"sayers" poems
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines
Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand
and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon
in big pink petals of bloom;
A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (
be gentle, though whispering wind)
Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign
fears,
as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
Consume the years between Here and Now;
Watching from blank perch, among
the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
Sing the branches of experience, to wake
in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
of waking,
ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—
Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;
Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
With regards to Thomas Sayers Ellis
Look at the
Lucent lava lamps,
Dark craters
Hiring hands.
We walked,
Mimicking magma.
Hot, why is
This heat?
Forget Vulcan
And his illusion
Of kaleidoscopes,
A rip tide
On the shore
Of our conscious minds.
We held fire,
Pretending to swim
Underground,
But only out
Of pure respect.
Some had boots
Made with
The clippings
Of funky tripwire,
Others wore suits
With goggles
Clamped to their faces,
Gripping like
Bay Area earthquakes.
One-by-one,
Jang-strangs were
Attached to us and
Hurled into the Pit
With rhythmic rituals,
Waves of S and P
Flailed away
Like flags.
One nation
Under a new.
No one looked away
From the fiery daze.
No one wept.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
It's one thing to say, it's another to do. We have become a generation of sayers forgetting that words mean little without action.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
Stars shine on in a night sky so black
you can see the truth.
What is that light but an interruption
to progress so blinding
the sun blushes–
as if another light vandalized
our ever darkening sky.
Closing out on reality,
opening up to ideals,
it’s the rays piercing through the layers
and the yea-sayers nodding
off to sleep in a darkness so deep.
When the genius strips off the latent,
flexes its manifest intelligence,
and puts down thoughts
that flare into the darkness.
No effort from a sun fibbing eternal.
The end might come but the hand
who writes eternity can’t see
the end coming.
Who are the geniuses
expelling the light
and who are the receivers
not likely to admit their stupor
for fear of fantastic phantasms.
Fleeing from their folly,
straying into strange, insipid
serials, unending, not rerunning–
only growing obese with weight
Of chances not spent.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:35 AM UTC
A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
The hearers and sayers are moving the truth around again.
Why are they always coming up with different reasons to die?
Especially when it is the world's hands at play;
Her gracious hands, wrapped in cellophane then thrown from the window with hate.
Oh and how we have shattered those precious porcelain fingernails.
All of that money gone to waste, burnt out on family funerals and stock exchange.
You should have spent more time outside in the shade,
Rather than lick the sweet taste of revenge off her switch blade.
To just spit back in the face of a once upon a time love.
It's the wanderers from the beginning that always come back for more.
Heaven has a special place reserved in hell for them.
It's only a matter of time before I'm trapped in between the two again.
So I'm back on the floor, with my face in the eye.
I have bitten off the last shadow.
They should be able to see the light soon enough:
But I let it slip again, out into the nighttime stardust.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
A pirate sailed south, but too far.
The good ship's prow found
harbors filled with icebergs,
frolicking penguins and walruses:
it began to snow inside his mortal soul.
He dreamed of perfect white beaches,
warm sand, sunlight, palm trees
and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini
lolling like Erato on holiday.
He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin.
It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest.
He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions.
Many people told him he dreamed too much,
to accept this landfall and be content.
But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot
and contentment does not appear
in the official pirate's vocabulary.
Even an aging pirate holds true to course,
pinned like a medal to his longing and desire.
More sail, he cried, and turned the helm
toward the islands of his heart,
toward a landfall of warmth and color,
toward hot and willing flesh,
toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies.
Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold,
he headed the only direction a pirate can, further.
- mce
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
I¹m not sure how I came to be obsessed with Dorothy L. Sayers and her
beloved Peter Wimsey. At any rate, I was determined to go on a pilgrimage
to England and walk in the places where she walked and to see the place
where her ashes lay. And to ostensibly find a signed copy of one of her
books every copy of which was beyond my economic horizons on my internet
searching. So I went to London I saw her heroine, Harriet Vane¹s
Bloomsbury. I went to Russell Square and stepped back into a time when
hotels smelled of potted meat and wet wool and it was always raining. I
saw where Harriet and Peter set up housekeeping after their marriage.
Finally, I wnet to St. Anne¹s Church in Soho DLS¹s final resting place
where she was warden for some 12 years before her deaeth in 1957. It took
three trips to the small tower where her ashes lay under the concrete before
I could get inside and stand in that place, but I finally got there What
is it that makes us feel connected when we stand where someone else is
buried?
And wandering around London on our second day there I stumbled into a
small book shop and, wonder of wonders, I asked if they had any Dorothy L.
Sayers¹ books and they said ³Are you her to look at her private library that
they had recently purchased at auction?¹ So I now have three of DLS¹s own
books and I have one signed and annotated in ink by her from her private
library. I have the books sitting in my living room in a small house, in a
small town in Indiana. But I have a part of something in my bookshelf I
take it out periodically and ****** it and feel like I can reawaken some
lost show in some other place and time.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
I live my life with aperçus. Formal education seems to be de rigueur, but when it comes to living my own life, the one I need to live, the one everyone needs to live, it is not a fake existence to placate others thus becoming an apostate to myself, but always being true to my real self. Aperçus guides me. What I decide, where I go, what I do, all are decided by my intuitions. The process is unconscious. It’s like a great running back. Gale Sayers come to mind. His magical moves that resulted in long touchdown runs, twisting and turning at the precise instant, all were the results of his intuitions. Truth emanates from aperçus. Follow it always.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 11:04 PM UTC
I have forgotten what day it is
I have forgotten what day it is
my purpose is to wait-
and long for you to
Address me, dress me, hold
me.
promise me; the blue sky I grow lustful
and drunk over.
tide me over with
the hidden knowledge of
soothe-sayers
astronomers, those
who have a hand
inside of them
and His fire, blinding
and
bright and
alluring
in their eyes.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
I'm depression. As real, as light,
As dark. As feeling, as air, as
Light. I'm as real as the sun
That isn't there. I'm as heavy
As its nowhere-
Ness. I'm the sum of sub-
Tracting parts, I'm the price
Of hell, a worthless dream.
My life
Is found, when life
Finds meaning (when was it lost?)
If you think
That means
It was me
Who gave
Up on God. . .
I gave everything
And nothing he returned to me.
Death to the saviors.
Death to the sayers.
Death to the forsakers.
Nothing to arrogant nothing.
The greatest ******* pain
Is your child,
When he was just born,
And inside you,
And later, when he
Disappointed you.
You tried so hard,
Gave it a name,
Something you wanted it to be,
Gave it food and water - Your
Food and water,
And for your birthday,
You get a coffin.
Life
*****
As the saying goes.
And I guess
Death is the Doctor
Who draws your blood
To replace some other blood.
As the saying goes
Around.
But maybe
Our dreams will get us somewhere,
When the end comes, when we sink our bones
Into that pillow the Earth, and in a thousand
The sun will abandon, and make it
No longer daydreaming.
But until then,
Let them **** each other.
So-called "family."
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 2:57 PM UTC
What a price to pay to say "well said"
For all great phrasing comes from great tumult
And gladness, sadness, joy are all but fuel
As the "sayers" translate thought to word
They are as hunters, patiently in wait
For a great stirring deep within their being
Emotion wildlife rustling the trees
The game that does not recognize the game
Strategic are these hunters, clever souls
Whose precision cannot be repeated
Miners for the gold within their hearts
Exploring, exploiting their perceptions
And yet, it is but great coincidence.
They do not mean to feel, but still accept
The ludic, accidental inquiries
Subpoenas to their creativity
How much does it cost, a wondrous phrase?
The charge is pain, or love in great amounts
For words upon the page can but reflect
The bittersweetness of their author's id
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Living the dream or so it seems
Riding the waves, cascade after cascade
Jumping through hoops,
going round loop de loop,
like a roller-coaster
Believing you've got closer
To what:
you're supposed to do.
what you,
perceive to be
what you,
intend to see.
Knowing that, this is your goal.
The thing that drives your soul.
To reach to the sky,
stretch up to the stars,
float upon the clouds,
make yourself proud.
Because this is your dream.
it's something that means,
everything to you.
there's nothing that you wouldn't do, to reach the heights of success.
Continue to achieve your best.
Push through till there's nothing left.
Because this is a passion, a craft, a choice.
Don't listen to nay sayers,
down players,
people who say:
This isn't the way to go,
this is something you should know.
And it is something you know.
Why wouldn't you.
It's drummed into you day after day,
you get used to the people being that way,
it's a hard business.
Okay, okay
I get what you're trying to say but I don tell you day after day;
That your job is monotonous.
A corporate chain,
whose only aim
is more money to gain,
from your daily pain
of trying to maintain the face of joy
when your boss walks by
and asks how it's going.
With a nod all knowing you reply
"It's going great Mr Johnson."
Yet in your head you weep
And wish to retreat, back to the age when you could openly phrase a strong affirming gesture.
A finger raised to the sky,
Stating **** you and goodbye.
But you don't.
You nod and say "yes"
Cause that is your best
There's no passion inside you.
No craft that will drive you, to achieve.
So stop for a minute and believe
Believe in the strength of desire in your heart
let me take my path, leave me alone and then start on your own.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
Listen to the aye-sayers;
Pay heed to the nay-sayers
For point and counter-point;
As Lear did with his fool,
As we did once in school.
Hear the sycophants and flatterers,
The realists and truists;
But in the end what matters,
Is the voice between your ears,
The sooth-sayer of future years.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
Master Piece
To get to the level of mastery
A must urgency
Needed necessities
a master fee/
master time master weakness master craft
mastering/
all the short comings
over come
catastrophe blasphemies/
master strength master length
The duration it takes to overtake
It's important
master these/
the nay Sayers
what they say?
Correct this too takes mastering/
convey compute portray transmute
No further dispute
Now that's masterly/
listen... First priority
the highest form of a master fee/
pay attention to their actions
the feel... tension?
If it's the last thing
master these/
Observe you'll already
be ahead of the curve
massively/
Master the little things/
Every inch you give is a mile gone
Turn those inches in to millstones
Master fully/
never to be locked down or in always a way to win
Now thats a master key/
They laughed at first now no jokes
Master stroke master-ease/
Within the master class
Enrolled contemplate
Confine till you find
That's master mine or mind/
Eventually/
you will be
A master of ceremony/
The silence will increase
When you piece
it all together
Now that's a master peace
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 3:46 PM UTC
Out the bath I had to get
To open the door to your smiley face
"AM I SAVED" your poe face asked
No you ***** I was in the bath
God has sent me to your door
Oh not again I'm getting bored
"Do you believe in the lord thy god?"
I'm dripping wet you stupid ****
Patience gone decorum lost
I let both barrels fire at once
Oh doorstep preacher shut thy grid!
You live a lie and always will
No god will save you, no heaven above
The lie you live is foolish enough
Your bible is made from letters and verse
Hundreds of years after his birth
It was political work fit for a king
By sayers of soothes fearful of him
It kept people's in fear and others at war
No proof of its truths have ever been shown
So preacher be quiet and pack up your wares
Let good people live without your concerns
Repent if you wish and seek your own solace
But disturb me again! I'll smack you I promise
The end of your world and it won't be a comet!
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
Tired eyes,
chasing street dreams.
Life ain’t always what it seems.
Bright light blind.
People run schemes.
Snipers focus their beams
Night terrors tarnish dreams
Pain is being,
feeling it, is to believe.
Cowards seek only to deceive.
Hear sayers only speak,
After the truth leaves.
Too many fakes for me.
Real should recognize real,
Lately, I can’t believe what I see.
My trying to change the world
Instead, it changed me.
I was better off being me,
Cause that’s how its meant to be
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
I drink lipton tea
And sit and think about what we could be
Soul searching like a ghost
Girl let me hold you close
Come with me quick
Before my pain ends this note
I drink lipton tea
And sit and think about what we could be
When financialy I could be the foundation
Me and you could multiply to fill our nation
Or seclude ourself from the world
It could be just me and you baby girl
I drink lipton tea
As I sit and think what we could be
Mentally we could already be
Bcuz I live with you in my dreams
In a blue painted house
With a black painted gate
I work from 5 to 9
And always come home on time
I drink lipton tea
As I sit and think what we could be
So at the end of this rhyme
We could get lost in time
Hoping the nay sayers never find us
So at the end of this rhyme
You can see what I see in me and you
The love we can make and things we could do
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC
Bright as the menace, Man
brings gallant shadows
for the golden idol.
We give a wicked turn for the fire,
and jonquils for the Essenes,
pillories for nay-sayers,
squawking and gawking, bronze
bottoms for the whip:
perched piety, an angel
and a demon,
I forget their names
as they whisper petty
prayers into my ears.
Countless and listless are
the eyes that beam, Heaven-
sent and Heaven-forward,
the wanderlust leaving
Paradise in shambles.
Bright as Venus, acid rain
beckons all the saints
left dim, a shadow
bursting in the stratum.
We give wicked lies to the worrier:
One night, near to waking, he tore
the Devil's wings
and traded them for daylight,
bright as the
gallant menace.
and the God laughed,
and then he cried.
Sometimes I wonder if jealousy
will lay with empathy, equal
halves to the other.
And I forget my name.
Forgetting piety, forgetting blame,
leaving the vagabond,
the lowlier child,
to weep alone
in his nakedness.
Countless and listless are
the prayers of children,
caught by the reign
of night, gleaming silently,
lonely
and together in the stratum.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Who was the first person to decide
what's right and what's wrong?
Not the picky choosy **** we think
Came straight from the Bible.
The book that's been translated across
many languages, cultures, and general
beliefs?
I mean the first person.
The first group of people that decided
having a full life is wrong.
Being yourself is wrong.
Wanting is wrong.
Yearning, dreaming, achieving...
All wrong.
Who decided being a woman
was so wrong that we should be condemned?
I should be able to **** who I want
and not be defined by my "number".
I shouldn't have to be asked that question.
I should be getting high-fived for having
Consensual *** with the guy who
makes my coffee.
I should be applauded for having ***
with multiple men.
I should be shown the same level of
respect as any man out there.
But my number is vital, isn't it?
