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WS Warner Nov 2013
Part One
Nascent Craving

The insular heart unsealed; pearled eyes
Breach parapets of stone— periled shield,
The sweetest ****—
A threatening wonder and irrefragable synergy,
Nervous routes of cognition  
In this nascent, amorous craving.
Locked and abased,
Dissonance lends pathos — euphoric and onerous,
Disconsolate cries curb sublimation,
The regnant bleed diffusing — fervid lust
Fondled, tactile surfaces in throbbing anticipation.

Sullen, aft a veil of laughter,
Visceral aftermath, out of
The ardent ash,
Burns a thirst;
Insuperable numbness and ache.
Efflorescent intimacy,
Table for two
Enraptured in new alliance,
Élan vital (psyche);
Urgent dialect petitions
Equivocation, jocularity blending
Provocation with indecision,
Noted lilt of descending inhibition.

Adrift, the incessant Now;
As occasion inexorably diminished;
Resonant simpatico tending,
Numinous amity;
Heard conversant, cognitive idioms—
Lassitude, time-eaten pangs of the unhinged heart,
Wounds axiomatic,
In disquieting synergy,
Nibbling, the circumference—
Misery’s permeating truth;
None immune, all trundle incongruously past,
Facing intrepid savages.

Licitly felt, reverberations of Amor
Whence the heart behaves;
Measured cadence, pulse elevating—
Treasured lover, contemplative muse;
Undulating clasp, inflated bone of absence;
Incarnation — a woman,
Beyond prosaic;
Ineffable adoration pours in certitudes of verse,
Elenita, enclothed —virtue unvarnished;
Reservoir intrinsic, poised advocate of the innocent:
The crooked lines of insolence,
Brazen culture of neglected youth.
Perceptive blue stare, sensitized tears—
Plaintively, evincing her injustice ago.

Part Two
Tendered Senses

Siren silence, eruptive blush, ampler between phrases
In dulcet tones — stirring discourse;
Foments rebellion, the strife beneath— his ****,
Out of its vast reserve,
Penetrate the narrowed ambit, vaguely announced.
Groping hands, migrating the sensual member
Stern faces grimacing— mirror in abrasion,
Under the blind surf of consent;
Burrowing ambiguity, emerging torsion,
Plunge, enlisted and content in the sea;
Subsumed in the nonverbal cue,
Persuasion’s plea,
Quelled in the post cerebral assent.

Piercing eyes parallel crystalline waters of Lake Tahoe.

An untouched portion of his awareness remains aloof,
Palpable in the subsequential quiet,
Obsequious and febrile, they sinned on sofas;
Peregrine predilections quenched and viscid—
Serenely requited, the room breathes her presence,
Limp, figures *******, mantled in adolescent torpor.

Erudition in bloom, trust undoubted,
Illuminating, satiating; tempest calm—
Under canvas
Terrain soaked and sodden,
Postliminary — rains of invalidation.
Allowance and permission
Recalibrate, salivate, shortly only—
Initiate, obliged consecration, appraising
Curvatures of the spine,
Stuns him obeisant, her femenine pulchritude,
Propinquity inciting vigor,
Emergent allure, the updriven
Tower of wood sprung from the blanket.

Suffused in ether, purring streams of remembrance
Vaginal honeyed dew, sung into
Orchids, remnants of remember;
Drenched down the cynosure of devotion;
Succulent view, diaphanous pantied bottom;
Halcyon mist, saporous wine — compliance of the will,
Freed fires wander,
Pliable rind, twin plums dripping,
Abject confession, dispatching doubt
In tendered senses,
Pivotal tree, lavender Jacaranda holds the key,
Unfurled, cindered vulnerability.

Half-denuded skin invites confessional savor
Acutely bubbled rear, fleshly furnished denim;
Sultry visit, San Ramon Valley in the fall,
Strewed limbs splendid, flowing filmy;
Imagination yields—
Bursting silk congealed
Across deft thighs, ambrosial thong draping ankles,
Grazing ascension, the curvaceous trajectory
Nose inflamed with fragrance,
Inhaling, climb of acquiescence,
The ****** weal, amid the globed fruit,
Focal intention — ploughed lance thrusting,
Absconding, the ancillary perfume of essence.

Perceiving avid validation,
Swimmingly, amid the monstrous gaze.
Humid skies simper dank, set swell the incense of Eros,
Surge of poetry engorged
The flame levened shaft,
Nimble ******* flounce, spill the harboring mouth;
Moist hands merging, unfettered,
Weave in supplication,
Vicinity voicing, enmeshed diversion;
Supple and spherical behind
Posterior arch, milky-skin against the lip—
Ripeness jostling their complacency;
Lapped the mooring, ridden decisively;
Recapitulating— spumed forth, bellied over hips warmth.
Abandon the dirge of self-pity
Late under ego’s trance.
Part Three
Present Tenses

Tempting trespass across sacred gardens,
Flowering, scandal set luminous: attachment—
Consensual, their corresponsive fear;
Protean manifestations— evocative, perpetual
Unutterable contention in a fictive resolve,
Deliberating the merits of their widely disparate tastes in coffee,
Amorously touring wine, let’s drowse through the gnarled vine.
Sundry deficiencies pale, once contrasted;
The beatific vision—
Material substance unaccompanied,
Imperceptible, tear-streamed cheeks in synch,
Ventral kiss, peak of carnal perfection,
Reminiscence— flesh violent with Love.

Fiction knew to meander the innominate rift,
A tincture of irony soften misdeeds
Immense as the sea.
Insolvent beast stippled with sapience—
Unmasked, the fabric of delusion;
Dependence smothering the disciplined heart
Resentment put up for release.

Waste of residual years
Fate’s apportion, scars bleakly observed;
Chastened by heartache, engulfing fervor
Too faint to recapture.
Vague glimpses dry—
Hypervigilant his defenses,
Veritable suspensions, embers lit linger;
Slender walls of solidity, the horizoned self,
Faith and reason in concert — stone levels of elucidation.

Fractured bones of distance, emanate a rigid salience,
Another ponderous night of absence—
Lingering, cauldron of dearth as indifference ushers,
The quotidian coil of contrition.
Tearful pallor, sequestered —ciphering time and solitude;
The unkissed mouth, his restive brow;
Suspend in the approximate span.
After Lucid alliterations are spoken
Devoid of her face, his lover’s nudge—
The man nurtures his hurt.

Anxious as seldom unscarred,  
Venus’s susurrations,
In present tenses,
Kissed by her serenades of integration—
Notwithstanding metaphysic intrusion,
No chain stays unbroken,
Postponed drifts of deferment left unspoken,
Reverberations of amor.

