"servitude" poems
We met
under a shower
of bird-notes.
Fifty years passed,
love's moment
in a world in
servitude to time.
She was young;
I kissed with my eyes
closed and opened
them on her wrinkles.
'Come,' said death,
choosing her as his
partner for
the last dance, And she,
who in life
had done everything
with a bird's grace,
opened her bill now
for the shedding
of one sigh no
heavier than a feather.
42.5k
There are grapes in my path
This abundant trail
now invisible as if we never were
Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap
for pleasure and pain
I picked you some flowers,
I baked you a pie,
labors of love
with your own hands
connected to earth.
Breaking backs, and clinging sweat
Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton
Keeping more out than simply the sun
Depleted soil
Exhausted soul
Bursting with juice
Bountiful and hand chosen
And you in a hurry just drive by
Dust in the wind
Skin of clay mud
Day after day,
A boulder among the rows
Hunched in fields
Blistered and callused
Searching for more
Ripe for the picking
Migrants moving
Servitude by season
Benevolent harvest
Handpicked strawberries
By chocolate covered hands
destined from birth
closer to earth.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
No such thing as friends..blood brothers stick close..whether truth or fable Cain killed Able..it happened on a farm..niggas jealous over fruits for table..reverse the grave to a cradle..yet the ****** gave birth in a stable..don't watch nothing like cable..life is sweet like a girl sippin syrup maple..gum beating ****** in the street with beef never signed a label..maybe one day there'll be peace God willing as He is able..else we see defeat at the feet of babel..learn to connect with each other..y yall tink we gat navel...its a link..get online and get over yourself..humility servitude and humbleness..yet only amongst brothers can i feel this bliss..sticking with blood rejecting the Judas kiss..cause a ***** been cross ever since ever since a ***** been criss..if u know what im talking bout u be like this.... uhh huh uhh huh
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 7:16 AM UTC
I've spent a life creating fortune for those who've either never seen nor deserved it
Decimated by wanton want for more, or decaying senses wrought with desolation and desire to simply be known, I've caused strife within myself for the sake of others being fulfilled
I've spent so much time creating, ready to give myself to a world that's only seemed to cause destruction to my own soul, and take from me the things I needed most, even if merely conceived through empty wishing
I crave to bestow this strength and wisdom to one who would call my heart home; to be equal and stand as one, through synergy and servitude toward every sense of well being, respect, and care
I do not ask for more, I request nothing but trust and honesty; my affection, admiration, and loyalty lies upon the eyes that see me true
I do not expect love, nor frivolous diligence, I simply wish to no longer misplace my purpose, my admiration, or my faith unto anyone that would never see me, or never care to desire such staunch resolve within their heart as well
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 3:12 AM UTC
typewriter rhythm
clacking away new beats
tempo exchanges
computer lab concerto
fair-weather phonetics
hunt and peck symphony
symbolic of the system
poking at inmates
pecking at the enforcers
attempting to gain an education --
floating above the ruckus
offering research aid
I sit at the desk seeking only to enlighten
service work for those
suffering servitude
serfdom
post-modern slavery
complete with subsidies
scamming the con-men --
white house looks best
through prison barred windows
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
What will you do when the clocks no longer tell?
After you smash to pieces Cronos' clock
And you slip into the stillpoint as the Eye opens
In the palm of your hand; after you cross
The Threshold and return to offer up your Boon
To man.
When the ego falls away and you begin your
Gift of servitude.
When the trees drip light, and each child you
See has around their head a circle of light.
Light surging up and over,
Bleeding from eyes and hands;
Oceans of light illuminating beaches;
Lovers enveloped in a cocoon of light;
The crow blasting through photons,
Climbing currents into the face of the sun
To erupt in all-consuming flame;
Like William Blake driving Apollo's
Chariot into a supernova;
Walt Whitman pulling from the River
Why a fish erupting and igniting his
Beard, showering him in corpuscles of light;
Like a Devish whirling, shooting off sparks
And laughing like a madman dancing and
Burning in the Dragon's jaws.
And Vincent, in your dreams, deep in a
Sea of sunflowers looking up at you
With the wondrous eyes of a child
And waving his arms like a Sorcerer
Conjuring and you see what he sees:
Heaven in a wildflower.
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 6:50 AM UTC
I am phenomenal,
Fierce, strong, and brave.
I am proud to be owned,
Honored to be His slave.
I find strength in my servitude,
A peace I’ve never known.
By His hand I have flourished,
Through His teachings I’ve grown.
With devotion I serve Him,
With gratitude I kneel.
He awakens the deepest parts of me,
Where once I could not feel.
He protects me from harm,
When I lose my way.
He always finds me,
When I get scared and run away.
He knows just how
To summon the goddess in me,
His words are enough,
To set the wild woman free.
The sound of His voice,
Like music to my soul.
Singing to my broken heart,
Making it once again whole.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 8:53 PM UTC
The taste of bitter toxicity
The feel of obsidian
The sound of inhalation
The excitement of exhalation
Heart racing and it begins
Butterflies start to dance
Rushing flow of ecstasy
giddiness embracing
Flying higher and higher
Freedom and happiness
awareness with every touch
bliss
Heart compressing
Stampede of hysteria
Slow crawl into desolation
Loosing grip
Falling faster and faster
servitude and disorientation
Restlessness with every thought
desperation
The taste of bitter toxicity
The feel of obsidian
The sound of inhalation
The excitement of exhalation
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 12:08 AM UTC
My magnificent mundane.
Tedious tasking and chores galore!
Unappreciated.
And disregarded as un-glamorous duty.
But there is something to be learned in folding loads of laundry.
Patience.
Satisfaction through servitude.
Attention to detail.
And most importantly... attention to Love.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
This was written a few Septembers ago. Walking on the streets of a now deserted beach island, only the leaves, in various states, to keep me company.
September,
walk with me,
under bridges of wedding tree canopies,
still green aplenty,
tho subtle marked for change,
making summer illusions,
environmentally unsustainable.
September,
stroll on pathways
of lesser, off the track, shaded lanes,
the sun blocker trees wear new necklaces,
brown and yellow diamonds,
a coming attraction of
their denouement,
their denudement.
The September trees are:
Ever so slightly stooped,
bent with weight of a surety,
knowing with high certainty,
their future, bleak,
bowed and drooped,
discouraged by the
cold travails soon to arrive.
Living in the recent past,
I am dressed inappropriately,
white tee and shorts,
past pretender,
still dressed in my
Gap issue summer uniform,
summer suspended animation.
Island streets are de-humanized,
gone home are the children,
newly fallen leaves have,
their place, taken.
The leaves are:
magically organized along
the sidelines of empty streets,
quiet stadiums of would be
kid's touch football fields.
browned, crisp and soulless,
first greet this solitary stroller,
like a cheering throng of ghosts,
celebrating a sighting -
man, as a seasonal fossil,
one that still is living
and worth reminding, yet
human too shall pass when
his fall arrives.
the leave's cheers make over
into jeers and mocking laughs:
Oh humans, they say,
your summer songs naive,
mais tres charmant.
On Crescent Beach,
the driftwood sadly forlorn,
looking more adrift than ever,
for no one passes to express
admiration at the past seasons
Nouveau Expressionism,
an objet d'art lonely,
for the beach gallery shuttered,
raising questions existential.
Is driftwood on the beach sans
human admiration,
art, truth or refuse?
I am looking backwards as the
Earth moves forward.
My own axis, my eyes,
conscientious objectors
refuse to be pressed
into service of the seasons.
No, no,
to involuntary servitude,
to rotation and revolution.
Nature's witnesses,
trees and leaves write
their own poem,
of foolish men who:
Bow and droop,
discouraged by the
travails soon to arrive,
Delaying their own fall,
finally shed summer delusions
like leaves upon the ground,
summer poetry silenced,
summer suspended, no more.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
Infested, impaled, slaughtered meat, and brimstone candy
Slumped on a throne with a pirate's dagger under a skeleton key
Drowning children in a gaping gutter of godless servitude
Putrid streams dripping puddles under the disemboweled
Drink the fornicating disease, backmasking a kaleidoscope clown
Forget me not as my ship docks, I will surely help you drown
Aug 28, 2021
Aug 28, 2021 at 4:43 AM UTC
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair
Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair
Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude
Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.
Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
I am descended of Lilith,
I am a child of eve,
I am cast out, i am trod on.
I am likeness of Kali,
re-incarnation of Aphrodite.
In my arms nations
have been built
and destroyed.
My kiss has charmed
and killed.
My hips have
cradled kings and emperors,
borne beggars and lepers.
I am all this WOMAN.
Woman
not of hips and *******
and womb.
Woman
not of servitude, meekness
and petty deceit.
I am Woman.
Woman
of pain and love
and hate.
Woman
of blood rivers and
barren deserts.
I am Woman.
So heed me
Heed my pain,
watch my deeds,
for my meekness,
my servitude,
Are mere cloaks worn
to shield, to imprison
to impede...
And as the soul sheds the body
So do I now shed
this lie, this deceit
You create for all to believe
And become just
WOMAN
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
"Unconditional addiction" are these terms,
I think of this servitude as good germs,
I understand pain is an emotional whip,
Drink in this short quip: have a sip.
And when you've had your fill, just chill,
Break through this illusion with the power of will,
When you're striking stones to light your fire,
Will lightning be created? That's overkill.
We have an addiction to stimulation,
An addiction to nonsense,
Through every trial and tribulation,
I find my mind's dense,
When will I stop stumbling?
How about a continual fall?
Every floor has a ceiling
And every ceiling a floor.
Without these things, there's nothing
But a continual thirst for more.
Have I said enough, have we won the game?
When you're old and poor, there'll be no one left to blame.
Every stranger's face will really be the same.
Not one will be your family, not one will share your name.
An addiction before you knew the word,
An addiction to emptiness,
An addiction to "wait, I'm searching"
An addiction to "haven't found it yet!"
Too often have we lost our way,
Too seldom have we stopped our play,
And now that we have cut the rope,
Your world will fall, now, ain't that dope?
Nope.
Everything's addicting,
How are they put to rest?
Stop being conflicting,
Just simply pass the test.
Outside of reality is inside.
Inside reality is outside.
It's all one and the same.
There's no poison like fame.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 9:16 PM UTC
Well, it's almost here
the day that I retire
thirty years of servitude
not quite a funeral pyre
A planned escape
after years of malaise
thinking on what I'll do
starting another phase
I'll open up a glass shop
make some artistic pieces
fused, foiled, stained or blown
creativity never ceases
Maybe I'll make glass ******
something to please the ladies
custom designs and so ******
quality, as in Mercedes
Yes here it comes
for all the years I've strived
it's only just retirement
and yes, I'll still be alive
Turning out a product
designed to give life some joy
sure it's just a piece of glass
a hand crafted well made
toy
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
Well, what a week, full of revelation
Enough to stir this talk of revolution
Makes your hackles turn on end
Then send you round the bend
The southern gentry have found oil
Right beneath their derriere boil
Now most of us on this golden isle
Need not worry about this pile
Those who wear weekend country tweed,
Built their fortunes from housing greed
Have already decided
That it will be one sided
They’ll say it’s theirs, by rights
And if we argue, will read our last rites
The South will declare independence
In certainty of their full ascendance
Over the outer reaches of this nation
They pounded into servitude, by taxation
And if we have the nerve to debate, I’ll be bound
They’ll leave it horded in the ground,
Then blame the anti frackin’ hound
Now I may need a political re - education
In a 1984 establishment for rehabilitation
But I can see it coming a five-nation island
Southland, Wales, Scotland, N. Ireland,
And the Detritus
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
a:\>_about_race_
oh, back in civil rights times
i would have been right
beside you fighting...
oh, what the hell you mean?
there-s no such thing as
racist police,
the conversation
should be about
black-on-black violence...
besides if he pulled up his pants
he wouldn-t have been profiled then
sure, mlk was killed in a suit,
but he was speakin' wild, man...
oh, and besides, i don-t see race,
i have colorblindness...
except if a poc gets a job over me,
then that-s the only
reason why they hired him...
why do we talk about racism,
it doesn-t exist, for
godssake can-t you see we have
a black president...
oh, please don-t play the race-card,
besides no one is more discriminated
against than we are...
oh, blacks shouldn-t say the n-word,
just cuz of how dreadful it sounds
oh, since we are best friends
can i say 'nigga' now, huh?
you won-t let me say it???
that-s discrimination! things are
different now, you are no longer
in enslavement...
catch up with this nation,
catch up with the times,
this isn-t about race,
why don-t you admit it?
just because i-m white doesn-t
mean i have privilege...
i mean open your eyelids,
i know blacks never got
indentured servitude
but for a second,
can we focus on the irish?
they suffered too, even if they
won-t subjected to
the same **** kidnapping,
mental breakdown to force subjugation,
and violence.
sure we always ostracized black people
but y-all put y-allselves on an island
y-all will get more respect if y-all just
stop embracing your race, your heritage
stop calling yourselves black
and african-american,
just call yourselves american
stop complaining,
and just be silent
i don-t like talking about race
so much controversy surrounds it...
you know the only way to stop
racism is just don-t talk about it.
j:\>_j_c_c_
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:56 PM UTC
the middle commonplace
poor dears
weak of voice
making minimum wage
for all the
billionaire
investors making up Wall street
holding in servitude
the poor dude
trying to pay his
child support
with no health care
when he gave
his sanity in Iraq.
or the single mother
sharing with the desolate faces
the disgrace of
going to the food bank:
the land of the free
home of the brave
has turned into the home of the rich:
oligarchy entrenches,
that is why
i gave up
a long time ago.
I looked back,
once there was a middle
class.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
Your plight becomes your calling once more as you retreat to daunting servitude
unbeknownst unto your own soul, the mired fog which blinded your path prior reaches out to you
Claws sinking, you succumb to lies and deceit as if it were your only surmise
I know better, but I am not the one to call your place in line amongst the unwavering compassion I own for you
You make your choice based on a haze of comprehension, no eyes could see nor heart could feel; indecision stifled your beckoning before, and yet you return to the same darkness even you called foul for yourself
You knew where harm reached out to you; intention set, you saw the crimes which took your heart for granted; you spoke to me, with me, of all the things you sought but were met with insalubrious dissonance.. And yet..
My heart sinks, my chest burns, my mind wreaks havoc on itself just to know: why?
I am for you, unconditionally; you betray not my heart, but merely your own
Until the day comes you see true unto yourself, I settle now to be in your shadow..
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 4:16 AM UTC