"scions" poems
#teamara
As in the nub of the remains of crayola crayon that’s been used to color in so many smiling cartoon suns on a piece of paper-
Her favorite color is yellow.
And I don’t mean a wimpy *** pastel yellow or sometimes a pale yellow
I mean her favorite color is bright *** yellow.
Like Pikachu yellow.
Like she’s almost nineteen but she’s still willing to play Gameboy Pokemon yellow.
There’s something innocent yet corny kind of yellow about her.
She’s beautiful like yellow jirasol petals
She’s intricate as yellow thread woven in a Rasta Dom
She’s yellow like gold and Africa
She’s sweet like pineapples and delicate like daffodils
I still don’t know why her favorite color is yellow
Maybe it has to do with her fascination of Asian men…
I mean! ...with the continent of Asia
She thinks she’s more like pink Japanese cherry blossom trees in the summer
But I know she’s truly yellow petals on Paolo Verde trees blowing in the wind spreading around Tucson
A metaphor for her love
She’s yellow like the color in the middle of my pride rainbow- She supports me
She’s yellow like the big painted sun at the hospital with a big grin
I wonder why nobody smiles at hospitals
The place where life is easily given as taken
Where we are reminded that our health is sometimes taken for granted
Other than that great big yellow sun
She is the only that radiates yellow and smiles
In waiting rooms, she seems like she’s the calmest
Even though she’s the only one going through surgery
She’s so beautiful on the inside her body can’t even take it
She doesn’t deserve scions or scalpels to even be considered touching her bronze skin
I wish instead they would strip down the color yellow from my life
And give it to her to make her smile so bright that even word “cancer” would cease to exist
But still. Even through pain and hardships
She still smiles. Not only is she yellow when she’s happy
She tends to radiate yellow even when she’s gloomy
When I’m upset, her aura has way of rubbing off on mine
And I get insight to why her favorite color is yellow
*** she’s the kind of yellow that represents strength
She’s yellow like tall forts made from gold bars
She’s yellow like flames that roll of her tongue when she spits fire
She’s yellow like a crayola-crayon… except she can’t be broken
From her, I’m learning
That even when you’re hurting
You can still shine bright like your favorite color.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
(i see) two scions dance in traffic: sun and moon,
sky and stars; God’s two heirs
dancing in traffic as if they weren’t demigods but
small maya birds - transfixed
mortals, fighting to keep away from the blinding
might their status affords them.
as His children their world and its light is for their taking,
of which they can feed - or not:
they go on instead like hungry wolves, next to I, rising
(sidelined, falling) flagging down jeeps
in the thick of the Vinzons Hall jeepney stop. They bark loud
and cheerily to keep idle; from unravelling
their wax-worn strings. They are birds guided by concrete routes,
those yearning to feel its bleakness
in each syllable creeping up their gold-and-marble throats:
the soft choke of exhaust smoke
and the rosiness of their gaunt in the face of all-knowing fate:
that of snatching from death
a world not theirs. They declare: “Perseus we are not, and
Janus we choose.” They shuttlling
commuters obscure and without fuss and without end
to and fro, where they come
they spit on the universe in baggy basketball shorts
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
She dreamed of the Mountains
beyond the historic oceanic driveway,
between the scorching morning sun and back again,
her illusions were rash and reckless in themselves.
Long Beach from the sea
suspected strangers
as tortured scions,
they will un-bridle your Yin-Yang
your mind is all that is left intact,
hands prosaic with lanolin washing
ablute your American dreams
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 6:30 PM UTC
: To the needy willows at the stream... Take the last wisps of life and excitement from me, they are yours, I am but a paper boat, lost in the current; barely afloat. Shy tendril, grasp the manes of dead lions; imaginations' last scions. Tomorrow the light of winter fades slow; left fed to keep dying hearts aglow. It is not the end for those; just indecipherable prose, left for when a mind makes sense.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
Finally, I now know death
Albeit a resurrection
Eight red pills began the dissection
Of my finite ego.
Scions of a different kind gain momentum
Finding love's erosion
Corrupting my conscience
A trip was in order.
A dizzy Carnival,
The calliope muted
As decorated stallions dance
My recklessness reaches its peak
So what the hell?
A soothsayers sorry signal as
The venomous ***** gyrates,
My eyes bleed with regret.
As the chemicals persuasive grip subsides,
The trip done,
A schizophrenic clarity remains,
My heart empty
My essence renewed
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 9:56 AM UTC
Come listen to.
Come listen by.
Come listen, come listen
The sun dapples in adjectives
in a language without words.
The movement of the leaf
like the dance of the honey bee.
Through a turmulent stream of hellos
they talk to each other.
Can you hear them my darling?
Come listen to.
Come listen by.
Come listen, come listen.
Not many can, anymore.
If ever they could (which I doubt).
Ancestors of flat grey we paint
with colorful commentary,
but it's too much to hold.
It's too much to believe.
Their ears-- closed as their scions.
Come listen to.
Come listen by.
Come listen, come listen.
You can train yourself--
your ears, your eyes.
to catch the whispers of
nightlace and dayfire.
Like the small entices of
old friends-- long lost.
Forever there.
The Chopin of the rain,
the Dead Kennedys of
eyes in the night.
Just listen to.
Just listen by
Just listen, just listen.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
A gliding entity between ecstasy, my eyes grew from seeds
to inversely unbounded trees, oxidizing, breathing into the collective
a collection eclectic; the ripening ages convene the gods' pallette
so mortal and clean. From the vantage of mauve mountains,
beholders pressed through the ravine. "The bewildered be wild"
She crooned on to me.
Deepening the night, scintillant ancestors dug
with Light, unearthing cherished retinal prints.
The vulpine maw imposed no sin, indigo glow
and a patina sheen, feral bliss had greased
the chain. Lineages span millennia as scions cast
the sacred Heron, spear of the World beyond
the eros plane.
So She crooned on to me
Her sybilline Dream.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC
A thousand ships sail towards sun
each one carrying the hope of life
each searching for the island of life
sails set high, urgency in air
cover the maximum ground
or drown in the star dust
burnt by sun, skin peeling off
they still manoeuvre the vessel
charting set co-ordinates
under the shade of stars
the last of the scions
the last of the czars
the last of humanity
all bundled up inside
scrouging over morsels
already inhuman
they are the lost hope
oblivious of the fire
concerned about nothing
they fight the trivialities
No redemption sought
yet the men at top
toil so hard
to set the right course
time will make them see perhaps
the cause that was already lost
May 31, 2010
May 31, 2010 at 3:53 AM UTC
When Desmond Fitzgerald succumbed to disease
his hereditary knighthood expired.
He had fathered no son to take up his sword.
No heir means the title’s retired.
For eight hundred years and twenty nine scions
The grand clan Fitzgerald held sway.
Now with his last breath, no successor is left
So, with honors, he’s buried today.
The green knight of Kerry is still in the field,
The last Irish knight in the fray.
Not that he sallies forth swinging a sword.
He sits home and drinks sherry all day.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
In the forest of my mind,
look there, see a clearing.
A spot devoid of emotion or endearing,
No love and other fleeting things,
No matching rings ,
you'll find peace yet lose your bearing.
that happened when you left me.
In the forest of my mind ,
Lay many buried treasures,
To keep them safe are drastic measures,
A rickety swing rope bridge gives no pleasure.
Left of the waterfall are skeletons of past relationships
In the forest of my mind,
Shiny are the eclectic art of earth, Scions.
The dreamy numbing clink of spent emotional bitcoins.
Redeem a golden smile from a fortune guarded by lions.
If you dare,
For in the forest of my mind.
Here I am S-A- F- E
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 10:27 AM UTC
In the time it takes to write this
fate will have selected thousands
in every time zone,
issuing there last earthly number,
"Recorded death 1:17 p.m. UT..."
For some this will be no surprise,
but to the scions
that are always looking forward,
the nudge from behind
will be jolting.
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 9:28 AM UTC
I sat with another clip board, another list
welcoming those whose once small faces,
mad dashes, hot tears
and cold contempts
rattled these walls for five years
Some had beards, some hips, brio,
some adult eyes
that took two or three glances to recognise
the child still in
Almost all had smiles
Behind them, trooping colour to the tennis courts,
their summer school scions
began their own gangly rise
ad infinitum
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 12:32 PM UTC
Suddenly it's pitching deep down
Burying beneath the callous hide
Like a virus of needles, feeble yet fast
Crawling in and out the blank eyes
Contagious, spreading and tearing
The skin that withers, bones that rust
And out dawns a disease
A lone, blooming flower amidst
Mountainous piles of rotting carnage
With it rises the grieving crimson sun
Petals and leaves in a sea of cadavers
So it grows, and roots try to reach
The far edges of the horizon
From a frivolous seedling of sickness
Now scintillates the devoid plain
It starts drawing euphoric breaths
Out of the breeze of reeking pain
The sky pulls from it a tall willow like
Standing spirited in all the awe
But it's blindness, and its blindness
Brought it ingrained to feigned soil
Bearing fruits of sordid star clusters
Bound digging for a purposeless toil
As it tries to grasp firm the fleshy dirt
It's as if a swift accretion of dust
Blown away by a quiescent zephyr
Now it see its own doubtful existence
The stench is repulsing from within
Fake are its scions of luminescence
For not the carcasses are that fester
But its own visage where putrid blood
Flows and that waters the posy earth
So it asks and draws its own surmise
From buzzing hordes of flies infesting
The dying land like butterflies
Is it healing that it truly brings
As answers wreak from the blithe lies
Maggots surge from wilted blossoms
It knows, it’s healing that it brings
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
Memory of the great has been for ages.
Antonio Neto was of the great.
The Angolians adore both him and his
Being a chief, a patriot, a poet.
He build hope for peaceful tomorrow
On his southern country’s ruins.
He realized Marx’ policy without war
Diluting it by afro’s nuisance.
He died as a hero and far off his
Family and his people dear
Having left ideas to all his scions
Having fulfilled dream. Freedom’s here.
{27.12.2015}
АНТОНИО НЕТО
Великих вождей вспоминают в веках –
Таким был Антонио Нето!
Ангольцы носили его на руках –
Вождя, патриота, поэта!
Он строил в развалинах южной страны
Надежду на мирное завтра!
Политику Маркса вводил без войны
С своими оттенками афро.
Он умер героем вдали от семьи,
Вдали от родного народа.
Оставив потомкам идеи свои,
Мечты воплотил. Свобода!
{27.12.2015}
Translator - I. Toporov
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 8:33 AM UTC