"succor" poems
you were shrieking about your problems
your teeth were all about this material world
everything was all about you
because that's how you wanted it
you loved yourself
and only yourself
you were spitting money of all currencies and kind
you adore them like how i adore humankind
you boast loudly about the material things you own
you loved your things so much, you turned into one
and you think people would actually love you
boisterous laughs were hidden behind the old brick wall
the you i used to know were a pigment of the past
you are now pitch-black, self centered and selfish
the pit can simply be covered with mud or a beautiful plant
but you dig deeper and fall and ask for succor
because that's what you crave for after all
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 4:52 AM UTC
~a question of a thousand dreams~^
“Where are you going now my love? Where will you be tomorrow? Will you bring me happiness? Will you bring me sorrow? All the questions of a thousand dreams, what you do and what you see”
this one composes itself
for all dreams go unremembered
the first, the thousandth, the every in between,
erased by the push button of opening eyes
but dreams come, marching in, saints mining the raw materiel
the quartermaster has stored, awaiting requisition by an
unarmed unnamed corp, witnessed but never seen
these dreams wisped soft willow budded, tempting taunting,
leaving nothing but unanswered questions that colored come
in black and white
elementary clues,
a pillow indentation,
single hair that stretches
across the sea between two pillows that is blonde or red
but
certainly unmine,
dregs of soured sentiment linger like the
aftertaste of too many coffees and stainless steel beers
heated summers breezes give no succor or relief,
and the rain following gives no pleasure,
for now you are hot and soaked,
but somewhere in there a dream is part replayed,
and eyes widening in major league surprise,
the question acknowledged, the dreams quest hinted
she has gone, neither happiness or sorrow will she
provide on the morrow, no toweling of your wet hair fair,
and you awake sweat besotted, it is not rain, just pain,
and it is only one dream a thousand times repeated
and what you do and what you see
is the abraded night ahead, and
you bitter laugh, for there is no more other than to think,
the question answered, and you beg relief by
uttering
“perchance to dream”
3:49 pm
see the notes!!
someone accuses me of Plagiarism
because I did not acknowledge that the quote in marks and Italics was from a famous song written 39 years ago
so here is my response to
“just saying”
congratulations on ******* me off
and yes I agree, you do not know the rules
“#1: Quotation Marks Are for Quoting People—Verbatim
Perhaps it should go without saying, but quotation marks are for quoting people. Quoting doesn’t mean summarizing or paraphrasing; it means repeating exactly what someone said. If you put double quotes around a phrase, your reader will often assume that someone, somewhere, said that exact phrase or sentence.“
http://thevisualcommunicationguy.com/2013/09/11/10-things-you-really-need-to-know-about-quotation-marks/
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
O Great Goddess
I
Your true worshiper
Crawl before your altar
To beseech you
Grant this poor
Suffering soul
Even a moments relief
From the crushing weight
Of this great love
Its sweet agony
The crippling despair
All melded into one great mass of feeling
O merciful Olympian
Great passionate Goddess
Provide succor
To this lost and wand'ring devotee
A glimmer of hope
To tether my soul
And keep the Furies at bay
In the same way
You granted Pygmalion's request
And brought to life
His marvelous statue Galatea
Answer my desperate supplication
Goddess of Beauty
I offer my self to you
I shall strive to restore
Your true worship
In this cursed world
That has forsaken the true gods
I shall bring whatever sacrifices you require
If only you grant me this boon
Quench a dying man's thirst
Bring me up from Pluto's realm
And lay me in the Elysian fields
Great Goddess
Hear my plea
As a follower still of your descendant
Gaius Julius
A follower during his lifetime
And a follower ever to this day
I always serve your great name
O Great Goddess
Hear my plea
Great and wonderful Goddess
Venus.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 5:39 AM UTC
Down, down pours the rain
Producing on all a jewel-like stain.
Tear drops of Angels or deep sign of love?
Thundering fury or tranquil dove?
Each tiny drop glimmers with life
Creating a river to succor wildlife.
Now soft on skin, now harsh as rock
See how they shine on leaves of hemlock.
Down, down pours the rain
Pitter-pattering down the lane.
Hush, Dear Child, and do not cry,
Sleep to Nature's lullaby.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 11:58 AM UTC
*on the verge of wilderness
imminent silence*
welcome
the sun stroking
peaks aglow
the thundering falls
mist-kissed rain
the solitude
so rarely reached
too often breached
stillness loosen
untamed words
in the native tongue
before thoughts
unspoken
became yours
mine
ours
to the wild
bear these
cryptic symbols
scrawled on
my halved heart
tokens of longing
succor
for the lost
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
As this world runs in cruelty and in greed,
Our eyes see the world perfect-blindly.
Those who have power stay unfair and unjust, indeed -
The stated laws were implemented tightly.
Power over humanity exists in today’s world.
We as powerless have no right to scrutinize, but to concur.
Their pledges remain twirled -
The hurdle stays in abundance with no cure.
It is in us where the grievous suffering is in store;
And we have none to succor them all.
The hunger and incurable malady strike humankind in any form.
It led to increased mortality, decreased economy, but who to call?
Whoever has power, our safety cannot be guaranteed –
They are the ones that makes our life at risk.
They stand as an impediment for our nation not to succeed.
Their fall is soon our victory – this is not in the pace-brisk.
It’s been a year, still no sign of good deed.
Half of the world is asleep –
Some shock for awakening their soul is what they need.
We have lost enough; at least we have ourselves to keep.
The string of our patience reached its limitation.
Rich people hoard too much and now most of us left deprived.
Who’ll lift marginalized Filipinos in our nation? –
Who'll give us fair allocation that is incumbent for us to survive?
Tedious journey might it seem.
Our souls’ little voices are still unheard.
What life this could be without our soaring dream? –
We shall move our mountains even gratification is deferred.
Now, the time is ours to stand as one with clenched hands,
It’s time for us to deplore and abhor their thoughts.
It’s time to listen in our souls' little voices to be heard at once.
And it’s time for us to break the darkness by our flaming oath.
- Aubergine Cher Bautista
Mar 25, 2021
Mar 25, 2021 at 11:59 PM UTC
you were there on his last night
and was there on the night
we stumbled upon
an unfamiliar house
the creatures were making
a peculiar sound
it was the strange place we inhabited
for as long as we could be brave
you were with me when i lost a limb
you saw grief and tropical storms
right through my eyes
you heard words come out
of my mouth, they were all
in past tense and shaky
the best four years a teenager could have
i have spent them with you
i gave you my trust, my blood
and our promises
you met the 3am version of myself
which i believed that is ours
only to keep
i could not fathom the grief
of losing a limb
nor the grief
of seeing our strange house
collapse right in front of me
but the concrete was made of trust
you contended that you were here
to extend succor, immediate aid
to a grieving soul, to your friend
you came in crowds extending
sympathy as how i've seen it
little did i know that succor
meant pulling the trigger
when the tectonic plates
and the seismic waves
bends the buildings
and crumbles to the ground
when the tropical storm
named after me
pull the tress from its roots
floods the households
and all the different routes
or when your 3am uncertainties
scare you, and you would howl
and howl and howl
but who will you run to?
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
I've never felt a red rose,
never pricked myself on a thorn,
never smelled it in or got lost in eyes.
My mother has a red rose -- my father gave
it to her, and it is beautiful, and it is kind, and it
is loving, and it is something I have never seen.
This pink rose is something trying too hard to be red.
Slashing and ripping at clothes with sharpened words,
claiming it’s merely the thorns of a red. This pungency
is blamed upon me: I can not handle the sickly sweet
succor stuck under my suffocating nose. He holds me
by the chin, condemning eyes borrowing into mine, grip
tightening. This pink rose is dead, withered, wilted
and weathered by the storm we’re caught in.
Everyone sees red where there is none
-- o r p e r h a p s t h a t ’ s j u s t t h e b l o o d ? --
this pink rose has me trembling, fearing
his appearance and his eyes; knowing
he’s stronger than me, but the
uncertainty of “would he?” scares
me more. I can’t leave because
that same knife he used upon
me, he threatens his own
skin. It’s such a small
world, such a small
town, such a small
neighborhood,
such a small
building.
I can’t walk these halls
with comfort or safety
anymore, not with those
eyes burning blame into
my back and face.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
rite like Dylan/past the point of no return
all my life wanted to rite just once like Dylan.
but too set in the errors of my way to complement/compliment a master of the phrase, the original tunes I hum’em all
plagued and plagiarized and yet pleasing
head the Head over to the refrigerator, arrive in one piece,
but totally not remembering why I came this way,
cause i am way way past the point of no return
Oh yeah oh yeah cool brother Corona light to succor the soul,
while roasting body slow in a lavender bubble bath and it ain’t
even noon and no no room for company, this solo wonder-boy
tripping alone
pay my bills in the bath, winnow the widow-maker reading list,
good ****** on a free sundaey and there ain’t no football to watch and autocorrect authority don’t like ****** it only godded one D, as if He needs two D’s to mess us up better
the Corona doing magic trick disappearing so fast and here i am
certified past the point of return and there ain’t no more beer
in the general vicinity
so now the time to summarize my little darlings;
don’t break beer bottles in the bathroom,
don’t pay your bills in the bathtub when u gots 53.42 in cking,
don’t take your iPhone unsheathed into the same vicinity
all you will be left with is maxed out cc’s,
messes you want
not to tangle with,
brain leavings of a bad poem half write,
it isn’t even bad dylan mimicry
but confirmation you passed the point of no return
and u happy hum
don’t think twice it’s alright
it is all on my cover photo
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
On its back,
The cockroach,
In a jacket of red wings,
Slender legs,
And bulging abdomen,
Like the tummy of African statesman,
Its legs wallowing in despair,
In the air,
Stamping the spread eagled,
Hind and forelimbs,
Of the poor anthropod,
Kicking and waving,
A cry for the succor,
To be freed from ebola,
Or breaking the *** tether,
Or un-doing strong bonds of poverty,
Three districts under leprosy,
In the domain of the bull’s eye,
Where lesbians and gays swallow raw fate,
Its salient manifestation,
Then the cockroach kicks silently,
Anticipating for salvage,
But when the domain owner comes,
He steps with full weight,
His foot dressed in military boots,
From the previous legacy of Che Gue Vara,
On the belly of the kakerlag at Berlin Wall,
Bursting its stomach but hopscotch,
Spilling the white stuff out,
Of poverty and mental dilemma,
Amid hopelessness in future and history,
As terrorism mires tomorrow,
When China reigns today,
At mercy of contemporary panjandrums,
Moving from white to black
And from black to face book,
Killing those who fall in commercial love,
As if money is the ***** for nuptial night,
But only to go forth ignobled,
Without making momentous affinity,
In the realm of ill fated cockroach back-dom,
Sending Mafousian Egypt to Swedish table,
Without scorn and regard for true African blood,
Where will I apologize?
If the ****** bug
Enters my head and heart,
To blind my logical eyes,
Only to open wide
The senses that see and feel
Religion and race; O! Al Qaeda!
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:17 AM UTC
Oh deep, dark depression,
my uninvited guest,
the persistence of oppression
is precluding my life’s zest.
The dark before sunrise
of a dawn that just won't break,
suppressed by a thirst for my soul
that only sorrow can now slake.
The wisps that you are weaving
are clouding my damp eyes,
a cold and cloying shroud
that’s covering all that I desire.
A void, with sides so steeply etched
and burning with cold dread,
I’m trembling now with fragile fear
and wondering if I dare tread.
Your shadow wraps me in its arms
to hold me once again,
a old familiar friend
that’s feeding fast upon my pain.
A symbiotic succor
and reluctant shield of sighs
from the turmoil of a life
that turned to tears before my eyes.
And the sleep within my veins
now washes over silent souls,
a mind numbing response
to a desperate, lonely call.
I’m crying out from within the prison
of this decaying fragile frame
and I hide my face behind a smile
from relentless passionate pain.
Oh deep, dark depression,
my uninvited guest,
the darkness you are dealing
leaves my soul with little rest.
Now your fog has engulfed me
to the edges of my world,
I hope and pray that one day soon,
my wings will be unfurled.
Written by Darren Scanlon, 2nd June 2014.
Revised 20th August 2015.
©2014 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
I pledge allegiance
to all the stones in the road
that have given me succor,
to every poet-of-anywhere
who greets me
with wetted, parted lips and open heart,
who greets the sun-rays shared, inching,
opening o'er my yet living,
praying body, reminding me
that I am alive,
that I am warm
that I feel poetry in, on,
cells, all over, deep in my extremities
Most importantly, in my busted heart,
where warmth is stored in a soul restored,
and Life affirmed,
For who knows how
many more times
I will know this,
How many more times
I will able compose this,
Play "measure the future''
in seconds or years and
grimaced smiles over tears,
or just one or the other,
that be willed to supersede;
Will keep you posted
in every realized and many some stillborn poem,
rising with the grand entrance of morn skies,
or perhaps, lies buried neath in each horizon's cemetarial,
and
even those,
that straddle a confusing and confused moon,
of a twenty fours hours existence,
be shoulder-borne,
bathed in
combinatorial equatorial
moon & sun light,
so we can bathe, like Bathsheba (1)
by both,
and delight
at the exact same moment's portent,
no matter,
the disregarded, discarded,
why
we are
who we are
when pledge and plead
allegiance to those eyes that read our scrivenings
nml
Aug 27, 2025
Aug 27, 2025 at 11:57 AM UTC
wind like a south wind carrying a plane south
deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current
on a branch with nothing companionable in sight -
no answer, no voice to answer, no voice,
no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon
and nothing pressing. No urgent business,
maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent
there being urgent business later.
He's not all smooth. A little feather
cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know
how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants,
who would want to eat him. I don't really understand
anything that is going on around me. But look,
I understand more than him:
the tree is dying.
Oak wilt blew in from Canada,
took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins
and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of
corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots
at the search.
(Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.)
There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about.
Or his legs know it, and that message
is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid.
The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he:
his skeleton is spun from delicate copper.
If you open him up, he's like a penny -
pretty, and useless in this economy.
People and things always trying to get rid of him,
and he's listening because he knows it,
and he's singing because he knows it.
Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it.
(Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.)
It's not a curse, not specifically:
just one fragile thing standing on another
but - count mercies -
too light to break it.
A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups.
His song comes from the throat.
His song is about something he saw once.
His song is unquestioned, muscle moving
without will.
His plumage is mostly air
And the tree is anchored in the ground
by the very thing that chokes it,
and we're all standing together:
me, tree, bird. At least until
I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in
a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness,
and leave whistling.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
The walls close in slowly, as the light begins to fade
No more youthful smiles, the days only masked with grey
And yet the world keeps turning
People rushing on by
Filling their days with worry,
a tear drop wets my eye.
Can you feel the hunger burning,
your stomach turns to rot
As all are born must stop breathing, eventually an afterthought.
Can you see the light upon the hill for which we all aspire?
Tis the goal of justice, held in the arms of another.
Who is it that holds the key to swing open heaven’s gate
?
Can we obtain succor, to save us from this state?
Socrates says it is the philosopher king;
But even kings are mortal captains
And their love of knowledge
cannot stop them from unjust folly
How does one find the answer to what is the moral law of God?
Does it uplift the personality, or curse it free from thought?
Better yet, what is your **** worth?
Would you lay down your life a martyr
to bury your brother beneath the dirt?
Left in a world so full of imperfection, we take refuge in the days advances
Television, computers, ipods, and Wiis, lose your self in trivial things.
This distraction gives those in power all that they can want,
For if good men cannot engage and stop the warring
There is nothing to halt man’s wayward plot.
Sin is separation; there is no us and them.
That is your ego and your thought deploring
A mind bereft of ken.
Open up your Eye young child, become the all-seeing Zen
Only then Justice will not matter,
For Justice will be in all of us again.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
Tender strength, sender's excuse
A sneeze to reach to tomorrow
Avid, we determine a silence was...
A house of compromise, sincerity, and willfulness, to borrow...
Burden yourself with a memory, some other dainty...
A question thought liberty, driven by the wind
Has visited me, in the couth of decency's charity
Simple lessons of anger, and the angel of succumbing kin...
Redoubt is my only defense...
Pied, or provided a callous soul, the taint?
I seek is a lip with no meaning, meant in the essence
We direct to such, a season of wishes, we compare to ain't...
Anarchy in love, the thought to reason
Anarchy in though, the times found me a shown few
Anarchy in decision's, a guarantee of blinder moments
Anarchy in ascertainment, a host of wisdom to look at you
A yawn with no future...?
As shrewd as furious days make a prayer, a seclusion
Catching mine, in measure and deliberate other, is a cure
Forces in voices, and the rationality of mercy; loves only intrusion?
Psyche
Can I have my weight in gold, a tarter heaven?
So wished for, so washed of another fight...
With heaven, to remember succor in forms of resolve to come by, loving...
Dec 12, 2023
Dec 12, 2023 at 12:14 PM UTC
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
To crave,
Wails of agony, voices soaked in terror?
Call after call, message after message.
Care, love, sympathy?
Succor, surveillance, support?
Tear after tear, hands shaking and grasping?
Pity, solace, warmth?
To receive,
Levigating guilt, being disintegrated.
Evanescensing from reality.
Blood clotting and drying.
Those who are paid to give care,
Who seem as though sympathy;
Hadn't glazed over their eyes in decades.
A room so cold and sterile,
That not even the warmth of my breath
Could stop my bones from shivering under my skin.
Desolating abandonment,
Hums of fluorescent lights,
In chorus with sobs of despondency
It isn't what I wanted.
But it is what I deserved.
Aug 24, 2024
Aug 24, 2024 at 2:40 PM UTC
Pure in it's gleaming marble white
a rare conch shell, well formed,
with 'reverse turning spiral',*
he holds, in both palms with reverence
closer to his naked chest, where
his beating caged heart tries to create
echoes, as if it, in an unknown
mysterious way, represents
a myth entwine him with pure nature.
An intriguing remains, retrieved,
from the accumulated deep sea secrets,
where still his memories vaguely roam
in another life, as a creature of the deeps.
The conch he is aware, hides tender notes
that bridles air, water and fire, cosmic ripples
prods him subtly to accelerate his quest,
a swim towards the maelstrom of inner core,
commingling with the music cosmos conducts
every moment, with it's billion piece orchestra grand.
She is a flame burning in clarified butter,
his consort,her eyes reflect a concurrent spirit,
both her palms she bring together ,makes a lotus thus
and a red blooming lotus is nestled between palms.
Her lotus speaks of fecundity,from which flows love and life
generations, descend find succor, in the gentle fragrance,
and warmth, the lotus, protects, even at the midst of a freeze.
Her eyes are blissfully half closed immersed in the fragrance
wafting in the air spreading in waves far and wide.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
With sensuous cords suspended
between heaven and earth,
A nylon hammock generously supports
all, races, colors and creeds.
Guilty pleasures are carefully balanced
during a rendezvous of
stolen moments and secret escapes.
Ideas are born
in this cocooning nexus, and
work is accomplished from
a place of succor and rest.
A gentle swaying
calms the mind and
brings life into balance once more.
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 12:05 PM UTC
Succubus why Torment
and Torture me,
is it Savvy to get your
Immoral ****** satisfaction
from Incubus, am Human with Blood
in my Veins,
my Zing isn't akin
to your Zeal succubus,
Your Presence is Subtle,
would you Deign to Leave me Alone,
God's Succor and
Fortification is all
it Takes,
and no Day will I
ever Fret about you, Though you're Fractitious
Opposite of me Frail,
But through the Struggle,
I stand to Gain,
De Jure am supposed
to be FREE not a *** slave,
Self assured with
Fortitude
I'll Reach my Zenith......
@miamizoliver
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
Submit insight
And
Implore.
Succor of cavity
Although termites
Void wholes.
To grievances.
We remember--
We Remember...
Insignificancy
Everlasting.
Forget-all
From-those-
With-frightful--
Diligence.
Rocks are cliffs
And faces.
Heads of people...
Were known
As motif-tulip
Conclaves.
Breakaway, tidal
Ant-bridges...
Because sheer
Necktie parties-
Are translucent.
--Please, ignorance
Slaughtered spaces.
Instinct grew petty.
Taxing arteries
To split...
Knowledge.
If only wisdom
Used-to exist.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Let this season,
this yuletide season,
be the one
of joy shared.
The one that
brings peace to
that restless soul,
succor and solace
to comfort the
confused ones and
bring reconciliation
to the alienated.
Give a piece
of yourself to others,
like God gave
his only begotten
Son to you
and the world
whose natal day
is the reason
for this season.
Let it be
the one that
truly reflects the
heart of God
in man.
Let us see
others as God
see them.
This is the
time to start,
extend your hand,
your heart and
your resources,
respond to their
silent call for help,
hear their cry.
See the pain
behind their smile.
Be compassionate.
Your little bit
support and supply
of something in
some small way
is everything.
Let that child
smile again,
reassure that widow.
Your gifts may
not change or
stop the pain
but it will
surely go a
long way to
ameliorate and bear
on their situation,
and that would
have been enough.
Let us remember
the motherless,
the sick and
the critically ill,
the blind and
the crippled,
the orphans and
the lonely ones,
the elderly and
the forgotten,
the less privilege,
the downtrodden,
that neighbor who
who seem so
distressed.
Partner with me
henceforth to lift
them up.
Let us really
mean it when
we say to someone,
Merry Christmas!!!
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 5:02 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
As its social phenomenality
Grows with zeal and verve
Humanity of love befits
Beautifully Elaborate explanation
To enable both young and the elderly
To have clear and useful
Knowledge and insight
Of what is love;
Shakespeare in the prime
Of his bardness decried it
A foul protégé of individual beholder
Christ confused it for self-immolation
In the succor of the universe
Leo Tolstoy thought that
It was minimal ownership of land
Umberto Eco in his scriptorium
Declared it man’s impaired judgment
Kenyan cubidmaestroes deem it human foully
To create a leeway to keep change of a Casanova
Mahatma Gandhi called it caste blindness
Mandela called it zero apartheid
Both in Luther King sang the song
Of nonviolent revolt
But me I will boldly clash
With the precedent civilizations
To call love foolishness of a man
And shrewdness of a woman
As for both man and woman the very love
In un-fangled in truth that it can’t pay bills.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
drowned the Earth suddenly.
underneath honest light,
all
submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
midnight, the Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
displaced
where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —
until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,
modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
hands scouring muddied
obscure, atremble,
shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
to arrive again so we could feast
in silver fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
now atrill in new fragile woodworks
lurching and
ameliorating as we all
stutter and sing
haunts dabbing open
lips of small wounds that
wish to shut quietly, almost
every threat of gray or pummel of
wind startles the flyblown ornate,
hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
very few hang
swayed by verdure
of the gradual throne of sea
curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
where everything quite begins
again to enthrall with a melodic
leitmotif of the most tender of
instances loose
in mouths
and in endless recall
breathless—
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC