"testimonials" poems
During my second trimester I felt like getting some fresh air.
I went out cycling through town in the warm sunny day.
Observing the comings and goings of people all around.
The flower cart on the corner, lent a lovely lilac scent to the air.
The street preacher was shouting out his testimonials,
trying to recruit believers to his cause.
Further on as my pedaling took me, I saw a group of boys.
They were pantomiming their favorite rockstars.
Strumming the air for all they were worth and
Jamming to the silent music in their heads.
Down the block past the Bakery, smelling of cinnamon buns,
was the museum. My favorite place to stroll on a quiet day.
The gregarious doorman always wished me "A fine day, Madam!",
as he ushered me into the foyer. He always wore that silly hat that makes me smile.
And, of course, he kept an eye on my red bicycle by the door.
Making my way through the corridors, observing the sculptures, paintings and artifacts.
Wondering at the archaeologists dinosaur finds, mounted above and behind the glass.
Finally, on to see Pandora and her ill-fated decision to open the box.
Letting forth into the world all manner of toxicity. And then, again, opening the box
she set Hope free so we could cope in this danger-laden world.
Ending my museum tour, I contemplated my coming child
and what he would find to make him cry or hope or love
in this world, as I slowly pedaled through the spring infused day.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
The many moving things,
moving scenes; that are stuck in between my eyes.
Look at life; and it's fragile creations,
through the window's glass.
Held on the weight of time,
those holding onto their past. But it all must change;
from the old seasons to those anew.
The many winters of cold, soon surpasses on the grass.
So many pictures, so many little things,
and so many moments. All caught in the prettiness
of an everlasting flower.
A tower plant, trying to kiss the glorious sun,
the Son of Man, and the sweetest rose.
The holies of all holies; resides inside of me.
Walking the testimonials upon my feet.
For how far have I gone to seek?
I've seen blackness, as a changing tide of darkness.
A ***** sheet; barely covering the littlest sin. But there's
still the greatest of all light within.
_A Christ within me._
How are my eyes shut to the window;
and their curtains covering itself on a dream?
A dream to be free.
_Freedom of will._
_Freedom of speech._
_Freedom to choose peace._
I scratch the tiny hairs under my chin,
biting the collar of my shirt with my dry lips.
There's no duty to being empty all your life.
No command to live that way, or any sort of drill.
But there's a thirst on my tongue,
running down to my heart. My spirit's cup is waiting
to be overfilled. And to go on and spill.
I as myself,
only long to be spirit filled.
Holy Spirit come inside of me.
_A thousand pictures in the window,_
_and I only long for the one picture of Him._
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 1:31 PM UTC
he craves online hook-ups.
But this isn't me
nor am I that intrepid
a torrent trampoline
on wireless ether engines
cyber silver surfin'
zone on / in .nets & .coms
searching fiber-optics for sight
browsing rooms of M4M / in-fantasized delights
an itch to fix
to sit transfixed
as if
subliminally attached
umbilically
digitally digitized digi-man
to a electronic felatio soundtrack
yet all the while detached
lurking duplicitly
reading pretend profiles explicitly
for *** sexified mind
dreaming up new fetishes
with misspelled texts
tandem testimonials as if written
by a Compaq-machine-head
Microsoftened lust
currents electric now as we turn into dust
with iBooks & faraway Dells on our laps
scrolling lists for Adams
status' with "anything goes"
remonstrating our vicious cycle
alive & blank with un/trust
gone viral...
this isn't me.
where is the warmth
of feelings, emotions,
malleable and infallible / love??
I am not as talented
as he
to be in two places at once,
but he
has the many faces
and genius of multiple personalities
Cybil
facets
of sabotage with Mommy Dearest grace.
Beautiful strangers his acquired
taste...
he says it was not him
(doing ****
my rage has only one trait.
two eyes (once wide asleep in the lies)
and velvet-rope-burned
wrists
my feet learn to fly
my heart un-breaks
my wings reanimate...
he has too many faces
doppleganger hatred
none to care for or embrace
When did I go blind,
and leave my many strengths?
Where do I now
again
begin??
(The rubble or the sin?)
Every night adieu
Every day anew
once again...
