"surcease" poems
What did you say to me?
How did you say to be?
Scent of the flowers sweet,
I fell off the path; the beat.
Metamorphoses buzzing creep.
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
Nectar pollen and wiggle-dance,
Tear off the shirt and pants,
Without it I’m incomplete,
Rotting in self-defeat,
Awashed in a wild sea,
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
Buzzin’ so high and flyin’
Honeycomb drunken Mayan,
Falling west, rising east,
The party will not surcease,
While I am the Bumble-beast!
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee,
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee
The flight it takes off and from,
As flowers of life become,
Praying up to the Sun,
What am I imagining? (image-gen-nun)
August vino de lum
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee,
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC
I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store
invariably I'd shoot my mouth off
about someone's daughter dressing like a *****
or making comments about the dreadful things consumed
which would include a good 99% of the people in the room
I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched out
after ********* someone as a fat *** undiscerning lout
or cracking some aside regarding what comprises that crud
and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud"
ewwwww, you really eat that stuff?
this store should be sued for selling such bluff
children with diabetes, a third of adults obese
the courtesy clerk dies a little for lack of surcease
line after line of vapid consumers
mindless knee-jerk impetuosity belay the rumors
what's an adulterant, what's a filler?
propylene glycol alginate, yum yum
sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun!
I can't even pronounce it, much less do I care
need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare
Go ahead and poison yourself
the quirky clerk exclaimed
its ever so clear you're stupid and lame
stay mired in your pig-headed muck of ignorance
you're exactly what they want
another brain dead consumer
a regular culinary savant
stuff your face with no remorse nor heed
no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need
he'll limply wheel out your cart of miserable choices for you
and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder
then promptly get beaten, black and blue
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
There is no magic any more,
We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
Nor I for you.
You were the wind and I the sea—
There is no splendor any more,
I have grown listless as the pool
Beside the shore.
But though the pool is safe from storm
And from the tide has found surcease,
It grows more bitter than the sea,
For all its peace.
3.4k
By the fond name that was his own and mine,
The last upon his lips that strove with doom,
He called me and I saw the light assume
A sudden glory and around him shine;
And nearer now I saw the laureled line
Of the august of Song before me loom,
And knew the voices, erstwhile through the gloom,
That whispered and forbade me to repine.
And with farewell, a shaft of splendor sank
Out of the stars and faded as a flame,
And down the night, on clouds of glory, came
The battle seraphs halting rank on rank;
And lifted heavenward to heroic peace,
He passed and left me hope beyond surcease.
3.1k
aimless caresses possess
a puissance, carelessly
purposeful, impossibly
sensual, seducing with
mercilessly sharpened
incessant desires,
releasing passionate
hisses of suspended
breaths, sweetness
of whispers, softness
of kisses slipping their
passage past *******
solar plexus,
slowly, slowly
submerging
to sunder her
senseless with
soul-shaking
consummating
surcease.
Apr 4, 2011
Apr 4, 2011 at 6:31 PM UTC
this verbal wishing well, appreciated,
a nut of good intentions but drives me
deeper into de-spare-ing downing detentions,
for it is only the article's genuine genius,
that elevates the human spiritus, to godlike status
no ditty this, but a wail, shriek, for
human touch is gift so greatest,
that any day passing without
either, neither but both, 'tis one
truly wasted,
a deduction on our
calculus of inited^ human intuitions,
a failure of our greatest inventions
a subtraction of our
gainful living, a purposed ecstasy
our one and only inexact
measure of measurement
that defies pedantic notions of
things of weight or volume,
but extends our own existence
sans
the armies of embrace,
the electric elected syncing,
of the shocking sharing of
closing the borders of divided spaces,
a soft contusion, a realized illusion
a de minimus of our days,
a lessening of our lessons,
a loss of earning livingness,
a nail in our coffined basket,
and here to cease without surcease,
the elemental incalculable numbered
members of our total human races,
that so tragic in a twenty four expiry,
that the bonding of affection goes
unexpressed...
offer you my armory of arms,
cleanse us both with showered kisses,
inform you thus of our emboldened connection,
voiding these lowlife separators of lineage divisors,
what matter color, gender, chosen god nomenclature,
any of this nonsensical human inventions for distancing
divested human beings from each other
tho eyes closed, and all our senses flaring,
when we confirm what we were born knowing,
there is nothing greater than the human touch
PostScript
my first and best poem of the day,
how it came to me goes unbeknownst,
but will practice what is preached
with any and all willing encountered souls,
and perhaps, come-end of day, will write,
once more, one more, re heaven on earth
7:02am
Tue Sep Thirty
Two Thousand and Twenty Five. nml
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 7:13 AM UTC
Soft touches on the inside of my skin,
sensitive to your every stroke,
playing with my senses,
sending sense flying to the winds.
The longing to touch you,
the hunger to be part of you,
the heated fantasies of skin on skin
and finding surcease within.
Inhaling your scent as you passed by,
drinking it in to satisfy
parched desire, unslaked need
as I yearn for thee.
Gasping awake from unrequited dreams,
floundering amid amative aches,
cogitating on your pellucid gaze,
wondering what you need.
Jun 3, 2010
Jun 3, 2010 at 8:18 AM UTC
It having been decided, herein is pronounced.
Let them know the number of days; let them count the number of days
and the count shall be 180.
Day 1 let him strike his head with his fists and call it "stupid".
Day 5 let the vomiting begin without surcease.
Let him dress for work as if he can.
Let him park and never drive beyond Day 10.
Let him pass out at the toilet.
Let him shed 100 pounds and all his hair.
He shall suffer such indignities as appertain
until he is brought to tears before his eldest son
of whom he shall ask, "Do you believe in miracles?"
Let there be no reprieve, neither for the holidays.
Let him wander out into the snow without a coat
and utter, "So beautiful. So beautiful."
All this in due course to precede the final 3.
The son and he shall smoke a last cigarette on the porch.
He shall proceed to the gurney and not see home again.
Let them gather at the hospice room.
Let him suffer terminal rage
thus shall he be manhandled by the sons.
On that day he shall be bedridden by narcotic.
Let him fall into persistent incoherence.
They shall play the New World by Dvorak.
He shall not hear.
They shall gather for the Rosary over him.
He shall not hear.
The eldest son shall vow to stay at his side
nor shall he sleep for 72 hours.
The son shall not permit the end to come.
The son shall take his hand and say
"Only God takes it away."
And when the room is empty but for them he shall sing softly
"Today While the Blossoms Still Cling to the Vine"
He shall not hear.
Let them all tell him it is okay to die.
Let the eldest son protest, "It is not okay to die."
In the final hours he shall struggle again
thus to be manhandled by the sons.
Then amid his incoherence he shall look the eldest in the eyes
and solemnly say
"I love you."
These shall be his last words.
Let them check his toes for signs of life.
Let the breathing come infrequently.
Let the breathing cease.
Let the son remain until they pull away the sheet
and display him in his nakedness at last.
All this to be accomplished January 15
in the year of Our Lord.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 9:10 AM UTC
Bukowski once said that there is no point in writing
If the words are not ready to burst from your skull
Wayward pilgrims demanding surcease at an altar of irreverence
Hoping to be spoken aloud
Birthed on thoughts from the pits of our soul
No, he didn’t say that last part
But they were clawing in the bone of my skull
Rending gaps that would pour my conscious mind free
Demolishing the hell that justifies heaven
If you asked me what paradise was,
I don’t think I would have an answer
It’s a world that is changing from day to day
Hardly the province of a sculptor’s hand
Forever unchanging in the veins of stone
Pulsing with meaning that only vision can carve
With infinite meanings in the myriad of views
We each walk away with something that’s just a little different
Like words that we share and speak with different tones
Just to change the flavor of meaning
Savoring the twist on the tips of our tongues
Owning the breath to sway the heart of dirt and stone
Competing for the love of every tree and upturned rock
Whispering our lust the leaves of autumn
Knowing that they will never rise back to the tree
But catching their rotting death in immortal ballads
This is how I imagine my paradise to be
Your silent presence ever creating the stone
Which my words will shape with the rough chisel of force
As I define the world that you crave
While never caring about what you deserve
These are the words that would fall
From every bleeding laceration on my used and tired heart
Bursting from my chest in time with a heart that would stop beating
Just to draw forth a tear
For the paradise I know I already have
But am too callous to appreciate
So I take a deep breath and continue
Walking down a path of dirt and stone
Careless of the footprints I leave
Disturbing nature with fetid pleasure
Don’t we all destroy what we love the most?
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
The bottle and old thoughts haunt me all the same
In whispers of what was and should never be did we lose our way
or just vanish as quickly as the night before the day?
So many times I thought of lines
now simply I cast shadows where the blank spaces do reside.
Tomorrow cannot promise so why should I?
Let the words hold there own where I never could .
We all have a cross to bear and me?
I prefer to simply drive in the stake
But make no mistake,
what's nailed upon
an empty cross
is full of regret and loss
and underneath a barren plain
is buried pleasure and sadistic pain
self recriminations and needless blame,
but all the same
we build empires of shame
to live inside as truly insane
we drink from memories
that stoke a flame
to burn eternally, assuring fame
and comfort in a well of regret
we drink to forget, tomorrow
was just a promise made to us
by those that sit at our feet
when they crawl upon our laps
we are beat, we are trampled beneath
our own demise, we hid beneath
our own disguise
and we expired, when we desired
surcease from our wickedness
As I walk a red card in my jacket and miles of empty thoughts long cast aside
No words find solace were the demons cling to their vices.
All things decay as if to remind the living of the walk we all must bear
I find no guilt in my pleasures just more scars to bare in happiness to none.
Whispers of once was lay in empty thoughts.
I speak with a mouth full of razors all to eager to cut down the meek .
No words hold me in chains I simply but as I will nothing speaks clearly as a pause of silence.
And the old thoughts that linger to grow into rumors
Now they are all that is left of me .
Rumors of old bones that litter
the path to ruin are spoken by
those that whisper to dead ghosts
and kiss bloodless lips
inside crumbling passages
of age old keeps, on windswept
moors where bleeding eyes leak
tears weeping for something more
Down the streets cobbled with fear
slicked with garbage and the stench
of ever rotting verbiage,
Speak no more in silence, cry no more in penance of an oft abused
life that only walks alone under an
ever present thunderstorm of
howling winds and lightening strikes
and icy rivulets that trickle upon skin
This walk of sin is where it begins .
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
Lashed to the side .washed by the rolling tide
I have traversed the oceans wide.somehow. my cursed soul
Cannot find surcease.
Seasons go and decades flow.
Down, down to the depths we go. A watery grave
I stubornly craved ,no such. Cursed beast.
"No whale. No cursed devil."
Release me to darkness.
To hell and gone.
Vengeance is mine saeth the lord
I Ahab spat defiance.
A wooden keepsake strapped to my knee.
A bitter morsel for mobey **** who bit and spit the cursed zealot
Away to drift.
Now strapped astride.his sworn foe
His soul long dead .sent ahead.
Ahabs sentence
To prowl the depths
To see the unseen.
Fathom for fathom.dark and deep
Never to sleep or feel the touch.
A horrific Dutchman to end of days
To repent for his blackheart vengeance.
Forever cast
Away.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
Thy Land to favour graciously
Thou hast not Lord been slack,
Thou hast from hard Captivity
Returned Jacob back.
Th’ iniquity thou didst forgive
That wrought thy people woe,
And all their Sin, that did thee grieve
Hast hid where none shall know.
Thine anger all thou hadst remov’d,
And calmly didst return
From thy *fierce wrath which we had prov’d *Heb. The burning
Far worse then fire to burn. heat of thy
God of our saving health and peace, wrath.
Turn us, and us restore,
Thine indignation cause to cease
Toward us, and chide no more.
Wilt thou be angry without end,
For ever angry thus
Wilt thou thy frowning ire extend
From age to age on us?
Wilt thou not *turn, and hear our voice * Heb. Turn to
And us again *revive, quicken us.
That so thy people may rejoyce
By thee preserv’d alive.
Cause us to see thy goodness Lord,
To us thy mercy shew
Thy saving health to us afford
And lift in us renew.
And now what God the Lord will speak
I will go strait and hear,
For to his people he speaks peace
And to his Saints full dear,
To his dear Saints he will speak peace,
But let them never more
Return to folly, but surcease
To trespass as before.
Surely to such as do him fear
Salvation is at hand
And glory shall ere long appear
To dwell within our Land.
Mercy and Truth that long were miss’d
Now joyfully are met
Sweet Peace and Righteousness have kiss’d
And hand in hand are set.
Truth from the earth like to a flowr
Shall bud and blossom then,
And Justice from her heavenly bowr
Look down on mortal men.
The Lord will also then bestow
Whatever thing is good
Our Land shall forth in plenty throw
Her fruits to be our food.
Before him Righteousness shall go
His Royal Harbinger,
Then *will he come, and not be slow *Heb. He will set his steps to the way.
His footsteps cannot err.
1.2k
I stumbled upon a most beautiful poem
It made me cry, and smile and pretend
I don't ever want to have such loss known
I wept all the way, to the very end
then I read it again and again
We have all felt it, tasted its poison
tried to stay tight lipped without drinking
It's bittersweet kiss tends to destroy us
pores contract as it leeches through thinking
*I seek surcease as I demand
another shot of being ******
So to the note, left at the end
Let the candy of such sublime memories
melt upon a tongue that never denies
For none of us will ever simply, be free
but we can sweeten our blood
with remembrance to good times
good times
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
Preamble: Compare and Contrast
compare and contrast,
the teacher asks us to
do this,
on a mid-term
exam and I am
struck-up by a resonance combo, a commandment
compare and contrast, somewhere an ineffable has
ordered me to love poetry, in all/only honesty,
in that uncertain way. without surcease.
functional verbs that a button pushed,
a non-rhyme that sang out somehow
“this is the writing life, this way, yours.”
live and last.
with that single directive,
compare and contrast.
without surcease,
and your poem then, has no The End.
Jun 26, 2020
Jun 26, 2020 at 2:47 PM UTC
*unfailing clockwork come,
no surcease tendered from its
onerous, regulated,
on-time scheduled,
yet, untimely demands
arise to serve,
serve the sentence,
the sentence of
"out, out,"
whether candle or spot,
but there be no out,
damnable or otherwise
flailing words,
uttered no matter how,
the burden of the inexorable
is freshened daily,
yet horribly unchanged
failing words,
dent not the injustice of,
the condemnation of,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
for if the play's the thing,
this thing,
on the morrow,
performed eight times a week,
the sound and the fury
of applause fading,
a chiming of intermission ending,
the sets struck,
yet the tick of tomorrow,
is but the tock,
the switch off
of today
that
Doesn't Work
the script, well memorized,
it's mastery demands perfunctory performance,
and
an ending that sates,
but playwright,
none provides,
his woeful signature
his pas de coup,
signifying
that tomorrow returns faithfully,
desirious of its unfulfilled dissatisfaction,
for it kens none other
though calling out,
"out, out,"
but there be no out*
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
The bottle and old thoughts haunt me all the same
In whispers of what was and should never be did we lose our way
or just vanish as quickly as the night before the day?
So many times I thought of lines
now simply I cast shadows where the blank spaces do reside.
Tomorrow cannot promise so why should I?
Let the words hold there own where I never could .
We all have a cross to bear and me?
I prefer to simply drive in the stake
But make no mistake,
what's nailed upon
an empty cross
is full of regret and loss
and underneath a barren plain
is buried pleasure and sadistic pain
self recriminations and needless blame,
but all the same
we build empires of shame
to live inside as truly insane
we drink from memories
that stoke a flame
to burn eternally, assuring fame
and comfort in a well of regret
we drink to forget, tomorrow
was just a promise made to us
by those that sit at our feet
when they crawl upon our laps
we are beat, we are trampled beneath
our own demise, we hid beneath
our own disguise
and we expired, when we desired
surcease from our wickedness
As I walk a red card in my jacket and miles of empty thoughts long cast aside
No words find solace were the demons cling to their vices.
All things decay as if to remind the living of the walk we all must bear
I find no guilt in my pleasures just more scars to bare in happiness to none.
Whispers of once was lay in empty thoughts.
I speak with a mouth full of razors all to eager to cut down the meek .
No words hold me in chains I simply but as I will nothing speaks clearly as a pause of silence.
And the old thoughts that linger to grow into rumours
Now they are all that is left of me .
Rumours of old bones that litter
the path to ruin are spoken by
those that whisper to dead ghosts
and kiss bloodless lips
inside crumbling passages
of age old keeps, on windswept
moors where bleeding eyes leak
tears weeping for something more
Down the streets cobbled with fear
slicked with garbage and the stench
of ever rotting verbiage,
Speak no more in silence, cry no more in penance of an oft abused
life that only walks alone under an
ever present thunderstorm of
howling winds and lightening strikes
and icy rivulets that trickle upon skin
This walk of sin is where it begins
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 4:33 AM UTC
A very special poem for my love
Someday, my love,
You will stumble-come to this site,
To see the work product of restless nights,
Many you will know, cherish, but not this one,
For not every writ to you be fully disclosed.
I know I promised to let you, me-to-predecease,
Tho silly promised, this cannot be guaranteed.
So if I hasten from this world before you,
Apologize for The Compact^ broken,
But put in place your pushed, upswept hair,
Powder your face, puff up thy heart,
Get ready to banish~dance the ill-at-ease,
Put your hands in my favorite place,^^
As I once did,
for in yours dreams,
as I.am now,
I will surely be again
Nightly, I'll visit, as my haunt,
Nightly, I'll visit, as was my wont.
For this humble writ will outlast our love,
and our physicalties both,
Accuse me not of promises broken,
Well I know, well I ken
Why you wanted to be the first not to be the last,
But this, beyond even my super powers.
But if my aura be a comfort insufficient,
Let this surprise poetic gift awaiting your arrival,
Give you rest, from crying surcease!
For when the who, the why of me interrogatory posed,
Describe me in a brevity I ne'er possessed, say:
*He was just a poet, and I,
Just, his lover, number one fan.*
This truth eternal, never to change.
**Call me.
No, better yet,
Dream me.**
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
Yup, that's right.
Don't be offended or upset.
It's very environmental,
recycling words.
True, the quality of literacy,
(have mercy on it!)
is getting quite strained
(not-so-good poems
*droppeth as the
gentle rain from heaven*).
Certain words are grumbling,
talking, overworked and overuse,
in poems that say nothing new
(they got their pride too!).
Rumors of unionizing going around,
increasing the minimum wage
to a passing grade,
and something like
a penny a letter,
and double for words,
not of the English language...
The ringleader I'm told
is the word itself
Words
tired from being in
59,649 poems (plus 1 now)
*Death, heartbreak and depression,
scars, cutting and sad,*
the most overwrought ones,
the children's beloved,
their never-ending
plastic ones trending,
under the weight collapsing
of boring and from
the pressure of overuse, bending.
The words have brought
the unrisen, alabaster body
of poor dead (oops)
Love (137,207 + 1)
as evidence of this
too long a verbal
season of victory.
Make no mistake,
among the guilty we be,
our sweet tooth
for these miscreants,
documented in black and white,
resting uncomfortably,
among our total of
171,500 words we've purportedly
recorded and employed.
The Writer's Guild,
all a titters, arms, up and akimbo,
the cries of poetry poverty
among the living thundering,
no longer
suffering silently,
ere the mendicancies cries
from Ye Olde York emanating,
seeking contributions
and donations,
minimum on PayPal,,
one whole dollar!
Well I have paid my dues,
much more than one
and much more than once,
would so again, annually,
as I could no more
surcease this gig,
for where to find
another profession that
pays so handsomely?
Let it not go unnoticed
like so many poems
left footed born,
themselves, unread, unnoticed,
that the ever increasing number of
Poets
is a good thing for the universe.
So many new humans each day,
from the black forest of
daily life's lessons emerge
choosing poetry to
conquer life's ailments.
For they bravely
having taking the
*road less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference,*
and the world,
a better place for it...
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
My soul is starving
With my spirit striving
And my consciousness contriving
For death's arriving
Heaven proclaims, my soul is starving
For even though faith resides aplenty
Of all else, I am barren and empty
For even though faith burns strong and brightly
My every action speaks contrary
Heaven proclaimed, my soul should starve.
I truly feel my spirit striving
For sweet surcease and release from the grind
To leave mortal limitations behind
For change or escape, no matter the kind
To rush to a fate, others feel resigned.
I truly felt my spirit strive.
Hopefully my consciousness contrives
For is not cessation of self, weakness
Silly, disregarding, childish quaintness
And it must be selfish to seek solace.
At the expense of kin's caring caress.
Hopelessly my consciousness contrived.
Now my soul has starved.
And my spirit has strived.
But no matter how much my consciousness contrived.
Peace has arrived.
Dec 24, 2009
Dec 24, 2009 at 12:04 PM UTC
Hearts misery
deep within
smouldering without
the dying embers
of helpless rage
Hearts ease
Blessed surcease
with love aplenty
and no heart empty
a smile on every face
no matter what race
Feb 8, 2010
Feb 8, 2010 at 7:26 AM UTC
it is three a.m. here
and the unseasonable cold
has etched itself onto the knobby bones of my spine
and eats voraciously at the
callous of bone and metal
that now suffices as my
lower left leg...
in answer, i sit in front of the
newly stoked fire, as close as i can without becoming fuel
and await the painkillers sweet surcease.
i drink russian caravan tea
and as always,
it draws my thoughts to you.
the time spent with cup in hand and eyes full of laughter.
the way you rolled each teabag up into a neat little
parcel...
and those times of ceremony, birthdays and
big announcements.
when the tealeaf was allowed to swirl joyously and swim in the squat blue teapot,
releasing the aroma of
a gypsy campfire...
all rowdy, with celebration
and then served with the
orange and ginger cake,
(so **** good)of which,
i never did get the recipe.
always, the tea, served
in fine bone china
the tea, visible through
the white translucent pottery..
and we still, playing at being, civilised and grown up...
the tears slide,
gently,down my cheeks
to fall and be comsumed
by the warm hearth...
as the gypsy songs fade
and i do not know,
whether, it is from the pain or sad and grasping grief,
that they come...
but they come.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 1:47 PM UTC
I have never been an advocate
Of “woman’s right to choose”
because I think an infant’s life
is too precious to lose.
In the case of Marie Fleming,
I might plead for an exception:
This brave Irish woman,
Her body wracked with mortal pain,
Sought surcease from suffering-.
a peaceful rest to gain.
She did not fear that final breath
as the young and healthy do.
She sought a death with dignity-
the same as me and you.
MS was her enemy-
She could not do the deed.
She asked the courts to let friends help
To be there in her need.
Denied of an assisted end,
Marie died yesterday.
I hope that she passed peacefully
and sleeps til Judgment day.
Her wicker casket was borne to church,
She rests there in the yard.
She bore pain unendurable
before she met her God.
We are more merciful to pets
When they face shorter odds
Than the courts were to Marie
Who‘d been dealt the thirteenth card.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
The battle is fought and our victory won,
My General has ordered me to run,
From Marathon’s plains to Athens Agora
to tell the elders of the battle’s outcome.
Oh gods on high grant us surcease
from threats of invasion if no true peace.
I have fought in the front line
and raced to and from Sparta in two days’ time.
Now fatigued and nearly done
I speed toward home from Marathon.
We will not suffer Eretria’s fate
Their city burned, their folk enslaved.
No! Thousands of Persians we have slain.
Our city on a hill is saved.
I’m short of breath and weak from wounds
Even as the walls of our city loom.
“Nike!” I cry! “Rejoice, we’ve won!”
As my proud heart breaks and I am done.
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
The orgiastic abandon,
I had seen that face.
And, at last, perforce
The guilt, the disgrace,
It was not new to me
Though I had never seen
What the source of it
Had ultimately been.
Later I would know it
As the fulfillment of ***
But the child saw it as
Some mad kind of hex.
And if the first one along
Is like I was at the start
The child of another
There is no room in the heart
Of the adopting parent
Who sees in the bearing
Of the child of another
The source of swearing.
And even the birth child
Is not immune from abuse.
Good behavior and love
Simply has here no use.
This is the sentence
Of men and women
Who acquire offspring
When they don’t like children.
They set their minds up
To repeatedly bear them
To avoid askance looks
And any open criticism.
So they suffer and complain
About what a heavy burden
It is for them to have to
Put up with their children.
And if the first one along
Is like I was at the start
The child of another
There is no room in the heart
Of the adopting parent
Who sees in the bearing
Of the child of another
The source of swearing.
And even the birth child
Is not immune from abuse.
Good behavior and love
Simply has here no use.
If a soul-deprived mother
Never felt love of her own
She has none to spare,
No patience to condone.
The woes of these parents
Is of not having any peace,
No time of their own then,
No feeling of surcease.
It’s as if a child born
Has a few years to grow
Before turning into adult
Who will automatically know.
They will know how to parent
This sick, twisted adult one
Who doesn’t seem to like them
Or anything much they have done.
This is the sad tune of those
Who made many awful choices
But still have no use for any
Of the warning, advising voices.
Brent Kincaid
4/26/2019
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 4:01 AM UTC
So this Sorceress,Vampiress-Succubus was the one whose unholy trust,
I had to bust out of,break out from-
like the Queen of the ****** she used Wicked Temptation,
to fool my crew,my man lost his way,
I could hear his final screams as demons dragged him away,
to be a centre stage meal at the next Vampire feast,
but the Sandman would never leave a man to the beast...
So like Blade mixed with Slaine I forgave him,then slayed him,
(New from Weds)he'd betrayed me,but i couldn't betray him,
so to the sweet arms of Morpheus I gave release,
so he wouldn't feel the ever painful touch with no Surcease,
With Vamps gathered on my Left,Ghouls hissing on my right,
The Sandman knew it was time to release the tight,
hold on my soul that kept my own BEAST in check,
time for a reckoning was ripped from my neck,
in a howl,part growl as I began to transform...,
(I've run out of ideas for the moment)-any suggestions are welcome...
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:23 AM UTC