"siring" poems
Ghosts of all my lovely sins,
Who attend too well my pillow,
Gay the wanton rain begins;
Hide the limp and tearful willow.
Turn aside your eyes and ears,
Trail away your robes of sorrow,
You shall have my further years-
You shall walk with me tomorrow.
I am sister to the rain;
Fey and sudden and unholy,
Petulant at the windowpane,
Quickly lost, remembered slowly.
I have lived with shades, a shade;
I am hung with graveyard flowers.
Let me be tonight arrayed
In the silver of the showers.
Every fragile thing shall rust;
When another April passes
I may be a furry dust,
Sifting through the brittle grasses.
All sweet sins shall be forgot;
Who will live to tell their siring?
Hear me now, nor let me rot
Wistful still, and still aspiring.
Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;
I am frail, be you forgiving.
See you not that I have need
To be living with the living?
Sail, tonight, the Styx's breast;
Glide among the dim processions
Of the exquisite unblest,
Spirits of my shared transgressions,
Roam with young Persephone.
Plucking poppies for your slumber . . .
With the morrow, there shall be
One more wraith among your number.
3.7k
Like the shifting ways the ocean reaches for the shore
Or maybe how summer sun falls gently upon the backs of children
You came into my life softly
With little more then a doves whisper to announce your name
I, like those before me, found solace in the illumination of your iris
And together we practiced the sacred art of breathing
While trying to remember the names of past loves
Who like smoke had twisted and spun its way out into nothingness
We talked of the texture and shape of egos, and remembered what hides behind eyes while they rest shut
We watched the cars fly by and in their absence listened to the sounds of the city
The echoes and whispers, made by the subtlety of cell phones and tears of babies
Like Juliet you sipped tea and watched time invade our bastion of an afternoon
As we sat and drew pictures of children whose faces had not yet be pulled south by time
We walked with the cool autumn breeze kissing the backs of our necks until the sky began to feel God’s hand reached up and painted it golden
We sat in perfect silence as the sky pulled on its dress of twilight
And let the soft sounds of dusk lead us back to my apartment
Darkness crept into the corners of the city and with it I remember you running the maze of my poems
As I worked quietly on some version of a home cooked meal
You ate my words as well as pasta that night and fell in love with something that pulsed far beneath my skin
I watched you reveal wings and float softly into bed
Discovering truths we spoke of things that have yet to be named
And forgot about redemption and the city and all the stars that surround it
But as dawn rose softly to the east
I awoke to see you sitting at the window
Staring into the sunrise
That moment has never left my dreams
The silhouette of your figure
The sky a pale gold
And the world softly siring
So far beneath us
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
I stood at that cliff
Silenced by the unspeakable things I saw
On the plane of pain and discord
Letting the fear rise within me
As I see the masses of ****** souls
Tormented, burned, stabbed, Impaled and torn apart
In the eyes of the scythe wielder a flame flickered
On me his eyes did now fall, siring pain corrupted my body
“Not one soul is spared “he proclaimed as the scythe ran through me
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 7:00 PM UTC
Far from the high home
into the low shallow sea's coast,
light sand impressions pace the shore,
treading memories of old.
New loves and heart songs
ebb just as the curl crest sprays white foam.
Small hands mold sand into kingdoms,
towering from dawn till dusk,
but falls as all great republics do
with changing tides.
Toes dig deep into wet grain
and new waves bury them deeper.
Eyes fall to the west as the sun
sets the siring sea on fire.
It seems suddenly forgetfulness seeps in.
Where is the high home again?
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 2:41 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
Our World
Is our delicate time and space;
it drains us, yet sews
all its wisdom in lieu.
As an honorable thief,
does it give and it take;
yet, the World, it refuses
to learn or give due.
The World dons scarves
as dark as the night
as to peddle its eye
round a vanity, fair.
These beautiful veils
of deceptive insight
do shamelessly shade
the reality there.
And, so, the World speaks
a fallacious demise,
and helpless are we
but to learn for a season.
So, painfully teething,
oft made is the choice
that's ironically borne
by the curse of it's
R E A S O N .
Our Life
it is fickle, and its hurdles, astute,
are hidden from sight,
lest we brace for an err.
Erectors of kingdoms
and heroes of lore
have knelt in submission,
though truly, they bear
as successors of wisdom;
and, hashing the mind
will lessen their fears
and their Love beatify.
For, whereas our Love
will instill in us purpose,
this World, of its greed
shall indemnify.
Blind to this study
are those who are jaded
by a constant
societal scrutiny—
what spawns of a whisper,
one so oft mistakes
as factual precept
or a mystery.
And, as nature's allowed,
through the pain of what's seen,
born of this mindset's
a fear that
M I S L E A D S .
Our Fear
can be weakness or a tool to enlight,
and those of the weakness
shall suffer the blitz;
the absolute's waning
shall surely bevex
such disdaining and hopeless
a reckless dismiss.
Misplacing this fear
makes a host most deranged
and the doorway to
failure falls wide.
The fear of critique,
and of silence and death,
all are but wrought
of the fear of one's life.
For lesser is known,
such siring mistrust,
though, all but uncommon, herein.
And, those who fear
are as ignorant sheep,
but those who do not
fall astray to the spin.
Yet, let ignorance be noble;
for denying Love's endeavor
be ****** as boiling waters
F O R E V E R .
Our People
fall short of the brilliance of babes
to pursue a suggestion—
a swindling so grand.
So, of what mystic gall,
so bold to demand,
has the World to serve
as the Heart of man?
The wise do not place
fear in death or the World;
they take solace in faith
and fear not this affair.
Their fear has been placed
in the face of greatness,
relieving an ignorant
soul of despair.
For only in death
is there absence of question,
and far beyond crossing
will peace enrobe the wise.
So, sharpen your motive
and look to the skies;
for alongside the answer,
therein, lies the
R E P R I S E !
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
Am not writing to whom it may concern
But to the poets whose silence i want to discern
You are the prophets of the
Word
And if you mute you earn our world no profit
Am worried you have gone hiding
And abandoned your call of writing
You have denied your pens the justice
And you have played mute in many instances
Where is your voice?
Your fingers have slept
And you haven't poured your heavy soul unto the paper
Why are you not talking about the evil that has cast a blanket over earth dwellers?
Don't you feel this tangible darkness that has enveloped our planet?
Where has your voice been when fathers have been sleeping with daughters
Or it no longer matters
For mothers to lie with their sons?
Why have you spared your ink
And just watch as kids stop taking milk and water and fight over beer
None of you has been bold enough to write about that man who betrayed his nation for a piece of gold
Have you forsaken your mission?
Your silence is too loud
Are you dumb of the warning sirens
And like the ostrich,you have buried your head to the soil with pride
I wanna know why you have played dumb:why thee borrowed your ears to the waters and non of this you hear
And our women throw their foetuses away like a man doing open excreta
Arise oh writers arise and wipe away this coming darkness with the light from your papers for when the good are silence its evil done enough
I wonder why writing pads are clean
Yet men have stop desiring man and are siring thoughts to woo men
Why have you not quoted the scripture to condemn this abomination?
"Behold woe unto to man who lies with another man"
Are there no writers to pull of this dark shirt of evil we have donned?
Am not playing saint by asking these questions
But my conscious is burdened
I need to offload this nagging from my shoulders
Only you poets who can set my mind free
So arise African writers
Let your pens bleed the truth
Two wrong never make a right
But what you write can rectify all wrongs
For prosperity will never forgive a man who goes to sleep during the day while goats eat his barn of yams
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
Depression is like being cast into
the depth of the sea,
It makes you wonder if anyone
with ever rescue me,
It keeps me awake at night,
when I am alone,
I cry into my pillow,
so no one will know,
Depression kills the person,
the spirit, and the life,
It takes out it sharp siring knife
and tried to end my life,
I pray every day and every night,
to The Lord,
that it never does more than it ever did before.
Depression takes away all happy thoughts,
and with this comes unhappiness and sadness,
and melancholy thoughts.
I am determine to be the victor of such a dreaded diseases
if only depression would leave me and allow me to be
me.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 3:47 PM UTC
I loathe shucking clothes,
(no matter eyes severely myopic)
in preparation for here goes
another warm shower quickly
relaxing this senescent
body ready to doze
soon after lathering
this blubbery body
most unwanted fat grows
on me, no matter healthy diet
of worms, or how I stand,
not so easy add a pose
zing losing battle – Mary Jo's
if and geeze us of bulge ill flattering
particularly quiverly, sans white
"WALL" tire tread fully goes
steely belted around lower
abdominal area like lava floes
siring unsightly expose
yore squishy Jew dish priestly
punchy,plasma paunchy, gristly...
pillow like marshmallows
fittingly, rotundly soundly
identical with other schlep
tin (tin tabulation) grungy hobos,
this lap ****** lard (lord) Who Lee
bemoaning, how ilk readily knows,
where unwanted bulky flab...
most detested - hence Corp Yule Lance
leaves noth thin to noblesse oblige,
know bull eats obese,
anorexia nervosa or chance
barking out orders reminiscent, when he
hapt tubby a caller at
weekly square and/or contra dance,
now requisitioned to insulate
and excessively enhance
body electric can be mushed
into likeness of fleshy France
or repurposed into expanse
resembling any country,
whose name Kants
be easily pronounced, and historical
events glommed together recognizable
as Ataturk with a lance
bequeathed to rule World advance
sing gluttony as his divine providence,
thus requires deep dish allegiance
(non - fiber - binding contract)
for eats and make decadent
every fleshpot gourmand
stretching cellular skein to capacitance
bestowing guaranteed deliverance
with their rolling
ballooning massive circumference
into orbit with Earthly moon officiant
eternal fondue irrelevance!
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 11:32 PM UTC