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 6:43 PM UTC
There's one e-mail I always delete and it's yours
and it's not the boring repetitive ones or the ones that have nothing at all
to do with me, I can let those stack up in my mail box
I have a collection, thousands of them
But you and yours, make me ill. How you brag and have
taken over what was my job last year and is now so clearly yours
and have you ever, ever even said a word to me, even though I was
the one to do the ***** work to get it all started? No, I am just
so last year to you. I don't exist. I see your bragging testimonials
to your greatness followed by pleading ones for money--teddy grams?
Really. And the one time I did see you, you were not nice.
So I delete your e-mail and really I'd like to delete the whole experience from
my mind. All those late hours in that cold theater with undisciplined kids
Always thinking, I am doing this to have a job for the future.
This is why. And then you just waltz in and you were so excited
I sent you my acknowledgement you were given the job and you were
so breathless oh can I tell everyone? Like you just won the lottery and
now I want to send you an e-mail to tell you, do not contact me about this again
Leave me completely alone if you can't be nice.
I don't like your play and I don't like you and this was all a bad experience in total.
I want to delete you, not just your mail. I want to delete you from my mind and my experience
and all the rest of the people involved in this whole sorry affair.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 9:02 PM UTC
Let's live just long enough to fear the compassionate desires of our ancestors.
Trust that no one save for the testimonials of strangers can save you from the 'coming evil'
To this end, we shall salute our own graciousness in response to someone else's hard work;
Make up a story filled with woe and peacemaker rallies depicting those formidable glory days.
Suffer no one but fools.
You know,
Fore you are wise and we shall all know someday what is to others like you obvious;
that everyone is blind but you.
There is a glazing in the eyes of a once mistress,
fallen over a reclining chair grasping at dusty bones.
This is what is left of the great ending,
nothing to clean up after, save for spittle looming over a coffee table.
The nightmare returns to me in a simple waning smile
and a sweet, but bitter to only me phrase:
"let's grow old together"
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 7:14 PM UTC
Gravity is Earth's way of taking back your flesh
and once you start losing the battle, everything is going to sag.
Sag into your favourite chair, sag in the mirror so you stop looking, sag in the eyes of the young, sag into the dust of your grave.
So take out a loan and pay for a de-sag today, you know you want to, all the stars of screen and stage are doing it, pick up one of our full colour testimonials.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
Once that was
Will not be forever
Faded memories
And sepia moments
Lot of nostalgia
Tired souls
Reminiscing throughout
In retrospect
Fading work of art
Cracked colors
And crumbling walls
Long stint in the past
A standing ovation
From the present ones
Frail limbs support
The past grandeurs
Let’s bow to them
In our memories and
History testimonials
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
The fallow flags lull in a languid sway at half-staff
flaccid reminders for those who quickly forget
limp in the wind as faint as that day
commemoration of anniversaries' memorization's
plaintive anguished lamentations jeering at
the stuffy affected and tired testimonials
torpid, dense and listless as the President's third rehearsed
recited repeated languorous speech of the day
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
Who do you think you are?
Trashing around judgments and opinions
That aren't yours to make
Who do you think you are?
Saying one thing in front of our eyes
And another behind our backs
Who do you think you are?
Running away with your enemies
Snatching away all our prior beliefs
Who do you think you are?
To take my friend from me
Only to use her just as you did me
Who do you think you are?
To have the right to discriminate
Against race, *** or gender
Who do you think you are?
To assume our reasons behind our actions
To provide information that you don't know for certain
Who do you think you are?
Coming into our lives with the sole reason of destroying
All the things that we cherish, treasure and love
Who do you think you are?
To invade my private space by saying you're there for me
And when we finally give in to your constant nuisance, you strike
Who do you think you are?
To fake being strong, to falsify your testimonials
To base love on false pretence and to breathe for competition
Who do you think you are?
To put down another without trying to understand them
To assume the worst of people when we're all looking for the same things
Who do you think you are?
To say you love me when you don't
To say you'll protect me when you're never there
Who do we think we are?
When our lives have been based on societies' prejudice and presumptions
And it takes all our courage to simply be...
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
kinda cool,
everything
not too shabby at all
maybe it's perfect
this whole whatever we all are
and nothing is truly awful
but unfortunate, at times
and pretty **** alright the rest
oh yeah
not horrible
simple really, if one can breathe
occassionally sleep
or not
too much greatness to observe
swerve the baysides
collect some efforts and shears
become air statues and memorials of testimonials of primative genius
mmhmm
downright loverly
splendid shining on
cathartic rhythms
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
defined as "existing or being everywhere at the same time; constantly encountered."
__________________________________________________
he craves online hook-ups.
...but this isn't me
or that intrepid,
torrent trampoline
on wireless ether engines
zone on in .nets & .coms
searching fiber-optics for sight
browsing rooms of M4M to fantasize delights
to itch to fix
to sit transfixed as if
subliminally attached
umbilically
digitally to a electronic felatio
soundtrack
yet all the while detached
lurking
reading pretend profiles explicit
with *** sexified,
dreaming up new fetishes
with misspelled texts
tandem testimonials as if written
by a Compaq-machine-head
or Microsoftened lust
as now we are turning to dust
with iBooks & faraway Dells on our laps
scrolling lists and Adams with "anything goes"
remonstrating our vicious
cycle - blank with un/trust
this isn't me...
where is the warmth
of feelings, emotions,
love??
I am not that talented
to be in two places at once,
but he has the faces
and genius of multiple personalities
facets
of sabotage with grace.
he says it isn't him.
my anger has only one trait. two eyes.
velvet
rope-burned
limbs...
and he has too many faces
doppleganger hatreds
where does one
begin??
(The rubble or the sin?)
____________________________________________
DOPpLEGANGER (2016)--[Rewrite]
he craves online hook-ups.
But this isn't me
nor am I that intrepid
a torrent trampoline
on wireless ether engines
cyber silver surfin'
zone on / in .nets & .coms
searching fiber-optics for sight
browsing rooms of M4M / in-fantasized delights
an itch to fix
to sit transfixed
as if
subliminally attached
umbilically
digitally digitized digi-man
to a electronic felatio soundtrack
yet all the while detached
lurking duplicitly
reading pretend profiles explicitly
for *** sexified mind
dreaming up new fetishes
with misspelled texts
tandem testimonials as if written
by a Compaq-machine-head
Microsoftened lust
currents electric now as we turn into dust
with iBooks & faraway Dells on our laps
scrolling lists for Adams
status' with "anything goes"
remonstrating our vicious cycle
alive & blank with un/trust
gone viral...
this isn't me.
where is the warmth
of feelings, emotions,
malleable and infallible / love??
I am not as talented
as he
to be in two places at once,
but he
has the many faces
and genius of multiple personalities
Cybil
facets
of sabotage with Mommy Dearest grace.
Beautiful strangers his acquired
taste...
he says it was not him
(doing ****
my rage has only one trait.
two eyes (once wide asleep in the lies)
and velvet-rope-burned
wrists
my feet learn to fly
my heart un-breaks
my wings reanimate...
he has too many faces
doppleganger hatred
none to care for or embrace
When did I go blind,
and leave my many strengths?
Where do I now
again
begin??
(The rubble or the sin?)
Every night adieu
Every day anew
once again...
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC
I am my parents’ worst nightmare and a blessing in disguise. My father says I am exercise for his mind. I love verbal defense. I love creating backstories and plucking reasoning out of thin air like a magician who pulls rabbits out of his hat. Verbal defense is an art, you see. It consists of passionate testimonials, backed by evidence, and so many ******* loopholes. I have mastered this art down to a T.
I ask that you imagine me complexly. I hate that you think you know me based off of a few things you’ve seen. No two people ever view the same thing. I believe you don’t know me. You can pinpoint a couple of my likes, my dislikes, but you don’t know the songs I sing when I’m alone. They’re not all sad, you know. But sometimes they are. You don’t know why or what or how. You don’t know that my favorite things are too far away from my grasp and they’re always so ******* hard to find yet I keep looking.
Imagine me complexly and maybe you’ll see something new. I know what it’s like to look at the world through scratched lenses. I know that after a while, you get a headache from trying to overcorrect what you’re seeing. So take the ******* scratched rose tinted glasses off. **** will be blurry but at least it’ll be as raw as you can stand, take a look, see here this is my being.
People used to tell me I should be a lawyer but that would take the joy out of arguing. Me? I want to fix broken things. I’m attracted to brokenness like a moth is to the buzz of a dying fluorescent streetlight. Isn’t that funny? I find it hilarious, that I think I can fix, heal and soothe the wounds of a broken world. I must be truly crazy if I think I can patch up some of the world’s lacerations. Maybe one day, when you imagine me complexly, we can talk about it. I’ll try my damnedest to not to try and fix you, because I’d be a flaming liar if I didn’t think you weren’t broken. So imagine me complexly. I'll wait, don't worry. Take all the time you need. Imagine me complexly.
Imagine me complexly.
-z.z
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
I'm slowly getting used to the way your hands feel like an open wound.
The contents pouring out of your fingertips are more self-righteous than I dare to be, and I have apologized to your palms as many times as I've sent letters to the back of your hands.
I am not asking for your testimonials, only what comes after them.
We share secrets in the form of car crashes, and what is tragedy but another name for the way your shoulders hold up your neck.
Burial grounds are just a disguise for the ruin your heart left; I want to be as close to Truth as she'll allow me to be and that's still not close enough.
I feel like I am breathing around a broken tongue when I'm around you so I keep talking to your wallpaper because I want to be in pain so often that it becomes comfortable. Lucky for me your chest feels a lot like a hospital bed.
I drew a highway map on all the parts of you you can't see; I'm hoping that one day, you'll take yourself apart just to find me.
I am hoping that one day, you can read the backs of your hands as well as I can.
I've collected so much angst in the form of sweaty palms that I'm beginning to think that you're every other page in my diary.
I hope you don't get too mad about the ink stains I left on your rib cage, or the ones I didn't leave anywhere else.
I can't hold you for much longer, but I hope you'll still need my hands even when they're damaged.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Two souls aloft these river bends
Crossing thresholds of purity water
Jaded by the love of longing friends
Into the night of lasting moments
Hollowness benign to the very end
Not delicate but much farther
Crashing together the nature of sins
Testimonials of how there became a dent
A little pin ***** upon the mind
Splitting open a scruptuleous mold
Diverted to a higher platform in time
Jaded love can't save these souls
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
be hovering above
your body after death, a
floating purgatory
which does not desist
when they cover you with dirt, or
make quick cremains of you
you get to hear what others
say when you're gone, first scripted
testimonials, of your laudatory life
later, when the food is being crammed
in overloaded fridges, and the ties and tongues
are loosened, other words emerge:
"he was never good to his wife; you know
he pulled the plug on his father, but wouldn't
let them do the same with him"
"he didn't seem to pass peacefully, all
that labored breathing -- perhaps he was
missing his boy he hadn't seen in years"
"maybe he felt he didn't earn his way
to salvation, or even an end to suffering
of this life of flesh and bone"
and you know not if this is heaven or hell
this place you are doomed to dwell, though you
wish you could now be deaf to these words
an endless biography composed by
all your regrets and transgressions, a book
of your life you would choose to rewrite
but no one, you lament, has that privilege...
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 9:17 AM UTC
Life began well nourished after breaking the fertile ground
Patriots shouldered their rifles in crisp salutation
Soldiers joyously gathered around , Marching bands played-
musical testimonials , the sound carried throughout-
every town
The Apple Tree was Liberty
She grew strong an bore the fruit of Freedom
The citizens selfishly gorged on every bountiful harvest
Day upon day , Year after year till one day when-
the spoils of government could not be reached ...
Her bounty died on the vine , rotted then fell to the earth
In a fit of megalomania, bureaucratic fertilizer exalted her to reach the Heavens but she was so denied ..
Aloof and deaf to the clamor and pain of her citizens
In her dying day she lay felled by the keepers sworn to-
her defense , now a page in history on the wrongs of nationalistic -government , the "Star of the Grove" with all her promise and good intent came and went with a painful end ...
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 10:16 AM UTC
tried truths technically terrific titanic times tell temple teachers to taste temptation together tied tight twisted toward testimonials thought thoroughly through them
Jesse Cook
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
if you cannot tell yet;
I have poured you out scripts, testimonials, fantasies
- libaries
I question myself at every letter.
For what reason I write,
For one who can’t read.
Who was I to have you inked into my skin,
who was I to ever think it was all right for me - when I was blind.
Who was I to write
when I can no longer spell.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC