"scorning" poems
In all my paralyzing confusion, only one thing is needed; in all my anxiety over my much less than ideal circumstances, only one thing is needed; in all my this-is-so-unfair discouragement, only one thing is needed; in my pressing-down-like-a-boulder-on-my-chest grief, only one thing is needed; in my feels-like-my-insides-are-being-scraped-out sorrow, only one thing is needed; in my falling-apart-at-every-seam life, only one thing is needed; in my can’t-seem-to-muster-the-will-to-get-out-of-bed depression, only one thing is needed; in my sure-I’m-finally-going-crazy state of mind, only one thing is needed; in my so-mad-I’ve-got-to-throw-and-break-something anger, only one thing is needed. In the scorning and tormenting face of rejection or betrayal or failure or devastating news or disfiguring disease or the worst fears of my heart coming to pass, only one thing is needed—to come and sit at Jesus’ feet and listen to what He is saying.
To entrust myself to Him, to acknowledge His presence with me, to submit myself to His perfect authority over me, to just look at Him and recognize His all-surpassing worth, to feast on Him, to wait for Him to speak and know that He longs to do so more than I long to hear it, to meditate on His Word and speak it back to Him both in praise and request and to ask Him exactly what it means for me right now, to be ready to respond to Him in obedience and follow him wherever or however He leads, to be willing to tune out every competing voice no matter how well-intentioned and to say “No!” to whatever He has not called me to, to believe that He cares deeply and passionately for me both in His emotion toward me and in His personal tending of me, to see that the details of my life matter even more to Him than they do to me and that He holds every one of them in His hands and is perfectly directing them for intimacy and glory, to refuse to be drawn away or worried or upset by the many preparations and distractions all around me by casting every burden down before Him and taking up His all-sufficient grace for every need, and above all to want Him more than anything and to let everything else fit into that all-pervasive desire—this is the ONE THING that is needed both now and throughout every season of my life, and if I will choose it, it will not be taken from me. It is the one thing worth fighting to the death for and will, no doubt, require just such a dying again and again and again...
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 7:27 PM UTC
The man of life upright, whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds and thoughts of vanity:
The man whose silent days in harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude, nor fortune discontent;
That man needs neither towers nor armor for defense,
Nor secret vaults to fly from thunder's violence:
He only can behold with unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep and terrors of the skies;
Thus scorning all the care that fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book, his wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his only friends, his wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn and quiet pilgrimage.
13.7k
Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.
The austere sun descends above the fen,
an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin;
feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook,
brooding as the winter night comes on.
Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice
as is your image in my eye; dry frost
glazes the window of my hurt; what solace
can be struck from rock to make heart's waste
grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?
5.5k
The sun is shining and
moonbeams glisten through the air.
Moon, not sun.
While the sun shone
and incinerated the sloshing intestines of
vengeful beasts;
the gentle and forgiving moon
projected from their eyes and
caught the ****** maw of a starving deer.
Suitcases of leather stacked behind us
filled with spruce, pine, elm, oak, cherry.
Ready for induction t
o our paperless society
which consumes the forests of
Hippolyta and Antiope mercilessly.
Burning every leaf
then forgetting to feel
because nothing mattered.
Everything never mattered.
Facts are lie, opinion is truth.
“No one is nothing”
they shriek to the heavens
striving to be limitless
and scorning morality. Embrace death
and all its glory.
Life, while full of happiness
and gorgeous splendor,
refuses to acknowledge the
magnitude of the word. The thing.
Falling and reading and lines
and circles and explosions
and whimpers and screams. Agony suffered
silently, alone; never understood
because how could it?
What could totally encompass
the raging fire that devours the veins
and burns from the inside out
kept in place by the impenetrable
flesh that glints in the forgiving moonlight.
A hostile exterior that
smiles, waves, laughs on cue to
disguise the raging storm
fighting its way through from inside.
The shell which shrinks from the moonbeam
and into the harsh sunlight
that filters beneath the floating clouds.
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 10:18 AM UTC
Her mind was in Hawaii,
Dancing under waterfalls,
Wandering through rainforests,
Picking tropical flowers and
Braiding them into her hair,
Simmering on sandy beaches,
And gazing at the stars.
Her heart was in Normandy,
Eating crepes and sipping lattes,
Strolling through spring green fields
And along lazy river banks,
Kissing the walls of castles,
And scooping up scallop shells,
Soaking up French syllables.
Her hands were in her pockets,
High-fiving friends and
Running through her lover's hair,
Sewing, cooking, washing,
Punching, tearing, scratching,
Caressing and confessing,
Catching the very first drops of rain.
Her feet were on the streets of Seattle,
Tapping to the rhythm of the bass,
Shuffling in and out of the rain,
Dodging puddles and strangers,
Observing art and sculptures,
Chasing down a taxi or her dog,
and embracing the crisp autumn air.
Her lips were on the edge of a soda can,
Singing along to her favorite songs,
Whispering sweet nothings into the air,
Empowering the impoverished
And scorning the injustice,
Kissing a forehead, lips, and hads,
And stonecold silent as her mind does the work.
Her eyes were fighting back frosty tears,
Swallowing scarlet sunsets,
Painted in yesterday's make up,
Tracing your stoic silhouette,
Rolling like thunder before the storm,
Lapping up dizzying moonlight,
And buried in words, and words, and words.
Her body was in Los Angeles,
But, she was on a metanoia,
Breaking free of past and future
To find herself a presence
That would always be worth fighting for,
To reach sophrosyne, namaste,
And to put her frantic body to peace.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
its new, its foreign
your form I’m adoring
your frown I’m scorning
I just like the way you do you
so unique, so new
so hot and so blue
so me but still you
hand on my thigh as you drive down the avenue
the first one to engrave their name in my heart
the first man to deserve his part in my art
of delusional confusion, idealistic intrusion
with a sprinkle of disillusionment
thought it wasn’t for me, too many days spent in existential worry
wondering how it would work for me or if it would hurt me
but I throw caution to the wind and trust my wings
to maintain my grace on the breeze
love is just as simple as it seems
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 12:18 PM UTC
We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going—North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying—elbows stretching—fingers clutching,
Arm’d and fearless—eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,
No law less than ourselves owning—sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming—air breathing, water drinking, on the turf or the sea-beach dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.
4k
It is quite interesting
The way in which women can proceed through life,
In such a grossly hypocritical manner.
Scorning love,
And mocking their lovers openly,
As if to say, your feelings don't count,
Only to later on raise their voices in condemnation
Of their slighted partner,
Thereby proving that they are without a doubt
The far more dishonest
And petty, of the sexes.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
scuttling across the valley,
the trench was deep and steep
scorching heat of the dry sun,
dried blemishes on the weathered skin.
Settling along the rocky facades,
hackneyed by the haunting past.
Sleepless nights of the perching predators,
Hibernating in aloof worlds .
Stymied by the wind in the barren land ,
Harnessed by the futile fears.
Simone Melchoir of the sinking ship ,
would not you go down with the fault.
Shunning away from natures affection ,
for every rose does share its thorn .
Sunny ends are reached ,
when the raging ravines fade away.
Slithering away the swirling serpent ,
The sun lurks in the brewing storm .
Sanctity of the witheld winds ,
sapping away the deathly darkness.
Serene air of the seraphic angel,
brought the plighting dreams to the refugees repose
Smelting ores and melting poles,
brimming with brightness the cradled cirque .
Summons of the exalted virtue ,
To burn the lizard and fly away like the phoenix
Succumbing to the wilderness,
to soaring heights and rising spirits .
Swanking in the soothing winds,
the phoenix looked down on the plundering valley.
Scorning at the downtrodden spirits,
The fraternity of the Desert lizard
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
I travelled straight west
to the epicentre of the southern wastelands
and 'twas with mind-numbing disbelief that
I found an Oak table propped upon the sands
and it was not alone either
for three beings sat it, seemingly nonplussed -
one was a skinny old man
wearing a linen suit faded and powdered with dust
his collar frayed around the edges
a moth-eaten hat sat upon his head,
he had a daisy poking from his breast pocket
so very much preserved, so very much dead,
to his left sat a one-eyed Hare
the sole eye ecstatic and wiggling -
he swore and blasphemed each time the man spoke
from a mouth toothless and dribbling,
sat to the right of the man
was absolutely (absolutely!) nothing,
however I observed with mild humour
that both man and Hare were convinced it must be something
for the man was profusely adamant
scorning the Something for dissing the Hare's hair,
although the Hare was too busy rolling around its one eye
to even notice the man, or simply give a fu- care
"Hey hey talk to I! Hath thou seen my missing eye?!"
