personal blackmail?
A forgotten memory
A mishmash
Lack of mindfulness
A Pandora's box?
Nonetheless,
I confess
A little bit of everything.
I tell myself
Baby steps
Baby steps
Baby’s need to let go
And fall and get up
Or they won’t learn to walk
Or talk or grow up
It’s baby talk
And baby steps
Knock, knock
Who’s there
No one
Then come on in
Naked and all alone
Rest on the threshold of time
Rest on the threshold of awareness
But, In all fairness
Don’t expect it to last
Such is the nature of impermanence
Only the bliss shall remain.
You can find it once again.
When you learn to let go.
But,
Don’t listen to my advice
As you can see
I’m still holding on for dear life.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
O Thou, the Nymph with placid eye !
O seldom found, yet ever nigh !
Receive my temperate vow :
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth unalter'd brow.
O come, in simplst vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd
To bless my longing sight ;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delight.
No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell ;
Where in some pure and equal sky
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye
Thy modest virtues dwell.
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye ;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears
A vista to the sky.
There Health, thro' whose calm ***** glide
The temperate joys in even tide,
That rarely ebb or flow ;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to meet ;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
But thou, oh Nymph retir'd and coy !
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy simple tale ;
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss rose, and violet, blossom round,
And lily of the vale.
O say what soft propitious hour
I best may chuse to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway ?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day.
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid ;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering thro' the shade.
2.1k
46
I keep my pledge.
I was not called—
Death did not notice me.
I bring my Rose.
I plight again,
By every sainted Bee—
By Daisy called from hillside—
by Bobolink from lane.
Blossom and I—
Her oath, and mine—
Will surely come again.
2.1k
The calm wind,
strokes the ****
The world drives,
the primes and hives,
of mad and trance.
The numb toes,
mounted moles.
The world drives,
the time and halves,
of mad and trance.
The chaos one,
does not know.
The world drives,
the wars and tyranny,
of mad and trance.
The feel of alive,
a touch of humanity.
The world drives,
justice of the immortals,
of mad and trance.
Peasants and pennies,
the drop of dime.
The world drives,
waters and commotions,
of mad and trance.
The fire in the alleyway,
burns the broomstick.
The world drives,
the dead and sad witches,
of mad and trance.
The bohemian ode,
nympomanics and satyriasis,
The world drives,
the desires and passions,
of mad and trance.
The sainted troops,
stalks, mocks, traps.
The world drives,
the obedience of lies,
in the mad and trance.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
The pebbles of your core
shine in ruminated scores
like a sorcerer spiking more
unlisting storms and ores
Smile dear rock, from a mile
touch the source of love ice
melt those gorgeous pure eyes
to the specks of the shiny shores
The rocky waves smell of testicles
Vestibules and alleyways of fertility
sung by Cronus as he holds a knife
eager to mutilate from a skyview
The sandy waters sink in Gaia hymns
as the scythe shed the slices of foams
where scattered sperms stays awash
to wish swimmers an eternal beauty
Ohh sacred gods on the aphrodite hills
Spread love unseen, unknown,unheard
stain the precedent of the flowing wind
give me the hint, a seat on the sainted scent
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
I’m a just right, out of sight, lily-white,
Never coy, ball of joy, good old boy,
So great it keeps me up at night,
Clever son of all the tricks I employ.
A world-beating, caucus leading,
Really big deal, big wheel big shot,
Clean outside, mean on the inside
Super savvy, super cool, super hot.
I’m the guy you want to toast
I’m the tops, I’m where it’s at
Some are good, but I’m the most.
I’m a sainted southern aristocrat.
It’s not good to get on my bad side.
I’m a fearless, remorseless go-getter.
I’m right, you’re wrong, if there’s a fight,
Yeah, you may be good, but I’m better.
I’m a cut above, you’ve just got to love
A gift from God sent from high above.
A card-carrying good guy to the letter,
A credit to my entire race, nobody better.
Whether in the news or word of mouth,
A quality beacon of the Sainted South.
I’m the guy you want to toast
I’m the tops, I’m where it’s at
Some are good, but I’m the most.
I’m a sainted southern aristocrat.
It’s not good to get on my bad side.
I’m a fearless, remorseless go-getter.
I’m right, you’re wrong, if there’s a fight,
Yeah, you may be good, but I’m better.
So, go away with your stupid picketing;
We knew how to run things way back when
We have God on our side, so just back off.
Old ways are the best way, again and again.
Your talk about equality and nigras rights
May sound good, but it’s all just libel.
We are the chosen children of our God
And you can find that in The Holy Bible.
I’m a cut above, you’ve just got to love
A gift from God sent from high above.
A card-carrying good guy to the letter,
A credit to my entire race, nobody better.
Whether in the papers or word of mouth,
I’m a quality representative of The South.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
One day in Pickwick
Soon to be acquainted
You must be sainted
It simply said click
You caught my eye
It was an oddity
You didn’t out me
as a complicated guy
It’s not a perhaps
I need you everyday
You oughtn’t go away
Without you I'll collapse
It might seem Lemony
this idea of mine
It’s opposite of malign
I simply want hegemony
I hope you know
you’re under my control
I own your whole
Following the written escrow
You’re my morning salvation
The highpoint of Monday
the sun in Sunday
You’re my liberating vacation
Darling baby you see
You’re my delicious Tea
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
To strive to know the heart of one so pure,
To contemplate the fate of one so young;
With heavy hearts, uncertain and unsure,
We honor thee and praise thee with our song;
To stand alone, amongst the enemy,
To take a stand, and stare them in the face;
With courage in your heart, to let them see
That you alone can walk within God's grace;
To burn and burn and thrice to burn again,
To turn the skin, and flesh, and bone to ash;
Discarding all remains unto the Seine,
The stains upon their souls will never wash;
Old men of cloth, long deaf to voices sainted;
Her name condemns your black-hearts ever tainted.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC
Wiggy doesn’t mean it is a wig
Just that it looks very like one;
And the hairdo is so ludicrous
That we can’t help making fun.
You act like an adolescent
Your orange hair is almost funny.
You utter the most inane things
Your disposition totally not sunny.
Wiggy little piggy, is what you are
As you ludicrously strut about.
You make yourself a laughingstock
From your hooves up to your snout.
You spout a bunch of garbage
High on the ignorance scale
Like you bought it all half price
At a dollar-store basement sale.
Snort and wiggle, grimace and scowl
It’s quite the side-show carnival show
You open your mouth and let fall out
Words that prove what you do not know.
Grunt and wallow in your own mud
Holler, howl, bellow and squeal
As if the lies you are telling us all
Amount to something valid and real.
Wiggy little piggy, is what you are
As you ludicrously strut about.
You make yourself a laughingstock
From your hooves up to your snout.
You spout a bunch of garbage
High on the ignorance scale
Like you bought it all half price
At a dollar-store basement sale.
So far, you are making yourself
Totally beloved in the Sainted South
But to most of us you would look
Better with an apple in your mouth.
You **** and moan and pontificate
And spout such bigoted wit
That the best place for you is
Guest of honor on a barbecue spit.
Wiggy little piggy, is what you are
As you ludicrously strut about.
You make yourself a laughingstock
From your hooves up to your snout.
You spout a bunch of garbage
High on the ignorance scale
Like you bought it all half price
At a dollar-store basement sale.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
my fingernails short when i scratch them through the dirt, carving furrows in the ground. my dry mouth stinging with hot air. you say that we're unlucky but we're lucky to have each other. you say we're birds of a feather but i suspect you are a wolf. you found the open parts of me and thought to fill them with your name. REPENT!!REPENT!!REPENT!! REPENT!!DEATH DRAWS NEAR AS YOU LICK THE FILTH FROM YOUR FINGERS, SINNER!!SINNER!!GOD HATES UGLY GOD HATES ***** GOD HATES DESPERATE HANDS TWITCHING LIKE DYING FLIES YOUR YELLOW TEETH ARE PROOF OF THE SULFUR IN YOUR BLOOD!!YOUR STICKY LIPS ON THE WHITE CLIFFS OF MY TEETH, YOU CANT KISS AWAY A SNARL!!REGRET THE WAY YOU PRESSED YOUR PALMS TOGETHER WHITE KNUCKLED AND STIFF!!REGRET YOUR SELFISH PRAYERS!!GOD HATES ANGRY GOD HATES SAD THE FIFTH CIRCLE OF HELL HAS A SPOT SAVED FOR THE BOTH OF US, SINNERS SCARLET LETTERS LIKE RASHES!!!REPENT!!your favorite dress, hem brushing your ankles, dust in the stitches. your soft hands with fingers in my arteries. your eyes squeezed shut when you cry. i am living out of spite. im living for revenge. im living to prove im better than you. look me in the eyes when you pull your fingers from my heart. SINNER!!WIND CHAPS YOUR FACE RED AND YOU PEEL DEAD SKIN BETWEEN YOUR FINGERS, I PRAY MYSELF IMMORTAL THE BACKGROUND RADIATION SCREAMS *ILL ******* **** YOU* I AM SPEAKING!!I SPEAK THROUGH COSMIC NOISE *ILL ******* **** YOU!!* IM SPEAKING TO YOU!!SINNER!!SINNER! REPENT!I AM DIVINE I AM SAINTED I AM HOLY I AM GOING TO HELL
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
The butterfly flutters in the skies
looking for a mere complication
to a place where the sun smiles
below the daily mediocre waves
where all tunes same frequency
the multitude parades in lines
sinking in unproven priced lies
moving all along in a rollercoaster
In upward current the levelled high
In downward demotion the trips
As we drool on the bonded chains
In upheaval of lame indecisions
Casting all there is and there is not
Must we sacrifice all we have got
The body that chooses to give and live
A soul in forests waiting to soar
A mind carrying more than it bears
On this holy ground that sink below
where faith is grass that withers
and hope is a rainbow that fades
The blooded paths painted in red
oozing confusion and utter misery
Shall we wait for the embellished heroes?
To teach us how to be and survive
Police bark and robots deployed to shoot
Civilians protest on injustice and inequality
we all beaker and peck the sainted patch
Humanity is our freedom and grace
a tapestry blended by colours and cultures
a oneness painted and screening liberty
The authentic texture of raw love and truth
tainted by patriotism and indocrination
Networks channel and harvest poor yields
whilst we beaker with heated controversies
I, you, we all breath the same scented air
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
Slow it down
breathe me in,
deeply.
Eyes closed,
skin touching,
slowly stirring,
heat rising.
Watch me want you,
feel me need you,
let tender touches bring thunder
as deep kisses bring rain.
Let your slow hands
feather-light, stone strong
trace shivers
down my supple spine,
as clustered kisses please.
Let our bodies meet
with the grace of angels
as sainted flesh
slowly, silently, succumbs
to sacred sensation
and time silently slips away.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
See the Nigra boy statue
On a White front lawn
It is all that is left now
The Old South is gone.
It’s beloved in those towns
With proper church steeples
From the good old days
When people owned people.
It is a symbol of when
Blacks stayed in at night
And all public offices
Were held by the Whites.
When all human rights
Applied to only Caucasians,
And not to Blacks, Hispanics,
American Indians or Asians.
Those were the days when
It was easy to quickly see
Which were the good people
And which ones were guilty.
In those much better times
We didn’t stoop to harrangue them.
If they shot off their mouths
We would simply hang them.
Two hundred years of tradition
Was rudely taken away
No matter how we fought it
No matter what we had to say.
Those were the best times
And we liked it that way.
And our friendly Congressmen
Should make that way today.
The little Lawn Jockey remains
Almost by himself to carry on
Now that the massas and mistresses
In the Sainted South are gone.
He signifies a better time
Like Stephen Foster songs:
We never found owning darkies
So very evil or all that wrong.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
The sunset was tainted
In it's orange glowly faint
as skies billowy loaded
clouded with chemtrails
the balium and aluminium
fed as streaks of ******
as strontium is ingested
Injected in our soils
as our oils turn sour
to drool our brains
of thought and ambition
Projected to our souls
as we ache and ail
in trials and fails
that drill our veins
with fraught and draught
as skies billowy loaded
In it's crescent lowly paint
The moon was sainted
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
Blank minds offer anathema
The usurious are sainted
Devout all unknowing
Indoctrinate fragmental ribonuclease
Intentional homogenization
Transfection for incomprehension
Idiocracy I like it willing slaves
and none the wiser
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 10:38 PM UTC
I made you swear
We’d share
Everything.
Smiling, you came calling me to see
The imitation of honesty that you had painted.
My trust in you fainted.
Self sainted,
You showed me your holy creation
(filled with holes, rotting in mould; rank with deception)
In the anticipation
That I’d buy it
That ****
Really.
Boasting that you never talked to her
anymore.
Sure.
Like you said, I could have checked your messages
Myself; for added validation.
I am no fool.
That night there was just something
Small
You deleted from our discussion
Just like you how you deleted your most recent conversation
With her.
I’m sorry that she couldn’t make it to the mall that Saturday.
I hope she made it up to you the following Friday.
You really know how to play.
I can read people like books
But you are a magazine.
Well it looks like we’re even.
We both have something we never showed each other.
You never showed me the entire conversation
and I never showed you this poem.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
Wondering where it came from, this obsession with threes and trinities,
And there you were,
My third deity,
My third sainted portrait,
The halo around your hips:
A new Orion’s Belt of dark blue current that spills from this night
This night that looks so much warmer than it feels
And feels so much closer than it looks
I remember that the grass was damp
And besides that I’d kicked off my borrowed shoes.
And there were hands on my waist,
Hands in my hair,
And the smell of summer idiocy on my fingers and lips.
This bright red coal in the night
Against you, dressed all in black.
I can still see my breath ringed out
Around the dome of the church
As I held my wasted money between two fingers
And wound two more through your belt loop
I remember the two of us laughing
At the emotional lives of our friends,
But even as I’m modestly filling out
My libertine’s title,
We have to admit that we have our own problems,
Even if we refuse to name them.
Sometimes I think all my problems are etymological.
And whatever there is in the attack,
I can’t help but miss it in the retreat;
Maybe it’s the way we refuse to let go.
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 11:19 PM UTC
Transfused with a doted blood
Stainless pattern of the love
Color in red and spiral devotion
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Transfused with angelic poison
Faintless on the road to the crucifix
Color in blue the trial attributions
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Transfused with textual infusion
Sainted in hedonistic space fields
Color in kaleidescope spins
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Transfused with a dared death
Bright visions of another world
Color of purple enlighten
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 4:45 AM UTC
Breath in the fresh air in darkness of the night
this is my prison cell for the time
i wont fight for my sanity this time
I'll let my mind roam free in this prison cell of mine.
I hid the razors where no one else could find
with sainted blood on them
it's all mine
no one ever asks
if they did id never tell.
The blood drips down my arm
on to the clean polished floor,
my drawings will be flawless to night.
I dip my hand in the blood,
and draw lazily on the wall
the stuff i never say written in blood
on my prison wall.
I lay down my head on the cool floor
my wrist dripping blood more then before
I fight for a breath
though i cant fight at all
that's what they all whisper in the halls.
On my bedroom wall
i wrote it all
my story stained in blood
for me tomorrow will never come.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
I don’t mean to be insulting
To all you devout Blisstians
But I am not, and won’t be
Any kind of American Christian.
I have studied long and hard
Over a half century of years
And thus, I shall leave you all
To your hopes and your fears.
I find your religion
A strange philosophy.
It doesn’t quite work,
Or so seems to me.
Your god will have
An End Of Days mess
You do what you want
And then you confess.
You can be a right *****
Until you are ninety three
And then confess to Jesus
And you’re home free.
So, tell me again, please
How does this thing go
That there are things that your
Omnipotent god doesn’t know?
It doesn’t seem to be
Well thought out to me.
After thousands of years
Of sainted holy history.
It sounds more like it’s
A money-making scheme;
A deferred payment plan,
A fun-house ride of screams.
Looking back on the stories,
Two thousand years of war;
Of persecution and burning
And horrendously much more.
And who wrote what and when,
And more importantly why,
This mythological poem here
Could make a grown scholar cry.
So, I shall reserve my judgment
About your Judgment Day
I’ll go on and live my life
In a kind and considerate way.
I won’t put on your robes
And make your sacrifices.
I will thank you all to leave me
To my own Un-Christian devices.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
Sitting here
Figuratively my finger up my ***
Powerless
A drop in the ocean
With dreams impassioned
Still, big ideas that rhyme on time
A flow of future a heart beats
Thus, glowing dumb
Numb stunned besmirked,
Overlooked in the stands of larger
Success
An old building, perhaps,
A facade of stone not bright
Shiny metals.
Or a tomb perchance
Noble and sainted,
The chapel of baptismal fonts
Where sinners are washed,
And saints walk out,
A field burnt in spring
Full of orchids arching
Long petals up in hope in summer,
Of reaching that one thing
We all live for, yet
Grounded
A metal jacket bound around our thinking
And hymns.
Someday to flower
In sunrises of knowledge all
Together in whatever
Our wildest visions
Enable.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 12:14 AM UTC
The sound that repeats like the clash of swords,
The movement is such it has abrupt jumps,
Starring into it gives peace of mind,
They are the waves of the sea, well timed…
With speed they come to you at once,
Rolling and turning with the winds that rush,
Intense and forceful at the outset,
Steady and blissful towards the end…
Like your family they greet you with hugs
They wrap around your feet and create a mini flood.
You hug them back, they take you within
They are the waves of the sea, soft; like the violin…
They get their personality from the sun.
Thus changing colours now and then,
They play, as much as they can with him,
Until their mother shows up with a grin…
When she’s up watching over them at night,
Each one of them is at her sight.
They get their discipline from her; the moon.
Like sainted children they settle down soon…
When one looks at them while they’re sleep,
The mind is calm and the world complete.
A thinker’s thoughts are crystal clear,
The spirit seems free, and the heart humane,
They are the waves of the sea that persevere…
Lessons from the sea are several to learn,
The dominant one is to give up fear.
Keep moving like the waves of the sea,
For the waves there is never “an end”
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 5:17 AM UTC