Well, I say **** all of that.
**** a whole bunch of it.
**** anyone you want.
******* do anything you want to do.
Don't hurt anyone, and it shouldn't
be anyone's ******* business but yours.
Jesus ******* Christ.
**** him, too.
**** any imaginary thing you want.
That's what ************ is for.
**** yourself, for God's sake!
He wanted his people to be happy, right?
Free yourself from the chains of
modern society!
Find people just like you, and don't let them go.
They will be strong for you,
hold their heads high for you.
Defend you against nay-sayers and party poopers.
Stand behind you when confronted with
mass objection.
We are the lovers, and the fighters,
and we are many.
Band together and **** society.
You know,
For God's sake.
lmt
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
Sometimes we get lost,
We wander off our path, or we forget how far we’ve come,
Or we forget that we’re not girls any more.
But women in charge of our own destiny.
Not depended on a man’s opinion,
Of who you are, or who you should be.
Hold fast to this.
Know that you deserve to be loved,
For the strong independent Boss Babe,
That you are.
Never settle for less than you deserve.
Rise up and show your daughters and the Nigh Sayers,
That though your world is small,
It is yours, for the making.
Create a world where Warrior goddess strive and thrive.
The path is yours.
You are strong, beautiful, smart, and a warrior.
You come from a long line of amazing women,
Warrior and goddess in their own right,
Women who survive and thrive,
Always remember you are a warrior goddess,
It is a family tradition.
Remember to always hold fast to father God,
He is always there for you.
Honor and respect mother earth
Don’t forget Karma is a *****
that takes no prisoners.
You have the wisdom of many at your fingertips
All for the asking, WE will be there.
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 1:54 PM UTC
oh it's the end, the world will end today,
the Mayans said, they said it long ago,
according to opinions people say,
the modern sayers saying what they know,
it's noon, the morning hours i have survived,
now fifteen minutes till the clock strikes two,
i find in all the silence i'm alive,
the sayers thinking twice 'bout what they knew,
survivalists in barricaded doors,
with rifles loaded, ready on the walls,
will pace upon their dusty wooden floors,
awaiting for that ring when death makes calls,
today for many, dying one by one,
the prophecy was right, their time is done
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 1:58 PM UTC
The poem requires a mind
that finds meaning, even divination,
in language. Non-fiction,
up to academic standards, demands
evidence. Nothing less will do.
Most of us read fiction and this
needs a taste for action, motivation.
Lately, as have you, I have
thought about our war and its purpose,
motivation. But I have also closely
listened to the wood thrush, analyzed
its song like a tune by T.S. Monk
or J.S. Bach concerto. One belongs
to the loved ones who ostracize us, too.
A robin looks, hops, pecks, is never calm.
It is the flute-like tones, yes, but mostly
the patient, meditative clarity
of the thrush that enchants. One wants
to be that bird. How will we attain
calm clarity for the species **** sapiens?
Through the discipline of asking questions.
Mimics, woodpeckers, sing-songers, hawks,
chippers and trillers, whistlers, name-sayers,
loons, owls and a dove, high pitchers,
wood warblers and a word-warbling wren.
Unusual vocalizations.
What did the wood thrush sing
teaching its young thrush meanings?
Too much emotion is the commonest of mortals’ sins.
Peace has many faces,
the wood thrush in the canopy is one.
A word of praise here, an encouraging word there.
A wraith, a ghost against an impatient man,
verbose, unsure of the path, always longing.
Nothing satisfies like the thrush's song.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
Out of sight out of mind
I haven't look in the mirror in months
The Sayers of the sooth sensed
I'm selfish and the truth is
I've been thinking about myself to myself
and how to be a selfless influence
So I cut to the chase with multiple contusions
Lead.....ink.......bled
Through my art-array it's hard to say
Freedom of speech?
Well... Well I'm well aware that my where with all
is on borrowed days
So I had to e·val·u·ate
And I came to this conclusion
Stand my ground no matter what
To create a movement
Every one follows the leader and what ever he's doing
Caught in the race in confounded amusement
Some ones open the gate escape
from the labyrinth of illusions
Shucking and jiving showing and proving? No
I come from the bottom I'm showing improvement.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
True Love most say is the work of fiction and fantasy
That it doesn’t exist in the real world today
But for those nay Sayers and disbelievers the world
Is a dark and weary place.
But True Love does exist I say, for it lives in the
Hearts and minds of the dreamers and poets
And but of course for those happy and fortunate
People that find it.
True Love isn’t measured by time nor distance
But by the strength of the heart and the mind
True love can cross any boundary, from the
Smallest of pebbles to the highest of mountains
From the smallest of puddles to the largest of oceans
True love even transcends death itself
And for those happy few that do find it,
Let them seize it and hold on tightly
And never ever let go
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 11:11 PM UTC