Hare asked from a voice shrieky and shattered
saliva running in rivets
upon the table it slopped and slavered -
then suddenly the man started singing encore
his voice cringe-worthy, out of tune,
sounding like a cat back-broke and on steroids
rocking and waving like a spastic-loon;
"If Father Time has no end,
does he even have a beginning -
oh, if there's pain is there gain,
which one of us is it that's winning?"
alas, that's when my attention was brought to the mounds
of surgical needles cluttered on the ground,
feeling sickly aura lick the back of my throat
I started backing away without a sound
["Hey hey talk to I -"]
["If there's pain is there gain -"]
["Hath thou seen my missing Missing MISSING EYE?!!"]
#FLASH!#
the dystopian landscape around me melted
into a field of bloated poppies -
serene, scarlet and blinding 'neath the sun,
feasting upon our charred bodies.
AJ
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
I sit here angry with the writer (myself)
for his overuse of cliches, for his underuse of relatable things
Scorning his very existence.
"Why would you write, you fool?"
"Ah, It's an escape for you! Who gives you the right?"
No one does.
If you must, continue
I'd rather I heard 1,000 bad poems tonight
than let you sleep without writing a one.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Over the hills,
From mountain to mountain,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Playing his pipes,
And drinking the wine,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
A cave in the hills,
The heart of his fair Arcadia,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Demeter he found,
And then he told Zeus,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
In fair Arcadia,
He stood feeding his hounds,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Artemis came,
And he gave her ten pairs,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Visions and dreams,
In trances and dances of ecstasy,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Fair Apollo came,
And learned prophecy at his feet,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Bragging and boasting,
He plays his pipes and he dances,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Apollo comes challenging,
And the mountain god liked lyres,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Echo he loved,
He sang and he wooed,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Scorning his love,
His panic tore her to shreds,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Horned God,
***** God,
Dancing God,
Drinking God,
Hooves upon the hills.
Youngest of gods,
But oldest by far,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Father of all,
And forever the Child,
He dances and hunts and roams.
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
I've looked at star filled skies
At life in microscopes
I've stared at hills and oceans
To find connectivity
But I have found
I see You clearest
Not looking past this skin
For You're the best in me
When I see gentleness
Like giving of myself
Being kind to others
Helping weaker ones I see
Caring for older beings
Showing youth the paths
And scorning selfishness
I see that love must be
His modus operandi
That is what I recognize
When everything is said and done
He is the grains on sandy beaches
He is the fish beneath the sea
He is the galaxy afar
The very tiny microbe
Everything I see
And finally
Whatever else
God is love in me
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
Gertrude
Caught in my *** and in my gender,
Out a king and husband,
Without time to seek a lover;
A son to preserve
His chance at the Line....
What could I do but marry?
He has left me now,
Shaking in my chamber.
A blood streaked line
follows Polonius'
Ignominious retreat
From behind the tapestry
In Hamlet's tow.
What could I do but marry?
I look anew at the two portraits
Chained side by side,
Husbands One and Two;
Re-live young Hamlet's scorning words
And wondering, shudder.
What could I do but marry?
Comes Claudius roaring
To my rooms, his eyes ablaze
My answers tremble, filled with doubt
Of Hamlet's sanity.
New- eyed, I see
The hatred in the King
And fear.
What could I do but marry?
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
When the Lady calls
Darkness is sure to fall
Like tears on a coffin
She calls all too often
She'll beckon for you softly
Smile at you broadly
She sings oh so sweetly
Lady Death has come to meet me.
She wears her hair like a veil
with skin so soft and pale
Her physique; dainty and frail
Take heed of the bleakness,
Don't you dare assume the weakness
Of her seductive melody
the pitch intoxicates me.
Her kiss will steal your breath
beware the embrace of Lady Death.
Her eyes are a piercing blue
And they will pierce straight on through
the scraps that are left of you.
She lays beside me every night,
caresses me until the light
shines bright, in the early morning;
when she leaves me in mourning-
cloudy thoughts, demons scorning.
Lady Death is drawing near,
She whispers nothings in my ear.
She pulls me towards the hereafter
with charming words and soft laughter.
She comes for me in the moonlight,
bringing me comfort in the night.
Yet her heart is black as coal
She comes only for my soul,
To drag me in to the dark.
I fear soon I may embark
on the last adventure,
when it all becomes a blur,
when the light fades away
and I've reached my final day.
You can have my heart, Ms. Reaper;
We'll roam together, Soul keeper.
For the noose beckons every day,
Darkness is pulling me away.
Come ****** me up in my slumber;
Only you can disencumber
me of my eternal sorrow,
I want your kiss on the morrow.
My heart burns with desire
and Lady Death lit the fire.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
My insides churned up in an inner turmoil
Thoughts jumbled and eyes grew moist
He looked, wide eyed full of hope at me
I stood there numb, wishing it was you with me.
My cheeks pale instead of rosy love
Scorning the man fate has written for me
Every little distance he inches,
I wish the distance was closing in between you and me.
His hands brushed against my knees
I struggle against this repulsion I feel for him
He's moving near, nearer; yet still far
He kissed my lips, but how do I remove the stains of your kiss on my heart?
Maybe it's in my mind, but he's using force
He senses I'm not with him in this act of love
His hands grow colder, he clutches tighter now
That moment he pulls me in, I let myself go.
I'm in this place I'm not supposed to be
*You're sitting there looking at a framed photo of me
Your face is pale, you're thinking about us
I kneel down in front of you, you hold me close
**Why didn't you try when there was still time?
What made you force me to say goodbye?
What made you choose your circumstances over me?
The society doesn't care, don't you see?**
You mumble sorry and cry along with me
It's too late, we both can see*
He's done with me, and I'm done with my daydream
He can sleep with my body, not with me
I'm still with you, when I'm with him
I'm still loving you, with him loving me.
Forever yours.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
Tangy scent of ginger ale,
Hands stained cotton-pale,
Flames crowd your barren soul,
A childless mother, not completely whole.
Colors burn through your mind,
Words blaring that aren't so kind,
Forever trapped in an endless maze,
Your own father called it a "passing" phase.
Only you know the truth of it all,
You miss the days before the Voice would call,
No matter how long or how good the day,
The Voice always got away.
"Illusions," they called the voices you heard,
But to you they were as vivid as the song of a bird,
Chirping outside your window to greet this fruitful morning,
Soon to be faded by the Voice's scorning.
Dull and gray your nights transform,
Like a passionate magician with no acts to perform,
The last straw pushes your limits too far,
Like a flame engulfing spilled tar.
Bucket of white and paint brush so clean,
You're painting your flaws away before they'll be seen,
A gulp of ginger ale along the way,
White you've been painted and white you will stay.
You find a pair of scissors and snip off your hair,
Leaving your scalp looking erratically bare,
You head to your room for a final glance,
Really, it's because you're hoping to be given one last chance.
"You've been bad," the Voice would state,
In a tone of voice you're starting to hate,
You grab your phone and make some calls,
Then head to the bathroom with the checkered walls.
A few moments later you lay in the bathtub,
Already your fingers feel slightly numb,
You read the instructions and swallow the pill,
Inhale and exhale to get rid of the chill.
Your eyelids grow heavy and your head is sore,
You turn on some music that you adore,
Your chest feels tight and you brace yourself,
Place your phone on the top-right shelf.
Your best friend finds you later that week,
Her fingers start shaking and she's too shocked to speak,
She clutches your phone and as she dials 9-1-1,
She finds your note that writes, "The Voice won."
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
scorning sun bursts into the aisles of graying curly waves,
punching yellow teeth and candied sweets with the
green of loving laughter that i've not heard in years.
you taught our fingers to bleed of bramble dew.
so sticky in our attempts to keep Genevieve's crystal filled but,
clear of improper pounds. collected ounces that rudely
overflow, are picked with mudded, forested feet.
consumed so clean and sweet, from thorns
between the brush, the aisles buzzed of summers paths
that only lead us where we knew.
through the scales and passed the cords
where drying life would heat our warmth,
nights would drop with echoing sounds like trains
slowly passing through our country's vacant crossing.
you voluminous sap of unaccounted ooze.
you sweet maple so never barren or dull.
you flame of northern light.
take me back to the path we passed
where cords are dried to burn
where frogs croak in Côté's creek
where my memories live and yearn
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
113
Our share of night to bear—
Our share of morning—
Our blank in bliss to fill
Our blank in scorning—
Here a star, and there a star,
Some lose their way!
Here a mist, and there a mist,
Afterwards—Day!
2k
can't you see it?
my pretty smile, my petty laugh?
i will scorn you for scorning me -
your half-hearted aggression!
i will still see magic
i will still see love
you will see nothing of that
nothing of me.
my secrets
so beautiful
and not for you.
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 1:46 PM UTC
After the whipping he crawled into bed,
Accepting the harsh fact with no great weeping.
How funny uncle's hat had looked striped red!
He chuckled silently. The moon came, sweeping
A black, frayed rag of tattered cloud before
In scorning; very pure and pale she seemed,
Flooding his bed with radiance. On the floor
Fat motes danced. He sobbed, closed his eyes and dreamed.
Warm sand flowed round him. Blurts of crimson light
Splashed the white grains like blood. Past the cave's mouth
Shone with a large, fierce splendor, wildly bright,
The crooked constellations of the South;
Here the Cross swung; and there, affronting Mars,
The Centaur stormed aside a froth of stars.
Within, great casks, like wattled aldermen,
Sighed of enormous feasts, and cloth of gold
Glowed on the walls like hot desire. Again,
Beside webbed purples from some galleon's hold,
A black chest bore the skull and bones in white
Above a scrawled "Gunpowder!" By the flames,
Decked out in crimson, gemmed with syenite,
Hailing their fellows with outrageous names,
The pirates sat and diced. Their eyes were moons.
"Doubloons!" they said. The words crashed gold. "Doubloons!"
2k
As I trace the rise and fall of your back,
I think how lovely you are in morning -
How is it my heart shall beat now it lacks
Night's bold ignorance I am now scorning?
Afraid to touch, my fingers skim your skin
Only to graze unmapped constellations
Composed of small stars made of melanin;
The act gives my heart wild palpitations.
Surely I could put a tack in the sun
To stop its rapid ascent to midday -
I can hardly blink before dawn is done
And you rise and I am full of dismay.
To wake next to you I would face the sight
Of your retreating back in morning light.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise,
Being plain Elizabeth, e'en let it pass,
And own that, if her aspirates take their ease,
She ever makes a point, in washing glass,
Handling the engine, turning taps for tots,
And countering change, and scorning what men say,
Of posing as a dove among the pots,
Nor often gives her dignity away.
Her head's a work of art, and, if her eyes
Be tired and ignorant, she has a waist;
Cheaply the Mode she shadows; and she tries
From penny novels to amend her taste;
And, having mopped the zinc for certain years,
And faced the gas, she fades and disappears.
1.8k
I never thought,or realized, that in speaking,your name, I would have tears in my eyes, you were the presidential first father, of south africia, but now, you, nelson mandela, sleep among, the giants of history, like George Washington, laid out the framework, conceived in liberty, a new nation, under God, injecting into the veins of your country, liberty without malice, for all peoples, all colors, who walked democracy's long road,to freedom, by your side, always refusing to let the scorning, heat, of racism, put out, the light, of your divine humanity, ever lifting up, a fist of victory, toward a new dawn, of opportunity, patience, love for all, while ever remaining , a risen hope, in the body of politics, refusing to bow , to the cruel headwinds,of hate, even after, breaking rocks, of harsh, prison punishment,for twenty- seven years, you went in, a prisoner, coming out, a president,no, the relentless, sun of hate, never blew you,off course, as a king, who walked, among us, in peace, with a freedom metal, nobel peace prise,one who kept, the common touch, with embraced humility, smiling, greeting, the known and unknown, the rich, the poor, the tired, the weary, nelson mandela, you were true,royality and grace, among us
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC