"storehouse" poems
Rest in this, my bruised and weary soul:
I was a wretch, chosen to be a beauty;
a slave, chosen to be a bride;
an orphan, chosen to be an heir;
an enemy, chosen to be a friend.
I deserved nothing but wrath and death
yet received everything of life and grace.
I am loved beyond any dreaming of it
and blessed above all worldly wealth.
I have the incomparable birthright of those
whose Father is God and whose Lord is Jesus Christ—
righteousness from Him and peace with Him.
I am a cherished gift from the Father to the Son.
I was paid for by the Son’s own blood
and am "engraved on the palms of His hands."
I am the living temple of God’s Holy Spirit
Who empowers me to do His pleasure and bring Him glory.
I am the LORD's, chosen and set apart for His delight.
***What more could I ask?
But that's only the beginning...***
I will live as blessed as I believe myself to already be,
for "I have been blessed in the heavenly realms
with every spiritual blessing in Christ,"
"given everything I need for life and godliness"
through knowing Him and His precious promises,
"an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade—
kept [securely and eternally] in heaven" for me.
I've been "raised up and seated with Christ";
my "life is hidden with Him" in the Father,
and "He will fill me with joy in His presence,
with eternal pleasures at His right hand."
Oh, that "the eyes of my heart would be enlightened
with the spirit of wisdom and revelation"
to see what’s already been prepared and given to me
and to know much more fully the One Who has
so meticulously prepared and lavishly given it.
As I walk intimately with Him and rest confidently in Him
(based only on His merits, never my own),
I am given free access to my account
in His heavenly storehouse and enabled to appropriate
its glorious riches to every circumstance of my life,
even the most searingly painful and confoundingly difficult ones.
I have a spiritual Fort Knox available to me
through knowing Christ Jesus my Lord,
but He Himself is my greatest treasure.
Without Him, nothing else matters.
Nothing else has meaning if I am not found in Him,
clinging to Him and carried by Him.
When I finally become desperate for Him alone,
I begin to understand the profound reality
of all He desires for me and offers to me
in my spiritual inheritance in Him.
There are infinite presents to be unwrapped
in His presence which cannot be told
in human words or comprehended by mortal minds,
but they wait to be taken hold of by
any and all who would take hold of Him.
***For He gives and gives and gives and gives,
and even when He takes, He gives.***#
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 3:22 AM UTC
Writing,
for you
--is a river
a revelation
a sleepless constant gift-- so out-to-see
in a flimsy boat
you built by mathematic rote and laced with ivy
to hold together ******* boards of crazy
with the ease of breathing
Your giant storehouse
wealth-of-words
Your granary of data
the grist of
Music
You imagine wine
from mind
almost without limits
You command it all!
Dancing
in the grapes of moonlight
with tides of words
Their endless-- almost blind
come-ons and gone
in waves!
(my sullen heart)....
still stays
I am digging here
in a low spot
seeking water
with robins and a sparrow
in the puddles
Awaiting rain
Flipping-off the muddy shallows with our wings
I suppose their songs
will count for something
Tasting happenstance
of bugs in flight
maybe catch a firefly or two
at the edge of day
Tearing half a worm
from weeds...the brown of drying grass
near the small lagoon
collecting
'neath my car
Hiding
in an afternoon
too warm for flight
resorting to a place of shade
to smell the fresh-mown
sweet grass
Riding with my training-wheels
in the parade
Like a fool between those bikers' “Hogs”
Turning down my street
by mistake
laughing at the dead-end
of it all
Pulling poetry out my ***
___
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Two sockets to accommodate a pair of eyes
Due to them this complex device cries
But today, man has taught them to become spies
Dwelling in them is lust for ephemeral joys
Two cartilaginous sound receivers on both sides
They can efficiently detect the screams and sighs
But today, they even ignore the ferocious tides
Engrossed in fabrications, for which today’s man strives
Two arms strong enough to lift and support
Are being used to steal and chop someone’s throat
They refuse to help anyone near or remote
‘Guns and shells’, this is what they promote
A small fleshy speaker which exhibits perfect duality
It allures others through its’ pitch and clarity
Today, it has mastered the skills of acerbity
Forgetting that soft speech is a part of generosity
A complex storehouse of feelings which supplies blood
It is covered with rust although made from mud
Polluted intentions have made it their cozy hut
Very delicate, but today, it is like a walnut
At last, a rotten soul which is wandering aimlessly
It has thirst for contentment and tranquillity
But today, man considers wealth as a source of felicity
I shed tears when I can’t find humanity and piety
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 12:17 PM UTC
The witch can easily hide herself.
She is expert at being hideous.
She is adept at camouflage.
She is the most beautiful.
Her face ratios are perfect.
Her ****** ratios are so too.
Her feet are turned backwards.
Her energy is stored in her braid.
The long hair is her great strength.
Amazingly it is also her sole weakness.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
I Love The Discipline…
I love the discipline of form and meters.
Crummy, yummy twitterings
To turn a base, base/superficial
Into something interstitially aesthetic, helpful.
What it is that gives this gift I’ll never know,
But there it is – a discipline addictive;
A dictation from below;
Not just adding to an increase in IQ,
Nor the storehouse of expressing,
Nor of word when crossword puzzling;
No, a serendipity with aspects heavenly.
A guzzling from an endless well of secret knowledge,
Sacred knowledge for the few.
But earthy too.
Anyway, as we of poet’s tree like saying,
When you find an impulse that you can’t resist,
Don’t, you hear, anti-resist,
But kissed by It
Continue till the whole caboodle* springs your noodle**
And the lights go out.
I Love The Discipline…4.13.2018 The Processes; Creative, Thinking, Meditative III, Arlene Corwin
*caboodle |kəˈboōdl| (also kaboodle)
noun (in phrase the whole caboodle or the whole kit and caboodle) informal
the whole number or quantity of people or things in question.
ORIGIN mid 19th cent. (originally U.S.): perhaps from the phrase kit and boodle, in the same sense (see kit 1 , boodle ).
** noodle 2
noun informal
a stupid or silly person.
• a person's head.
New Oxford American Dictionary
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
I imagine a therapist office
as they are lavished in on tv shows
and they're not really like that;
instead of a cozy dimly lit office
it's a white wall maze.
As my doctors
are not private ones
and they surely disclose
all about me
to the insurance company.
I can't help, but twiddle my thumbs
and wonder about the
cries for help
that linger on these paisley painted
dry walls--
snickered with inpersonal
portraits of strangers;
that probably wish
they hung in one of those
elegant, brash, and luxurious offices on tv.
Or maybe instead
the paintings longingly wish
to be dead as well--
instead of being
in this subservient storehouse
that is standing in for an therapist office.
Getting up from another stand-in
this rash beast of dull coloured dust;
calling it a chair would insinuate people
are supposed to sit there,
but I assume
it's true purpose is for the ill-ful
to find something uglier than life itself.
Leaving through another betrayal
that existence couldn't be more lame
is a doorway with the most faux of all possible doors;
it's screaming "nobody ever cut down a tree to make this".
Slipping past another door (eye role)
I come to be in the same room,
but this space is two faultering steps to the left.
And instead of dust everywhere
it's a mobbish moss melancholy
that distastefully lingers
in my personal office's air.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
Consider the coffee cup in the bitter early morning
clutched by the weary, in the hands of the sleepwalker.
A Styrofoam chimney that warms bodies to the bones.
Like a silo of potential energy that awakens and inspires.
A companion of the cigarette soft pack, as long as both are full
When empty, a ruffian of a house abandoned
or a vacant playground, a soul void of vivacity.
Sleepy fingers trace the serpentine trail of steam
escaping via vent in the lid; gateway to wakefulness
Perched in a nest of hands guarding the sanctuary for the alert
This storehouse of caffeine must be rationed.
It’s contents dark, rich, bold, spilling
scolding and fierce and alive.
Consider the coffee cup a comrade, a loyalist
Companion of the diligent, the learning, the weary.
Aug 23, 2011
Aug 23, 2011 at 3:46 AM UTC
pain loves the present tense
it loves gravity so that the clouds
are turned into geological strata
sometimes I use my hands like an anaesthetic
between right and wrong the pain dillema:
to feel or not to feel (the unknown)
we discover clever remedies or illusions
quiet cannery in the storehouse of flesh
it comes in circles mixtures all kind of names
it has rythm texture electric blackness
each unshed tear an orb of contraction
compulsive excavation of the void inside
sometimes I feel I have canyons of salt in my heart
on the edges of safety so much to learn about terror
this pain is a blind Robinson on Hope island
(with his bare hands he sets pyres in his heart)
was it pain that invented this language, these holy wars?
love you, hate you, nonsense, can't stand it anymore
I know my father lied to me that he doesn't feel pain
bodies in pain can't dream the water slide of life
that might take us further away into the night of day
time to say thank you, say farewell,
love everything that simply is
it is time to
Mar 21, 2023
Mar 21, 2023 at 3:23 PM UTC
1
Ginhoko is a slob
he ***** up to the boss
and he squeals on his mates
May his family starve and
may his wife find him always flaccid
2
You loser! You loser! You loser!
3
the woman who walks past our store
everyday when I have my tea
she is lovely and a fairy -
O will she not look at me?
4
The boss is a donkey
He eats pig ****
and his wife drugs his food
and his wife fornicates with the servant
while her husband lies drugged,
and everyday she winks at me
5
May the world go jump
in the ditch!
May I alone survive and enjoy the earth!
6
What do you eat? You smell of the backstreets
of the red light district
where the men go to ease themselves
7
who scribble here
is nincompoop
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 8:10 AM UTC
Where God passes
The edge of forever where raw power is displayed
Walk the seascapes enter the story told in timelessness except for outer space it is the only place where man finds his mind freed so steep is the unending awe that without question he finally is able to present his self
as the tiny speck lost is all ego all self importance he is open to the quest for ultimate truth. You perfect you’re thinking at the sea shore it is a storehouse that lends itself to grand thoughts no limitations hamper
your endeavors aliveness engulfs you totally. Subdued moods excavate every shallow you start a down ward decent the deep cries out to your soul the part that never can be accessed on shore. The ground a
foundation for raising up temporal structures your needs are served in waters that open as a mysterious gate the deeper the fathoms the more understanding is released. To abide in calm surface features of the
sea what a waste take off the restraints become a voyager drift with churning twisting pressures they will give great reward for accosting your accustomed staid and uneventful living. Go deeper the mundane the
so called important will be forced through your very pores as you continue calling the unknown manifest itself with great scrolls hidden beyond reach to those that plod along the sunny quiet banks. Life test all
men you can face them unafraid armed with years not minutes of preparedness found alone in the struggle only found at sea. Pondered Plumbed in inexorable conditions that stretches changes a person’s character
his stature tempered fired as steel in the caldron. We need leaders vibrant thinkers people who can and will accost hell in the very near future and come away victorious. They will have found their way through
the untold deadly entanglements figuratively and real their not accustomed to ease and know perils at close quarters they learned them in great waters not in pools that have not the ability to stir you to your
core you’re going to pour out your life in one form or another do it with sand and grit leave a scarred an effectual trail for others to follow not the light untraceable light footsteps of one who has never lived.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 4:44 AM UTC
*The art we make.
Child of our imagination.
Looking back at us.*
The farmer let us into his old
Storehouse. Where food and
Goods had been stacked and hanging
Centuries ago, there were piles of
Rubble and memorabilia.
Half drunk and inspired, we filled
A bag with old objects. Brass scales,
Leather blacksmith protective glasses,
Razor blades and what not.
"Guess were going steampunk," you
Concluded, and I agreed.
We spoke briefly of bats, and
Retreated. Back home, the fire was still
Going. You sat down with your
Drink on the floor, arranging objects
Onto the canvas. Bronze spray paint and
A sharper eye for detail than I ever
Had. You nearly forgot to drink your
Wine, and apart from my applying some
Sealing foam and other handyman
Touches, it was all your creation.
I helped you to your feet -glass in hand-
And you stood there with a paint stained
Finger on your chin. Pensive; still working.
A part of me stumbled slightly deeper in
Love with you there, another took your
Picture in my mind, my eyes blinking
Like the lense of a camera, before you
Tilted your head against my shoulder,
Eyes not leaving the work in progress.
*"Don't you just love it? The art we make.
Child of our imagination.
Looking back at us."*
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
The white garden of black flowers
A storehouse of letters
It was the quietest party
It was the constant friend
The portable magic
Which can be tragic
The flying vowels
A white garden of black flowers
Gazing at creatures
Which are teachers
The delicate pages
And colorful covers
The falling words
The suspense of a mystery
The tense thriller
The love in a romance
The fun in a fantasy
The white garden of black flowers
A storehouse of letters
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 7:29 AM UTC
In life, I thought I had everything,
The answers of the heart were lost;
I idolized the women of my dream,
But Christ had paid the ultimate cost.
Not by bread alone,
Shall I live a life again…
I manipulated other as well as myself,
The child of a King behaved so immorally;
Putting the fear of God second to all else,
I started to talk of Him without any loyalty.
Not by bread alone,
Shall I speak of life within…
Man cannot live by bread alone,
We need the true bread of life;
The world was saved by our own
Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ.
So I will not do it,
By not bread alone…
I have stolen from the holy storehouse,
By not bothering to even tithe in truth;
Cheerful giving is the least man endows
For complete salvation in living proof.
Not by bread alone,
Shall I eat once more…
Hatred I felt for my own brothers,
As I slowly learned really to absolve;
Jesus manifested genuinely to others
Unanimity is how Christians evolved.
Not by bread alone,
Shall I be like before…
Man cannot live by bread alone,
We need the true bread of life;
The world was saved by our own
Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ.
So I will not do it,
By not bread alone…
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
What thoughts most admirable to take the emotional avenue to create to see in your mind a one of a
Kind person get the soul right and then move to the exterior that which would be seen and interacted
With for a life time what an undertaking but what else could make such sparks and the tremendous
Emotional swell to go to this place stand before the quietest shimmering possibilities a personality like
No other accepting the fact there would be common traits that everyone has but this is special this is
Horrendous in the idea no tolerance for error can exist this new person with functionality of will and
Freedom to express it demands nothing less so lies social justice and order then the operation of
Communicating what extreme place of awe you have to stand at to attempt this feat the tone the
Measure it will exact in the human drama of life seemingly simple but genius throughout in form and
Substance a constant flow that was the sum total of exquisite harnessed displayed in ordinary you need
To think on these matters when negatives penetrate the operational defense they should die as you
Contemplate how marvelously and wonderfully you are made your being passes the greatest minds and
Achievements our language is beset and besieged for a temporary time so the best we offer is listen
Here buster but behind that there is an imprisoned intellect that is now subject to the winding and trifle
Terms of existence but in those confines what beauty what treasure is hinted at the suppressed holds
Such revered qualities if we could get this psychiatry would be reduced greatly what a storehouse you
Are every need in human existence is there every fixation has deep roots foundational bedrock you
Were mined in a divine realm your feet are weighted to earth but over riding this is spirit that can’t be
Held completely to the functions of the body what immortal springs call to you as you have a thirst for
Them nothing else will satisfy why else is there such unexplained anxiety the Psychiatrist can’t give this
Answer because they follow the same path that is ignorance that parades as intelligent comprehensive
Analysis which you can plainly judge as ineffective and man trying to answer spiritual complexity with
Limited understanding I guess it is hard to unravel the statement that we are all fearfully and
Wonderfully made this writing comes from me looking at your picture truth truly will set you free
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
Death and dismemberment
that's what they bring
while songs sung of heroes
are the tunes that we sing
Soldier on soldier
a body count is the score
but it's the folks who build weapons
who are winning the wars
It's all about money
satisfying their greed
the rich filling their storehouse
while they haven't the need
Today's wars they're for profit
of money, of land
and the worlds children keep dying
as we strike up the band
When will we stop
will it ever end
war, ****** for hire
was not meant as a friend
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
The edge of forever where raw power is displayed
Walk the seascapes enter the story told in timelessness except for outer space it is the only place where man finds his mind freed so steep is the unending awe that without question he finally is able to present his self as the tiny speck lost is all ego all self importance he is open to the quest for ultimate truth. You perfect you’re thinking at the sea shore it is a storehouse that lends itself to grand thoughts no limitations hamper your endeavors aliveness engulfs you totally. Subdued moods excavate every shallow you start a down ward decent the deep cries out to your soul the part that never can be accessed on shore. The ground a foundation for raising up temporal structures your needs are served in waters that open as a mysterious gate the deeper the fathoms the more understanding is released. To abide in calm surface features of the sea what a waste take off the restraints become a voyager drift with churning twisting pressures they will give great reward for accosting your accustomed staid and uneventful living. Go deeper the mundane the so called important will be forced through your very pores as you continue calling the unknown manifest itself with great scrolls hidden beyond reach to those that plod along the sunny quiet banks. Life test all men you can face them unafraid armed with years not minutes of preparedness found alone in the struggle only found at sea. Pondered Plumbed in inexorable conditions that stretches changes a person’s character his stature tempered fired as steel in the caldron. We need leaders vibrant thinkers people who can and will accost hell in the very near future and come away victorious. They will have found their way through the untold deadly entanglements figuratively and real their not accustomed to ease and know perils at close quarters they learned them in great waters not in pools that have not the ability to stir you to your core you’re going to pour out your life in one form or another do it with sand and grit leave a scarred an effectual trail for others to follow not the light untraceable light footsteps of one who has never lived.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
Scattered, dilapidated
ancient monuments,
pieces of a puzzle,
a mute challenge,
to someone
who plays a mysterious game,
unfathomable to us,
A lone girl in hot pants
stands perplexed,
on the incongruity of it all,
in that vast complex,
a tourist, with an uncertain interest.
(A curious element,
introduced, apparently by a child,
playing a cosmic game,
sitting somewhere in universe)
Light dims as sun goes down,
and the scene sinks
in to an unknown storehouse.
a jumble to sort out later,
by budding time, within an emerging star,
in an unknown distant galaxy.
We watch silently,
standing here, in Qutb complex,
temporary witnesses to eternity's games.
It looks so deceptively simple,
like an ordinary evening
in Delhi.
*
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 10:46 AM UTC
What Would I Do Without You?
(Or Scribbling in the Car)
What would I do without you, lexicon?
What would I do without you, dear thesaurus?
Rhyming book to rhyme with -saurus: chorus, porous, e’en papyrus if it fits?
Wiki’s storehouse ‘cyclopedia?
Little things that make me big and ‘pigg*:
Languages that set agog
The richness of the word?
So much I would not do without;
And isn’t that what life’s about!
Mind so connected to the word,
I would think
Without a varied herd of word
T’would shrink.
T’would atrophy,
T’would wear away,
Become cliché
As cliché wears away the play
From boredom’s lack of stimulation.
So connected is the action of the word
To all the wisdom, the absurd
in all the minds in all the world
Of minds and hearts unaired, impaired…
Is mind to word.
*pigg is Swedish for lively, spirited
What Would I Do Without You…Mind So Connected To The Word 7.19.2018 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 4:39 PM UTC
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of musty newspaper
mortared with decades of dust
solidified in grease, cemented in decay.
you constructed an impenetrable fortress.
your storehouse is filled with broken plastic,
moldy photographs, crusty nick-knacks.
here you count worthless tin trophies,
shattered glass and empty bottles.
you're drowning in your treasury.
there was a time i knew that castle well:
palace, gaol, it held me fast.
i could be captive or courtier
but your role never changed:
benevolent or tyrant, king you reigned.
but a castle of refuse cannot stand forever;
an empire built on brutality topples.
subjects eventually revolt
and refugees seek brighter days;
fleeing or fighting, the kingdom falls.
yet you remain, clinging to the rubble:
scraps of paper, broken records.
rusted memories and fossilized mistakes.
wandering towers of unread books,
a broken king repents alone.
and here i am, a knight on a horse
to sweep in and hear you, to dig you out.
but when you cry for help i falter--
cautioned, i yet hold out my hand,
but you can't let go and i'm afraid to go back.
it's gone and we're gone and she's so far away.
you live in a crumbling castle:
bricks of words you can't take back
mortared with decades of mistrust
solidified in guilt, cemented by hurt.
you're trapped in your pitiful fortress,
and i cannot get you out.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC
not feeling crash hot
body contorted
trembles on and off
mind fuzzy in stages
called my local drug dealer
we're meeting
in twenty five minutes
soon enough to get a fix
not soon enough for me
I arrive at the old brickyards
my dealer turns up
seeing his face
makes me feel good
he proceeds to tell me
this fix is top grade stuff
money negotiations
already done over the phone
now in receipt of a cap and a half
my dealer gets lost
he checks for cops
soon enough to get a fix
not soon enough for me
I've scored my fix
in a shabby storehouse
at the old brickyards
laid out in preparation
are my tools for administering the drug
needle spoon lighter water
my belt the tourniquet
the fix is cooked
done in short time
no time to waste
soon enough to get a fix
not soon enough for me
I look along my punctured arm
to find a suitable place
luck!
I've found an unused vein
no problems
the needle goes in
I unload the contents of the syringe
in just a few minutes
the effect of the drug can be felt
soon enough to get a fix
not soon enough for me
my mind goes into introspection
other forms of thought
consumed and cocooned
different consciousness
plains reached
levels beyond
I almost feel close to God
or am I God myself
the images merge in my distorted mind
euphoric sublime
this lot of smack
has sure smacked me
journey well affords the expense
soon enough to get a fix
not soon enough for me
after several hours
reality hits and returns
not feeling so sedate
can I cope with what gets thrown at me
need to be in control of things
not drug in control of me
smack has got me
under her weighty thumb
soon enough to get a fix
not soon enough for me
already planning next break in
no better a gas station robbery
job like that means more cash
it'll buy heaps more smack
my habit is a demanding *****
nagging on me all the time
I've got to feed it
it
it
it
habit
got me ****
hoping the cops
don't get a trace or whiff of me
soon enough to get a fix
not soon enough for me
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 8:10 PM UTC
*sometimes I am the storm destroying everything that gets in my way, most of the time I am house of cards, torn apart even by a gentle sway
sometimes I am the beautiful sunrise, most of the times i am the blackness of night
sometimes rainbows come to me and borrow my colors, most of the time I Am the queen of everything broken and dark
sometimes I am gravity, most of the times I'm just a void
sometimes I am a strong tide, most of the times I'm the footsteps washed away on sand
sometimes I am what you want, most of the times I am everything you want to run away from but you can't
sometimes i am the warmth, but always I am the damp storehouse you never visit
sometimes I am the sound of windchimes playing that remind you of home, most of the times I am the slamming of the door and You're always leaving
sometimes I am the lullaby that helps you sleep, most of the times I am the silent screams in your head that won't leave you alone*
*sometimes I'm fire but mostly I'm ashes on the floor,
sometimes I Am hurricane but mostly I am the first building to fall
sometimes i am passion but mostly i am the regretful tears
sometimes I am your muse but mostly i am the song whose lyrics you always forget*
Sometimes I'm the sun but mostly I'm the ray whose shadow left itself for him
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
The mind collects moments
bad ones and weepy ones
moments to spark fires
and ignite engines
moments to roast the heart upon a spit
to watch the ****** sizzling juices of love
drip down and burn off into smoke
the mind is a storehouse
though vast isn’t spacious
its compartments crammed
full to popping
under the strain
of all the moments in time it collects
to make the body recall
and you gawk at the wreckage
in wondrous amazement
moments in bubbles
floating past on repeat
mind digs in the toy chest
throwing up dreams
more moments of nothing
to hold you away from me
two nations at war for my soul
and all three are me
what mind fudgery
and horrific intent
the whole point is you
just you, nothing else
think what that reality means
whatever you like
life isn’t a playbook of rules
some other person can write
real life is lived
and what can that mean?
other than whatever life looks like
when you’re living through me
each time you can’t see the forest in the leaves
the moments you seem to pull back out of me
are only a specter of what isn’t true
only a reminder to remember your Truth
and turn once again to the Self that is real
and is one with the whole of all life that is living
can you gain joy from rehearsing old stories?
of worries and woes and doubtful discoveries
of fake images and faulty dreamscapes
then go on, by all means, let mind keep collecting
and storing away
for some other fake day
you can’t really be living
if you keep letting mind
give you moments to see
instead of real life
living in your True Self
and you truly seeing
May 7, 2020
May 7, 2020 at 2:54 PM UTC
Why do I love you?
because you’re my child.
Since before you were born-
So it’s been quite a while.
I couldn’t resist you
No way and no wise
Since the first time I saw you
in your Mother’s eyes.
In part your remind me
Of those I hold dear
the sound of your laughter
the salt of your tears.
The way your tongue curls
And mothers’ cannot
You’re a storehouse of traits
That I can’t do without.
Your voice raised in song
Can be heard in the rafters
Your song is a gift
Handed down from ancestors.
Like me you love humor
With a sarcastic wit
As often as not
you score direct hits
So while I still breathe
And still can remember
I love you dear child
and the sound of your laughter.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 8:41 PM UTC
Oh to be a rich man in the storehouse of society or in the the cellars where sobriety is but a ***** word,
and the words are drinking Bollinger that trickles through the silver sieves and no one gives a second thought
to those, whose labour bought the feast.
But they don't care,not in the least
the nature of the beast runs in their veins and frames the have not's,pigeon holes them,
what men these riches make that would serve to overtake the moral due to me and you,who slave away for men like this most every day, excepting Sunday when we go to pray so we may lay more fat underneath their belt.
They,
who've never felt the touch of ice that spikes the hair and freezes breath,
for whom death is but the interlude,
between the courses chewed
and we,
who have never seen such food that ends up in the pigswill bin
will watch in awe and later in the cold of lamp lit living rooms will tell the story of what we saw,
and not be
believed.
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC
awoken by words
so many words to write
shout, cry, turn into
something beautiful
the storehouse of whispers full
I lend my hands to the wind
I rehearse conversations that only
the moon can have
some words are wild
as the grass or
the horses that quietly
smell the traces of birds
through the air
other words weary
for the lament of time
there is no remedy
words,
crazy worlds
in which
we were
Dec 26, 2022
Dec 26, 2022 at 1:45 AM UTC