I'm a servant to my dreams
As bitter as it seems
I'd say no, not today it isn't
Assumptions you made to pain
the every word that comes out
of your mouth, that falls from
your lips so to say
I'm a servant to my memories
As bitter as it seems
I'd say no, not today it isn't
Throw away the regret
left on the outside of my own
faceless fears and weaknesses
I offered you? all that is of my being
I never met you!
but now you know my every desire
You have the power to indulge my every thought!
I wait... knowing you are watching my every move
you intoxicate the air that I need-
the nourishment I crave-
the love I require!
Your command is my eternal pleasure
I await the miracle of your vision
I am, and always will be your
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Dress in saris, wear ornaments in gold
Around your neck and on the breasts;
Be a girl; be shy; be womanish bold;
Be a wife; be a cook; be spiritually good;
Adore men, especially your husband;
Be submissive; be polite; be loyal;
Be the servant of goddess lotus!
Dwell in clay; live under the water;
Show light to sun; moon and stars!
Be soft; embrace in love; fade into water!
I didn’t make you know how glad I was
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day
And see the way you lived, but I don’t know!
With a houseful of hungry men to feed
I guess you’d find…. It seems to me
I can’t express my feelings any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It’s got so I don’t even know for sure
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.
You take the lake. I look and look at it.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make myself repeat out loud
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep piece of some old running river
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles
Straight away through the mountain notch
From the sink window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind
About my face and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm threatened from the Dragon’s Den,
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?
I expect, though, everyone’s heard of it.
In a book about ferns? Listen to that!
You let things more like feathers regulate
Your going and coming. And you like it here?
I can see how you might. But I don’t know!
It would be different if more people came,
For then there would be business. As it is,
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we don’t. We’ve a good piece of shore
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
But I don’t count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the bright side of everything,
Including me. He thinks I’ll be all right
With doctoring. But it’s not medicine—
Lowe is the only doctor’s dared to say so—
It’s rest I want—there, I have said it out—
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after them—from doing
Things over and over that just won’t stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through—
Leastways for me—and then they’ll be convinced.
It’s not that Len don’t want the best for me.
It was his plan our moving over in
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you
We used to live—ten miles from anywhere.
We didn’t change without some sacrifice,
But Len went at it to make up the loss.
His work’s a man’s, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works when he works as hard as I do—
Though there’s small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men will make them all the same.)
But work ain’t all. Len undertakes too much.
He’s into everything in town. This year
It’s highways, and he’s got too many men
Around him to look after that make waste.
They take advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
While I fry their bacon. Much they care!
No more put out in what they do or say
Than if I wasn’t in the room at all.
Coming and going all the time, they are:
I don’t learn what their names are, let alone
Their characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not
Afraid of me. There’s two can play at that.
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I’ve been away once—yes, I’ve been away.
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old idea—the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
But it’s not so: the place is the asylum.
There they have every means proper to do with,
And you aren’t darkening other people’s lives—
Worse than no good to them, and they no good
To you in your condition; you can’t know
Affection or the want of it in that state.
I’ve heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My father’s brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because his violence took on the form
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But it’s more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story goes. It was some girl.
Anyway all he talked about was love.
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief
If he wa’n't kept strict watch of, and it ended
In father’s building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,—
A narrow passage all the way around.
Anything they put in for furniture
He’d tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a beast’s stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes on his arm—all of his clothes.
Cruel—it sounds. I ’spose they did the best
They knew. And just when he was at the height,
Father and mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,
And accommodate her young life to his.
That was what marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in the night. He’d shout and shout
Until the strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
He’d pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go and make them twang until
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then he’d crow as if he thought that child’s play—
The only fun he had. I’ve heard them say, though,
They found a way to put a stop to it.
He was before my time—I never saw him;
But the pen stayed exactly as it was
There in the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I would say—you know, half fooling—
“It’s time I took my turn upstairs in jail”—
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was glad to get away.
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
I didn’t want the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a while—but I don’t know!
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
And there’s more to it than just window-views
And living by a lake. I’m past such help—
Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t,
And I won’t ask him—it’s not sure enough.
I ’spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going:
Other folks have to, and why shouldn’t I?
I almost think if I could do like you,
Drop everything and live out on the ground—
But it might be, come night, I shouldn’t like it,
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a good roof overhead.
I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant,
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was the tents weren’t snatched away
From over you as you lay in your beds.
I haven’t courage for a risk like that.
Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work,
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
There’s work enough to do—there’s always that;
But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
I sha’n't catch up in this world, anyway.
I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.
He wandered the pages of a languid space
a servant of the abyss
in ghastly fear, he stepped and stumbled
upon my ruins as his heartrace tumbled
down the stairs of the starry abyss
a trajectory of dread
his fingertips painted
of words with heads
letters with legs
and poems of death
on the walls of the abyss
he, of all, the servant of those
who are older than we
shuddered at the noise
of the silence behind
and of what was waiting ahead
narrow paths; alas
servant; alas; were crowded with dread
he wandered the pages of a languid space
where dandelions embraced his uncanny footsteps
and a rebirth, they claimed
he caressed the poems of my demonic despair
what have gotten the servant
to my robotic disgrace
as he escaped the abyss
where my dirges; remained
My mind is on the clock with no rest
Searching in the deep
Peace is my peak
So I simplify
If I buy the newest ride
I consider could I give it up
If not I drop
If so I cop
What is a knot for
But to buy love
New friends to support
With hopes to cultivate a family
That feeling I get
When my real brothers next to me
A user of money
To bring out the best in me
And giving is my destiny
Facebook: Caleb DreamChaser Hammonds
Twitter and Instagram: learn_agapelife
A few people have told me
That they would like me to stop writing my poetry
Because it offends them.
I don't give a fuck.
I am not here to tuck them in at night
And give them a kiss on the forehead.
I'm not going to go around
Kissing your boot
Like a servant.
I am not hurting you in any way,
So leave me the fuck alone.
The habits of the righteous servant reflect
a certain posture of pleasing The Master.
Walking in Love is evident, when we recognize
what the heart of Christ is truly after.
Bearing fruit, living lives in desperate times,
becomes much easier when we share our burdens.
Let’s practice living harmoniously each day,
before joining together in Heaven’s garden.
Real Love, always requires acts of action;
Even Christ washed the feet of the Apostles
to demonstrate that all forms of compassion
can vary from the smallest act to miracles.
Societal importance is an artificial construct,
that demonstrates a poor example of attitude.
Christ’s example has been set eternally before us,
shining before Man with the mindset of servitude.
Loosely based on:
Matt 20:25-26; Acts 10:38
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
O Might One , to have the right attitude here on the earth.
I want my attitude to be one of a servant like yours is.
Teach me to become a servant working here for you.
One whom says how may I serve you today people.
So create in me a servant heart, then use me Lord.
No matter what the cost give to me a servant heart.
So that I may be just like you Lord, give me a servant heart.
English language remained father's maid servant
Who played with her beauty for thirty five years
He passed it on to us to take , to the bear brunt
We loved to be on the line to embrace the veers
We have a claim of native with spark of language
To cross the barriers it has provided us the bridge
We salute to our father who has given us courage
And helped us to portray and celebrate his image
Let be specific and clear in the standardized stance
Let us not give to any Tom,Dick and Harry a chance
Let us with the help of a powerful and strong glance'
Celebrate the prime occasion with intoxicated dance
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Connection involves a reciprocal flow where being detaches from nothingness into an inseparable unity.
So, let us acknowledge the colours and feel the vibrations as they transcend the parameters of compartmentalism, into an infinite and unified whole.
Attempts continue to socialise us into the abyss of perceptual bankruptcy with materialistic carrots where the fabric is truly frayed despite plausible and intellectual argument.
So, I want to talk with you as we swim in deep rivers of generational statements, which are released from the conglomerate of necrotic unions. I raise my glass to realms which lie beyond tangible and finite chords.