© 2013 W. S. Warner
To Eileen
Dead Rose One Feb 2015
8:00 am plenty of time to get

it's how people meet

no worries here,
tinder-ed tendered thundered
by 9:00
I'll be fine,
possibilities multiple, soul flayed,
body at risk, hookup sweet,
no problem,
will line up a few,
on the hour,
star power,
no heart, but
candy is dandy
when you need a date
on Valentine night
About Tinder

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Rohit Deshmukh Sep 2012
Apologises not tendered as ego comes in, Makes me weak when I think, Nothing wrong but I feel guilt comes ,Why the question delivers me to do, Thoughts erupt in the storm why the things happen so. Now at once I feel I wont be weak if the apology plead guilt, Nothing wrong in you but the egos clash in the mind .
Why me why me asks the mind ,Not so far in the life moves the memories, The dark side of night Slowly the things move on without making a change Again I am weak to as the apology will come from me Every time I repent on making me feel like in it. I give a chance to myself to see the truth but again the shortness of life comes in the apology it  ,reflection is my mind the shortcomings in life, sorry I say again to me ,who makes me weak, the question comes again why me why me, thunder the storm ends with peace, memories those make me weak. Lets walk says the way comes the hurdle  in between myself and me. Apologies not tendered as ego comes in.

You know that you are, *******, crazy?

Think up a new grand goal to meet,
then drop the blotter, -to compete.

Are you movin' on up?
to the top, to a deluxe compartment in your mi-ind?


Saul admired David...



dissolved him in, David.

You know that you are, *******, crazy?

Look at the hands, -they swirl in, ceiling paint...
Thinking like this the world is NO constraint.


Pick a pickle Whitley Streiber.

Gasp, rinse and repeat.

Then Devil for the Heaven's seat,
and find a tiny child to eat,
for tasty things water mouth with treat,
nothing stained by water's meet or tendered strangely as complete.


Carpet fibers tickle my neck.

I am a house.

Household item.

Bleach feels funny on the fingers,
they still won't change color back?

Think up a new grand goal to meet,
then drop the blotter, -to compete.
Then Devil for the Heaven's seat,
and find a tiny child to eat,
for tasty things water mouth with treat,
nothing stained by water's meet or tendered strangely incomplete.

Crazy you know that you are... that wall supposed to be flashing?

You cannot just dip a finger in the dark because darkness will not let you go. Are you sexually attracted to circumstance? Then I have something for you. Life is easily hardened....those that know, know me.
Martin Narrod May 2014
Gold crown of Olympus, hair crown and
Skin gown. First we throw our bodies at
One another. Heaping piles of human soup.
Bold maneuvers, hands and mouths and
Boy meets girl lying down, on top, intertwined.
Skittish moves on a tryst. Wet fingers of freshly
Tendered infinite decibel pleasure screams.
Streamers above a long rooting movement.

Overture of Aphrodite. Sparkling, glitter woman,
Legs pressed tightly to the chest,
Loose appendages intertwined. Intersticed dactyls
In rapture, soothing. Bodies build to one heart's beat.
Two muses fused together. If I wasn't afraid I'd wake you up
I'd slip on my shoes and make a tropical fruit fondue.

Stage two:

Ice cream lover's delight. Opus to brown sugar.
To swimming again, a pursed lurking of lips
In the academy of the pastoral commonwealth.
We eat at our stations of the sublime. Today which was
A day of discord- you nursed me back to the land of the living.

Stage three:


Stage four.


Stage five:

As we earn our pageantry to take
Stride on this Earth, and string a
Great bow of eager success among all of us,
You, me, them. While I continue to
Gaze at you. If not dinner, perhaps a
Cup of tea instead.
Venusoul7 May 2014
What can I say?
This Tendered Theme
Sliced Me up this Way

Although this Injury
Be self Sustained
Extremity on Display

Tendered Themes to Do
Rearrange my Attitude

Keep me right on Track
Must I Confess?
Intercept & Mirror Back

Images Promising
See again~The
Violence of Blossoming
Making some room to Grow
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
In the end, where is the courage?

a festering poem~notion
that can not be kept down,
in the making, long,
in the scrivening, short

even the simplest life,
the most ordinary,
cannot ever avoid the question,
where is the courage?

this journey, near complete,
packages delivered, dust and mud,
a canvas of the well worn, conceded and deeded,
nearly done, in the corner almost all that's needed,
a scrawled illegible, encircled set of initials

but never mind that,
for that doesn't obviate, or explicate,
what is important, no matter where and when
you are GPS dotted on your particular travelogue,
the quest, the question that does not come or e'er go,
but permanent, like the dimple, given at birth,
where is the courage?

threescore and more and therefore puzzling,
what matters now this solution in need of resolution?
this easy to provide the clarification notification,
perhaps you are young and the future looming large,
courage in ample supply, for when and where
life requires resuscitation, even enunciation,
you easy answer, here, within,
below the surface, just underneath,
at the ready, in service, a call awaiting when asked,
where is the courage?

the sword of mine so oft drawn and bloodied,
my exploits, I unashamed, but yet new war cries recirculate
and they call out "give us the veterans,"
whose courage spoke of and tale recorded,
let them lead us once again to succor and success!

they cannot know or be told,
my chain mail armour, my heart's amour,
rusted and weakened, and battle memories
too well recalled give me not wells to draw upon,
but wells to be drowned in, fears of fear of it,
it cannot be done again, the supply all drawn down,
the well overused and dry, history revisionists
cannot bring back what once was just by asking,
where is the courage?

the temple in Jerusalem sacked and burnt,
but the Israelites returned and rebuilt,
in ages and days when miracles were a dime a dozen,
no one could not imagine exile permanent,
but it came and lasted but tho many,
ceased to believe, a hardy few knew the answer,
when the the quest, the question that does not come or go,
was flaunted both to and by the fearful, the tired~souled,
where is the courage?

here, within, but this time dig much deeper,
under grime and desultory historic rhyme, it be buried,
just sip and sup of it, but a taste will reignite hope hopefully,
what is only dormant, but never gone complete,
that is what they whisper, in my one good ear,
but I know better, tho eyes dimmed,
my heart replies, the inky dark answer
that I hate but recognize as truth,
when it inquires
where is the courage?*

what matters where,
when, when,
there is no choice,
you know what to choose,
choose the pretense in hopes
that the muscle memory will return,
and restore what was once yours,
and must be yours, yet again
and if you fail,
fail well
for that will be you at the last, and the
lasting medal of courage tendered
Nessun dorma, None shall sleep.
This I know all too well,
you cannot leave or retire from the struggle
We call life, and
Tho my chin upon my chest weary rests,
Nonetheless, it my fingers under yours,
Under you chin, raising it up,
For that is what I have left,
That is what I do.

Feb. 3, 2014
onlylovepoetry Mar 2019
~for Wendy ~

with my almost two years old poetry advisor,
who loves her Sunday rituals, an extra sabbath,
of waffles and Shrek, kid’s gym and artistic endeavors,
cozying up with Nana and siblings in a big old bed,
snacking and chewing on the good silk sheets

as always, she and and I go off to have an intellectual conversation,
letting the older ones to do kid stuff, while we converse and debate
topics of nature vs. nurture, the weather vs. climate change,
and the future of everything, unbeknownst to everyone else

which is greater, love or honor, she inquires,
sensing my thoughts are preoccupied with matters of honor...
as she strokes my itchy, scratchy day old face,
insuring her having my full attention, while
taking advantage of my loving weakness

honor over everything my opening gambit,
while she coyly harrumphs in response,
one can love without reason for such are
our natural souls programmed,
but honor needs concentration and contemplation,
and if done right,
then love will surely follow!

ah ha! once again you sidle up to nurture,
cause love is too inexplicable,
old man, old man, did I not love you before
any season of reason crossed my brow,
and my vocabulary consisted of just
more, no, toy and hungry

what did I know of Aristotle, logic, codes of conduct,
the definition of honor yet abstract,
while love is nature’s illogical construct,
coming first without restrictions,
while honor is malleable and
property of the eye of the beholder

wise beyond your tears, you are, and unquestionably correct,
but while coming first, love cannot last,
until cover-coated with honor,
for honor gives us the because, and locks down the why,
honor gives the insight, the rationale, the rules of how to say
yes and no, when love is tendered and an R.S.V.P. is requested

absent experience, for now will concede,
but be warned this is not over,
fo you have not brought me a definition of what truly honor be

honor is the housing of love, and though you granted me your favor,
comes the day that you will demand proofs that
what was unearthed & unearned
is now earned, a course in credit, a baccalaureate in life’s lanes,
when to heed them, when to crossover, when to say I do, I do,
no to someone else alone, and yes to your honorable self

adult double speak, I suspect, and you will rue the day
when forced to concede, with a wrenched
‘child, I do not know,’
meanwhile change my diaper
after I karate chop your knee

yes child, but know,  two of your requests/notifications are
honorable acts and/know real love can be ONLY be exchanged
tween honorable humans
see photo for her  in position preparing to strike

3/3/19 9:45 am
Aaron Wallis Nov 2012
A man is only half of what he is; always leaning towards the dim
Lacking a flouted need which whorls in the mute within him
A man bigots an ideal and will lark it away at the hold of his routed pith
A smile is not worthwhile if the smile does not have anything to receive or to give

A man is skyless; bound to his back with his dreams fixed on a rapture
He gorges upon tasteless feasts gasping for that sup he hungers to recapture
He does not know nor recall the times that did once befall
Of the lossless suffers and how they ever meant anything at all

He will become the most that he can ever endeavour
Be the creature he needs to be and whichever
Way it may engross him and how it moulds or claims him
It will be still him but leaning not so far in the dim

He would be a whole man who would give himself wholly
Who would be more and only more to her and her solely
His full heart would be tendered for it would not be his own
If it was still partial of the heart that had since budded and grown

A man would be raised and the sky would be without border
A bliss amid clouds where the undiscerning muddle finds order
There would be a sense to the road an approach to the wander
A reason for all a kiss a need to ponder no longer

There would be such rise in his depth and a contest behind bit teeth
To fight for the purposed kiss to hold her and keep her from grief
To offer her all embrace not too tense and not too slack
For her to breathe is to breathe; now half new he would never give it back

To be back upon his back with eyes busy to the sky
His bones broken as her feet glide indifferently by
Over his stare among cloud where she impelled his descent
He’d lay fallen and broken beaten and bent

If Half a man became whole does a whole man not become naught?
If he fights for a dearest never afore dreamt dream then what is left to be fought?
Was it his minds misgivings that would lead to such a trite giving reliving to doubt?
That surfaced more than he knew; the intended whisper instead a floundering shout?

Would it have been his heart that threw him from his felicity?
Could his relish overwhelm and mutate into potent toxicity?
Could it be fact that without thought nor without tact he impelled her?
Either overthought or over loved he would have fallen the hardest and he would not rise
No he would not rise anymore

If there ever was such a man and ever such a she
He would have her for as long as that may be
Her greatest gift is after saying all this to you
Is that after knowing all that you could you would feel the same way too.
her field prospered
under his attentive stewardship
he tendered her every inch of soil
with loving devotion
e'en at night
he'd sprinkle
her field in touches galore
she repaid him a thousand fold
she allowed him to sup of her gold
her flourishing soil
his to always hold
his true hands
upon her fecund soil
harvested him much pleasure
for his hours of toil
Rohit Deshmukh Sep 2012
Apologises not tendered as ego comes in, Makes me weak when I think, Nothing wrong but I feel guilt comes ,Why the question delivers me to do, Thoughts erupt in the storm why the things happen so. Now at once I feel I wont be weak if the apology plead guilt, Nothing wrong in you but the egos clash in the mind .
Why me why me asks the mind ,Not so far in the life moves the memories, The dark side of night Slowly the things move on without making a change Again I am weak to as the apology will come from me Every time I repent on making me feel like in it. I give a chance to myself to see the truth but again the shortness of life comes in the apology it  ,reflection is my mind the shortcomings in life, sorry I say again to me ,who makes me weak, the question comes again why me why me, thunder the storm ends with peace, memories those make me weak. Lets walk says the way comes the hurdle  in between myself and me. Apologies not tendered as ego comes in.
Perig3e Mar 2012
A light rendered note
on vellum
only you and I can see
upon which
I tender thoughts
that gently thread
you to me.
Hank Helman Dec 2015
It was her father’s fault of course,
He had cared for her too much.

He’d tendered love as a comfort
A cure,
His affection an antidote,
And she believed him and came to  
Depend on its sway.

He, her father, was a generous man with no money.
Well-educated and unwilling,
He refused to convert
And enlist as a worshiper of things.

How can you spend your life alone in a car, he asked.
Days, weeks, months trapped in solitary confinement,
Commute used to mean benefiting from a lesser sentence, he told her,

A judge would give you credit for picking up litter,
Or apologizing to your primary school teachers
For all the terrible things you'd done,
Then a month off your jail time, he explained,
His palms up, his shoulders in a shrug.

Now look at our roads, he said,
Everyone round shouldered and condemned,
In a cage, stones for eyes, barely breathing.

On the tram I meet people, I love the public square,
We are meant to mingle he said,
We need each other to make a life.

And so when her mother died,
Unexpected and sudden, what death isn’t really,
He took on simple work close to home.
He wanted her to know he was near, that’s all.

He understood the comfort young children find in
The literal sense of things and so,
He sat with her through every lunch hour and,
They ate soup and sandwiches together each day.

This saved her mind.
She knew that  now.

He, her father, was a chronic enabler of love.
In the fall they would laze on a park bench,
Yellow birch leaves like fashion stickers all over her rain boots,
And chat quietly as they tossed unfrozen frozen peas on to the pigeons.

On these afternoons he retold her stories about her mother,
His childhood, her grandparents and
The hard times,
When even a nickel could ignite the most outlandish of dreams.
Can you imagine, he would say,
Only five cents and we all thought our luck had finally changed.

He was an explainer and a tolerant,
He told her the sun rose up each day
Only to search for one new idea and that
She had a magnificent brain and
One day it would be her idea the sun would shine bright on.

He told her the purpose of her life,
Everyone’s life,
Was to think pure thoughts,
Small decisions that would help save the world, he said,
Contributions often so small no one might notice,
But each one would make a difference.

He said science called this the butterfly effect,
She loved the name.

He was thoughtful and fair
And so everything he stood for was impossible to duplicate.

He never forgot her birthday,

The dolls came in battered boxes
With crumpled corners and broken plastic windows.
Weathered cardboard coffins,
With magic marker scribbled on the back,
Gruff autographs like ‘return to vendor’ or ‘write-off,’
Words she paid no attention to,
Even when she began to understand what words can mean.

Her birthday cake- always a single slice never a round,
She had never seen her name in icing,
But why would that matter,
When she could wake up early in late November
And see all three of her names in elaborate calligraphy,
Etched into the frost of the front room windows
For every passerby to see

His all saint’s grin,
He told her every day of her life
That he saved the first smile of each day for her,
A smile he hid in his pocket, or under her pillow, behind her ear.

Her kingdom for a year was two card board castles in the living room,
Where, with official pageantry, (her father had a scroll),
She was crowned the Grand Duchess of Washer and Dryer,
Her word was law for the day.

He surrounded her palace,
With brightly coloured bowls and
Casserole dishes filled with water,
A protective moat into which he placed plastic animals,
Whereby he proclaimed in a court room voice,
All would become flying horses and loyal dragons
If danger ever dared to mock and threaten.

So when he died she was ready.
She wasn’t,
But as an adult she told everyone she was.

After the funeral she dressed the same,
She ate, she worked,
She offered her ****** Mary smile generously to small children,
She said please and thank-you in a clear voice,
And gave a dollar to every street person she could find.

She was near him when he passed.
She understood the comfort old men find
In the literal sense of things,
And for weeks she slept shotgun
In the chair by his bed.
She wanted to be near, that's all, and
She fed him soup, no sandwich, every day.

We all die he told her only moments before his turn.
Our only calm is our end, he said in a whisper as weak as
Mormon tea.
Do not regret, he cautioned her,
My life was mad and complete, he promised,
You were my good idea and the sun rewarded me,
He said in a voice so soft
She wanted to lay her head on it and drift away.
Then he smiled his first smile of the day,
Pressed a plastic dragon into her hand,
And withdrew.
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2015
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******,
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, *****, homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Of you.
Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's ***** arms expires;
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,
And softer sighs, that know not what they want;
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off
At what they seemed to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
(Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die,
Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart,
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;
I saw the foot, that, altho half-*****
From its grey slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted: I held down a branch
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies
Of harder wing were working their way thro
And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
For such appear the petals when detacht,
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,
And like snow not seen thro, by eye or sun:
Was fairer than the first . . I thought not so,
But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said: you find the largest.

This indeed,
Cried she, is large and sweet.

She held one forth,
Whether for me to look at or to take
She knew not, nor did I; but taking it
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubts.
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch
To fall, and yet unfallen.

She drew back
The boon she tendered, and then, finding not
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,
Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.
mzwai Aug 2014
"I am made up out of dreary routinely aspects."*
The afternoon always spans out throughout each morning,
And I awake within each in a bed I have spent eternity within.
I unveil the sheets, stand myself up onto the ground,
And rub my eyes of their tiredness.
I adjust the straps of the clothes I wear, and stand up
And just wait there.
The room is usually empty and often I feel like I am apart of the paint of the walls.
Like I am stuck upon them like a rock in the concrete or a figure that can be scraped from it.
I un-mount my position like a fly un-mounts a jar and swindle across my bedroom to
The door and go through the unfamiliar house to the kitchen where I collapse onto the chair.
I stare at the table, and caress its granite. I stand up and fix up the coffee in the corner.
I listen to the whistling of the kettle as it replaces the birth of an old silence.
'Its cold outside' it reminds me. It's always cold outside.
I pour the coffee and add the sedatives that would otherwise leave my thoughts racing within me,
And sip from the cup as I stand in the corner.
I leave it, sit at the table, and stare at the granite again.
The wind outside is not whistling, but rustling the leaves. I am reminded of thunderstorms.
Lightning, thunder, clouds, lightning, thunder, clouds,
I sip the cup again.
There is an old familiarity behind the noises outside the window,
I **** myself uselessly to infatuate a rhythm to the steps of the branches of the winter trees.
The kitchen is filled with the noises of these audacities,
and once, perhaps last year July,
Their repetitive sounds would escape their waves and induce me frightened alone in my kitchen chair...
But now, they do not frighten me.
Not since last year July.
I pick up the teaspoon from the side and enter it into the cup,
Neither have been washed from their last usage or usages.
As I stir, I hum a melody that is quieter than the rustling. A melody that is quieter than me myself.
When the coffee cup is empty, I lay my hands onto the granite and force myself up.
I stumble towards the door and through the house and back into the bedroom.
Sometimes the days are loud, and sometimes I am a figure to its silence.
I enter the bedroom and sit at the rocking chair that would of belonged to someone else
In another world where there was furniture for the restless women who stayed awake...
And I do not rock, I only sit.
My sleeping gown covers my legs,
but if I could, I would imagine a dress much shorter than this.
Showing the scars, the marks, the knees, the bones, the skin layers, the worn-out
Wrinkles and the sighing thighs.
I would picture their lengths dominated by the visibility of threads of cloths that
Are for some other woman in some other world.
I sit up and almost fall,
Then use the armchair to balance me as I mount onto the carpet,
Where I stand again and tremble.
I walk towards the bed,
Then turn around. I exit the bedroom.
I walk through the house and past the kitchen and enter
The bigger room with the chandelier and the grand piano.
There are picture frames in this room, but they do not show faces-
They only show sentences.
and I ignore them, and sit myself at the grand piano.
Middle C has turned from the ivory color to
Brown. And I blow the dust away.
Ave Maria begins with the note G,
But I play the highest note on the set of keys
With my left hand,
Then roll across it one by one as if I'm playing an infinite scale.
And watch my fingers as they shake upon each valorous key.
'One, two, three' I whisper
Then play another note.
I put my hands to my side then realize that there are tears rolling down my cheeks.
There is no window in this room,
I hum again and now it is the loudest sound in the house...
But it is still, oh so quiet.
The furniture in the room is all in standard condition,
As I stand up, I close my eyes and remember them without having to look at them.
As they are, as they have always been.
I walk to one of the walls that present four picture frames.
All of them show a man and a woman in each-
And all of them are blank.
There is a quote underneath one of them that reads, "The house must be tendered well-
for now home is where the heart is."
I read it out aloud, repeat it, then read it out a third time.
"If home is where the heart is," I then say, "then my heart must still be in July."
I look around...
"Last year."
This is my house... And it has not been tendered in a very long time.
I walk away from the wall again, face the piano,
Then walk out of the room and past the kitchen to the bedroom again.
There is a bathroom to the side, I remember,
I enter it and place myself fragilely at the sink and the mirror.
My face is in its center, and the tiles around of me create a green shade to my pale skin.
There is little hair left on my head, but I brush it away and look deeply into the shallowness
Of my eyes.
I hum again,
and I am echoed by the tiles of the bathroom walls.
But I am still oh so quiet. I hum louder.
Then I turn to the bathtub in the area of space in the corner of the bathroom.
There is still water inside of it from the previous day...or week.
I walk to it and realize that there are no windows in this room.
I enter the water, and sit in the bathtub.
The dress floats at the surface.
I am still humming.
I submerge my head within the water,
then bring it out after a few seconds.
I submerge it again and keep it in for longer,
then bring it out again.
I submerge myself within it again...
It is drastically cold and it's temperature permeates my bones and leaves me feeling
The water enters my nose, my mouth, goes down my throat and suddenly,
I am out of it again and choking at the head of the bathtub.
I bring myself out of it, weakly and exasperated, onto the bathroom tiles.
I exit the bathroom and walk back into the bedroom.
I collapse onto the bed and then pull the sheets on top of my dried shaking body.
I exhale...
"The sheets used to love you." A voice in my head says.
"If you were to veil yourself every-night like a queen in marriage to a dead man,
Then no one would blame you for never actually showing yourself."
And I listen...
Then that is exactly what I do.
I think about the loss of my neurons,
Then append my thoughts to race under their sedatives as I pull the sheets around my entire body.
Eventually, I stop shaking.
But when I open my eyes, I realize that only my body has.
"I wonder how these memories would feel like," I whisper again,
"If they were in the mind of some other woman,
In some other world..."
I close my eyes,
I close my mouth,
And I go to sleep.
As Mr Joe Cole didn't have the decency, to read any of the poems that I tendered for his challenges... I shall not be participating in them again.
He has now been blocked and that's how he'll be staying.
It Apr 2013
“They’re killing my art”, I enounced, once more.
I cannot remember how long it has been,
since I’ve taken reason to account me the pleasure of truth.

Too long since I’ve allowed
the eloquence of ambiguity to persuade me
like a drunken, sunken, driven violin
that by its arduous harmony
knows not love
but the expression entangled
between deception and madness.

What a lovely step,
each and every step
of every pronounced pitch; rhyme - never to be heard, once more,
and never again;
should these feelings fade,
should I know any more.

I know not less than written
formalities and informalities,
messages, designs, rules;
they’re teaching me how to think,
how to drool over so-called precious,
unblemished restrictions,
while the only thing I can procure is
“they’re killing my art”.

They are killing me,
with every step;
every step of a pronounced pitch
that only grows louder as I grow older; weaker.

They are attempting to make me a follower,
attempting to rid of all
mesmerizingly morbid sensations
engraved in my sphere - even me, even you.

I could not recall the last moment
I tried to picture your smile,
still now,
I deny myself the ruthless pleasure.
I do remember, it was cold,
I felt a rigid tangent of merciful memories raiding;
all I could bestow of tendered hope,
then I remember dissolution.

“They’re killing my art”,
they dare deny it.
They dare to outstand me
and enforce me to exhibit myself as a self-evoked,
developed work of admiration
only so that they could indulge of a sense of liberty
while they are chained to an unsustainable
glimpse of stability they dare defy as happiness.

Much unlike myself,
much more like you.
It was a fault,
you’ve only ever wanted to be loved, accepted.
The moment in which they took
the blossoming of your efforts
with calid gestures and tinted words,
pitifully glanced upon your seldom eyes
with a misunderstood applause,
you felt at home.

But I could not stand it,
for I am no more than you,
and no less than myself.
I apprehended that while they exalted our blossoms,
they knew not our roots.

They cared not for our feelings,
for the treasures we buried
beneath every step of every word,
in every line.

they only admired what they were taught to,
and diminished what they loved
but soon were taught to forget.

For we are us,
“not them”,
how many times could I have repeated
these words before you stubbornly gave in?

Sometimes I still listen to you,
after all,
you are me, and I am you,
but I chose to evade you
in a sad and solid place,
where I, too, exhibit my sorrows,
and the brief explanations
which one brought me
to become a beautiful being
but are no longer relevant,

Sometimes I still listen to you,
when I am lost,
and I find not an excuse to better,
fearing I have become like them, while I wonder,
“why not? is it so wrong to belong?
Is it so wrong to **** a part of myself?”
For I have done so with you,
and shall never regret it.

While every time I listen to you,
I am comforted,
blindly submerged, yet alive;
reminded that no matter
how cold and frighting
a lonely path may guide me,
it shall never be as empty
as a world without art,
for that, is me.
John F McCullagh Mar 2012
The Bells ring out great Peals of joy.
The war is won, Great Albion.
It merely cost a million dead,
a generation lost and done.

To you, fate tendered victory sweet,
to the Germans, a bitter peace.
There, fatherless boys, abed, asleep,
plot revenge for their deceased.

In the Wilfred Owen house;
no alloyed joy to meld with sorrow:
That day they learned their son had died
They’ll dress the house in Black tomorrow.

His mother knew before word came,
she had a sense her son was gone.
That he’d be among the last to fall
for the glory of Great Albion

He fought almost unto the end,
dying in the war’s last week.
When Mortal flesh and bullets meet
Poets are silenced when machine guns speak..

There is a pathos in his fate,
dying in the last week of war
Like the man who sailed the Ocean deep,
only to drown in sight of  shore.
The poet Wilfred Owen, died in an attack on a German Machine gun nest on 11/04/1918, one week before the Germans sued for peace. His parents received word that their only son had died just as the Church bells were rung to celebrate the Armistice. Albion is a archaic name for Great Britain
r Sep 2014
carved on walls
where fires burned
-indelibly etched-
the hunt and dance
our story

flint to moss
sparks ancient art-
tinder for desire

tendered flame
has seen us
***** unclothed-
an ivory venus
burned into my bones-

making fire

r ~ 9/3/14
  |     /)/)/) Venus vom Hohlen Fels
/ \
She couldn't express her grief
but knew this tangible loss,
felt affinity with old bones
a bond with lost loved ones.
She cleaved close to those,
it being in her very nature
a clan thing - family loyalty,
bridging a long span of years.
Her trunk trumpeted, mutely,
while lowering a sister's tusk
softly on the blanched shards
of the ancestor herds, tendered
in this final act of fellowship
from one gentle giant to another.
Sam Oliver May 2010
You say I'm
'Too nice' to love.
What kind of farce is that?

How mean
Do I have to be
To earn your affection?

Should I insult you?
Should I **** you?
Should I beat you?
Should I nearly **** you?

These are harsh words.
But these are what you want.
You'd forgo loving
A protector
To let
A Threat
Beneath your sheets.

No matter how many women say it,
'Too nice'
Does not exist.

Let me ask this.
What is
'Too mean'
To you?

You obviously want someone unlike me.
You want someone who holds grudges and retaliates against you?
That's not me.
You want someone who verbally threatens and insults you daily?
That's not me.
You want someone who'll bash your brains out?
That's definitely not me.

Try those out if you want.

Come back to me
When you need your wounds tendered.
There's no way you're coming back whole.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
life is our poetic reality,
you are the best ever
the one poets
keep stealing from
each other,
at the intersection
of our eyes crossing

your disruptive crying poetry,
bring to me in NYC,
and I'll take you to
poetry slams,
tango parties, a real Chinatown,
blow smoke up your nose,
Waltz step on your toes,
drink with you
in Central Park at five am,
visit half a dozen museums,
take you to the ballet,
and then you can maybe,
cross a few to-do's
off of our mutual

care taken,
if you want hide deep,
but to late for thee and our world,
your name on the roster
of poets by night,
tinkers, soldiers,
and some who tailor
poems bespoke
for the ones who
dare not reveal their true (s)elves
in the words they write.

poems in ye old inbox,
genteel knocking,
whispering thru stolid front door
love me a little lot,
little lot, love me?

these are the holy-of-the-holies
prayers, wry observations, nature collations,
me and thee adorations,
heart rendering
screams of need,
these are the moments in your life
raw-roughened gifted
or threaded smooth cursed,
but tendered unto my caring

am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.

speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.

darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.

I have seen betterdays

ain't young enough to be afraid no more
write what pleases me.

this day leases me
what pleases me
and this is as close as I can come
to being human
and writing my flawless poem.

Anything I can do to keep you,
happy and poetry-free
from midnight
till the **** crows
and slumber trumps
the restless words
that will wait
till mo(u)rning born,
and the kingdom of poetry,
comes alive

These four senses all recombinant,
On the cheek, on the tongue,
Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning
Merging into a single touch
That my pointer finger,
by force majeure,
Declares, here,  poem aborning,
Contract with this moment,
now satisfied.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me

long have I searched for my
flawless poem,
knowing it my be
my next one,
each a doorway to the next

this one, and the
one before,
never good enough,
keep the essay going
in fourth gear

I taste skin,
like a good poem,
the cheek, the shoulder bare,
the in between spaces,
the minty hint of décolleté,
the ankle chain,
turning my breath heated,
tips of red noses,
I take and
I keep
and no,
no refunds, no returns

grandpa's tools
outdated, shelved,
in their final
resting place,
blades dulled,
the technology
of his verbiage,
rusted by old age

the reads diminishing,
his touch, antiquated,
his best days, resting on top of
the ocean internet waves
his summertime buddies,
sand sun grass and
sea air perfumes,
"awe, we got ya,
cosy and comforted,
awaiting you in your chair,
overlooking our truest
sheltered applause"

so I write for me,
write for her,
for with her,
in love's sight,
life is
easy like Sunday morning,
that's why I'm easy,
like Sunday morning

wake up unscrubbed,
sleep still in the eyes,
dream crusted,
probably unaware, child,
that you are a poem

when a little girl,
reverting, designing
real from dreams,
processing, reforming,
the dreams lusting
to be poems
to go awandering

let the sin memories
of ancient words,
black gold bubble up
with the first striking of the blade

(excavate your soul deep)

I did not come this poem to write
I did not come to repeat
Solomon's poem,
nothing new under the sun

wish to delve into my delusions,
my original sin
the deceit
the conceit
I am unique
I am original

*Experience anew,
Each time,
This is my first time,
This is my first work

I do not need your validation.
I validate myself
and in doing so,
who else
comes along
for the ride
on our tide?

create with no shame
create with no measuring stick
only this:
everything that is done well
                           is good art

Be Fertile and Radiate
Excerpts from stuff written between late March and early April.
I write about poetry, writing and their intersection inside of me, probably too much.
Years ago, while still a teenager,
a white flag in my heart I waved;
for I tendered a total surrender
to the Lord on the day I was saved.

From Salvation’s message properly explained,
my spirit easily recognized absolute Truth;
so my desire towards Christ was ignited
with acceptance of Him in my childhood’s youth.

Learning from others’ mistakes
and reading the Word with diligence,
in supplication’s prayers I requested
Solomon’s gift of godly intelligence.

Now with open hands raised high
and outstretched arms above my head,
my offering of praise and worship is…
An acknowledgement of what God has said.

Author Notes:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
EJ Aghassi Feb 2015
ignite that glorious chain
of the cigarettes you crave

they sit between your pretty
fingers, jingle-jangling to
and from your lips. a smile
not quite saccharine, but
immensely sweet and sicken-
ing still. gravity pulls me now
with immense force

clench your fist, strike in
romance, I won't whimper,
I won't defend. I will
crawl back for more.

kiss tenderly tendered wound,
fresh scars worn with
pride, a pain that brings with
it comfort and yearning

your ill nature i implore
as your healing touch has
me on the floor for more

howling praises at the feet
of the angelic figure i see

sense of self and body sore
you are what i suffer for

and it shouldn't have been
any other way at all

you like to hurt as much
as I like to hurt. we have
fallen into place quite
conveniently, haven't we?
Aaron Wallis Jun 2013
A subcutaneous doubt musters and you itch
The shore line depression is here without hitch
A sea of harps instigating an emotive atrophy
You discharge and you dive with certain alacrity

There is a boat afloat out in the briny of spite
Oar-less and holey amid the bark and the fight
You plunge and you quaff as you leave quiet behind
A clamber and a climb and inside you will find

Ruckus and roar as you rock with each crash
Thunder and hail as the waves tempestuously lash
Gladden with the grim elation preserves you
Mirthful and drugged whilst the wet pours through

To the most aphotic of waters that drags you deep
The boat now just wood unto rocks in a heap
Too eager to leap and now too weak to swim
A stoical sink under madness to dim

The seashore despair was a lie to itself
The still and the shielded brimming with wealth
Never attempt to weather a storm
Of a storm as endless as that of that storm

A wish that you stayed a want that you listened
You’d still be where her green eyes glistened
Where love and the good is now once tendered
Most is best left as how it’s remembered.
Seán Mac Falls May 2017
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******,
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, *****, homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Of you.
That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken
As I by yours, y’have passed a hell of time,
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O, that our night of woe might have remembered
My deepest sense how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me then, tendered
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!
    But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
    Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
Drifton A Way Dec 2013
I feel like Paul Revere riding up to you with a message to convey
Overcame my initial fear, but it"s Such a tricky catch twenty two
But you see if you adhere and actually listen to what I have to say
Because I had your ear, means I probably don't want a girl like you
I"m still not in the clear, I"m most likely really ******* either way
Focused on your career, I know, but try to see from my point of view
Imagine that you appear at your job but they actually make you pay
That's our plight my dear, so I ask you what"s a guy supposed to do?

Smack me on my back and beat on life's ironic Co Nun Drum
Then hand me a plaque that says "my platonic friend & Chum"

Relegated to the friend zone you"re now stuck in a paradox
Delegated to a just a drone you"ll never get in pandora"s box

Funny how there"s barely any difference between stalking and persistence
All depends upon metaphorical distance, who"s walking and her resistance

Helplessly I disagree with your inability to see past this stigma
Destiny must ironically be your enemy as you remain an enigma

So perhaps you"re just not currently accepting applications
But instead of just going through the typical motions
I attempted to help you understand many men"s translations
Because as far as I know there isn't any love potions
So many dreams lost before they tendered their resignations
But hopefully you can now see some of these notions
Nirvana and Utopia it could be, but here lies only aspirations
Buried beside his best friend, Rest in peace emotions
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2015
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******,
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, *****, homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Of you.
Robert Zanfad Mar 2010
Working here in the alley just off Thirteenth Street
I heard echoes of "Clara" amid soul-piercing sobs -
A woman shambled over, arms glued to her sides,
Empty hands holding invisible sand bags.
Tear-streaked, wet cheeks, still crying,
Paused, wailing "Have you seen my Clara?"
I wanted to help her, really I did
So pathetically lost, sad, hopeless and desperate.
Yet I answered with truth, "No, I didn't"
Who was this woman, and Clara, at that?
Maybe a child, wandered away ages ago,
Mother, gray, tormented, still searching...  
"Then *******", she yelled, shuffling away
Toward Thirteenth Street, unconcerned
She wore just one slipper for two ashy feet.
A simple reply could've tendered new hope
Of holding dear Clara
Before death finally stole her

Then an old sod danced his odd waltz,
Legs still unsteady, he stopped here
To water the wall -
Swore he knew me - two soldiers in 'Nam -
But I was too young.
Remarked my health must be failing,
He'd never seen me so pale, suggesting
Medicine from the brown bag he held.
He offered to hold the long ladder steady
So I wouldn't fall again like I did in Saigon.
"No!", I held firm, but we commiserated
Our hard times since then;
Dayday, and Niney, our friends
Never came back, though we see them
Sometimes in this alley.
Then Matty, my brother, stumbled away
In search of lost buddies in bottles of gin.

Tiki, so skinny, ever the beauty, insisted
We go on a date right there in the alley,
Grabbing my crotch to punctuate
Her proposition, as if words weren't enough.
I offered she was quite pretty, but then
"If only I wasn't married," I lied, so she settled
For the cigarette I lit for her instead;
Wondered when work would be done-
Get to business, making used condoms,
Repaving the alley just off Thirteenth Street.

Perched high on my ladder, I could just see
Distant Broad Street, latex expressions of love
No longer sticking to treads of my boot.
Out there on that corner,
A man from The Nation selling bean pies,
Ignored me for days when I passed him by;
Asked me this morning if I'd like to try
The healthy delicacy he'd held high to God.
I felt blessed, accepted, he addressed me.
Rastafari, camped on the other side,
Still passed out free samples of Passion and Bliss,
Names he gave to incense he wished
Would transform shattered glass and trash
Into the heaven his dreams said might be.
I wore his fresh gifts, sticks behind each ear
Perfuming the stink of stale *****, used condoms
And I wondered if they walked here, too,
Through this alley just off Thirteenth Street.
Copyright 2010 Robert Zanfad
Darrel Weeks Jun 2016
A beautiful rose grows on a grave
It is tendered by the remorseful
Caressed by the breeze
Hidden by the moon
Vivid in flame in summer
Innocent in existence by winter
Under the named stone
The eternal love that rests below
Opens its soul
Offers its heart to the petal
Ron Sanders Feb 2020
Black is the seed, and black, the fruit.

The blossom of light an affront:  wrought of nothing,
illuminating nothing, reverting to nothing, the blossom is—
And a man contends, endures,
knowing, in his moment, that all that matters
matters not; that in the crowd
he is alone, that in the cosmos
he is lost, that in his writing
he is written. He is a coal, shot hot between voids.
Intense to evanescent,
each pass of a life has a spectrum.

Red is the womb.

Here, at riot’s eye, all bellows howl,
all fires bend to the harlot wind of becoming.
And the nub is a lump, and the lump accrues,
marbles dreamless, in liquor weightless, defining:
Liquid ruby, clinging vine, tallow flower in wine—
the little ogre, caught on a briar, kicks.
Comes a marvelous trophy, squirming and gory,
naked and pendent, blind and grotesque—
wound about the hollows and seams,
spat in a maelstrom:
one more shape in the window,
one more shadow exposed,
in the ****** triumph of light.

Out of the whirl, the faces gather round.
The boy has opened his eyes,
but the infant makes no sound.
Shapes loom to the sides, to the front and rear:
The faces grin, closing in…grow enormous fingers
to point, to pinch—to peel back the veil
and make his eyes scream.
In the dimness a nimbus, a prism, a pearl.
The faces part. The prism paints an image in the whirl.
The figure is a woman, whose seeming lips recite:
“Come sunder the night. Little ember, ignite.
I am mother, I am mother. I am life, I am light.”
But like oil on a rainy day,
the colors blend and wend their way
into the whirl, and there,
subdued, the voice is slurred,
the light, obscured,
and night

Here on the lattice,
morning embroiders the tatters of night.
While tall beaded glasses
squeeze melody from melting ice,
the diced and slanting shafts of sun
checker the shadows with tangerine light.
On the sidewalks April’s children run,
but the eyes in the faces see
nephew on the august perch
of uncle’s wicker knee.
Graven in air, the faces shift,
their eyes a flickering stream.
Loosed features drift, expressions run
in subtle strokes of shade and sun.
The stream ***** him in:  swirls of abhorrence,
pools of disdain. Succumbing, drawn under,
he swallows his eyes. But the eyes in the faces remain

So scrawny it grieves, he eats too ****** much;
ever absent, he is always in the way.
Sickly, quiet, submissive, shy,
he hides when the faces quarrel,
cries when they crack his lie.
Craving love, he learns early to fast;
contriving a limp, he is weaned at last.
What hold wanders here—there are no bridges,
only walls. Every scribe is a master of cant.
The learned are jaundiced, the ignorant smug.
And those who would name his demons,
when maintaining “this will pass,”
fashion their webs of pap and straw.
This animal man is a thief.

My world is a stranger.
My eyes are wounds on a mind that will not heal.
I saw more range, more warmth, more mother,
in the dance of sun on heather,
in a single kiss of dew.
Now your urn, blessed bowel, fouls the cedar
of father’s mantel, while he grows blacker,
blending bile with grief and gin.
Those lips that never tendered,
that heart I never knew—mother,
who were you?

Ubiquitous, the emerald **** lies splayed, exploding:
from her pores an eruption, on her belly a rank,
stinking moss. She bleeds life, vomits it,
into bud, into blade; sharing with a passing star
the silent scream of spring.
But here she dreams, perfumed,
a picture of grace, her verdure in groom.
Secluded, seduced, sedated. Churls put on her face
while zephyrs attend to the scent of her loom.
Time purls. The zephyrs flit sweetly,
chasing motes in fibers of light.
Playing tag in the sun, currents weave into one,
near a still-life of mourners and fatherless son.
The figures seem rooted, unreal.
As the gust musses trees, light leaps between leaves.
The greenery breathes. As if shaken,
the scene comes to life:  huddling in sync,
the faces incline, their eyes like slinking thieves.
The young man implodes. He reels.
The tension relents and he straightens. He wheels.
He limps off alone, wind hounding his heels,
the moment too eerie to bear. Sedans trickle by.
A raw widow grieves. But the faces continue to stare.
And the wind pirouettes, finds a wing,
has a plunge, brakes low on a rest,
makes a guarded descent. The breeze buffets markers,
losing vigor and bent, then slips thru the stones
toward the beckoning trees.
The draft riffles leaves, where its whisper is spent
and lost a sigh.

A stipend, a shack, a lessor in wait.
Such are the fruits of his father’s estate.
He breaks no bread, seeks no sweet;
strange dynamics govern his blood,
preclude his seed from the common fire.
Music of amity, refinement’s caress,
are brute concerns; abrasive, obscene.
In his quiet aching way he is whole.
Seasons burst and smolder, surrender and brood.
Their pageant revolves about him.
The years breathe, driving the crowd,
steeping its fevers in jasmine and sun.
Humanity brawls, exalting the flame.
But without him.
And he grays, sinking, certain his pain cannot,
could not possibly, be borne by another.
The silence condenses, sets.
At last even pain deserts him.
But near the brink he hears the nervous hum
of impermanence, feels the white pang of being’s wing
as day succumbs to the fist of night.
Dawn burns deeper, duller,
each beam towing a filament of dusk,
each round of the wheel a salvo
in the stunning of his eyes.

Now the years are mired in sameness.
The day wears on. Guests come unbidden:
Conscience, the despot. Sentiment, the leech.
Misgivings sojourn, transmigrate, return,
as Lonesomeness plumbs his moribund vein,
Still he rooms with the wind, dies waking,
dreams sleepless. And it haunts him:
All this teeming while an instant, an irrelevancy,
a rube’s view of the pulse careening downstream,
working its rhyme into a billion like irrelevancies.
Here must be real, Now must be sound, and yet—
no sooner are the moments cast
than shape is shadow, and present, past.
Only the day wears on.
Blue is the evening begotten, the twilight of our lives.
Dark gathers, mooring its stain
where a dreamer weighs the deep,
his eyes in ruin, his color in vain.
Only ballast and mind, merely ego and rind,
growing blind as the day wears on.

Down this grim promenade,
a musty wind hustles gaunt silhouettes.
They are loth to be borne;
they are patiently measuring stones.
Eyes leap in their caverns, looks light and remain
on a smudge in the gloaming, a scarecrow with cane,
tapping out his tenure in a cold feeble rain.
And now the purple veins of near-night
thud sluggishly, almost grudgingly.
The black earth splits wetly, obscenely.
There:  something impatient stirs, exposed—
Limbless, sightless, the lamprey rises;
her breath unbearable, her length immeasurable,
her age—
Preening *****, hypnotic.
In one vile kiss she is sieve and abyss.
Her bruised lips are splayed, her violet mouth, made,
and her churning, insatiable craw is

Out of the whirl, the faces gather round.
Was he hurt? Can you hear me?
But the old man makes no sound.
Shapes loom to the sides, to the front and rear:
the faces glare, stealing air…grow enormous fingers
to ****, to pin—to pull down the veil
and make his eyes seize.
In the dimness a nimbus, a prism, a pearl.
The faces part. The prism paints an image in the whirl.
The figure is a woman, whose seeming lips recite:
“Come sunder the night. Waning fire, grow bright.
I am mother, I am mother. I am life, I am light.”
But like spectra from a dying sun,
the colors flare, are torn, are spun
into the whirl, and there,
subdued, the voice is hushed,
the blossom, crushed,
and night


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

How soulless are you people, anyway?

I see you every moment
Within and around me
Still why my eyes are
Searching for YOU?

Oh kind blessed BELOVED of mine
My soul is seeking your touch

I wish an auspicious 2017
Greetings for my BELOVED

May be it was not our destiny
To cross roads last year 2016
Let us hope for change in 2017

I've sent my Greetings to my BELOVED
I am waiting for the miracle to happen

Even the heart of the earth
Even the spirit of the ocean
Even the soul of the sky
Are cracking listening to
My plight of LOVE
I pray my LOVE
Touches your soul

If it was not in our fate in 2016
Let LOVE be our destiny in 2017

I know that for my BELOVED
There is no in-equality
There is always rights - human rights
A fight for empowerment of LOVE
Everyone who shows LOVE
Is tendered with grace, kindness & care

To whoever my BELOVED touches
Will live thereafter in peaceful calm

I know I am very far from my BELOVED
From the aura of BELOVED'z magic

Someone come, tell & show my LOVE
To my BELOVED and
Grant me a relief from my despairs
I live compelled by sadness of
Time cycle of days & nights
Everyone is allowed to see BELOVED'z
Flowers except me,
Why I've been given thorns to walk on?

BELOVED, you know it all, so
What else I should say to YOU?

Just give me a sign from there
My stars sparkle due to your benevolence
Like a mother-baby,
It is not good to keep
Us separated for long

You know I am ready to exchange
Even my life for your sake

I wish an auspicious year of 2017
To everyone

May be it was not our destiny
To cross roads last year 2016
Let us hope for better in 2017

— The End —