"transfused" poems
Masters of the Universe,
three and some,
nearly four
months tween
me and you
that words
interchanged,
prayers,
asking for the answering job
which was handily God-to-Man
transferred, transfused
tween you and
me
a/k/a
Job...appropriately
you may recall
I was the bloke
who immodestly spoke,
asking any and all
circulating deities,
to tender
their resignations
post-haste,
immediately
for failure to do
the appointed rounds
well enough to this
human's satisfaction
now don't go high hopes expecting
a large confession
about how hard,
ya see it really is
tending the flock be...
nope
I ain't here to beg of you,
take this onerous
from my shoulders!
no, no, capitulation,
my track record
maybe not much better
than what went before,
but you know what I'm about to say,
cause you are perfect
well I still don't like
what satisfies your perfection definition
for my fellow humans,
so I'm keeping this job/Job,
for another few months,
cause I am.
Human
enough to know
that humans keep on trying
and you just gave up
and said let them do what they want
between human to human,
as long as they pay us obeisance
I put sins of
man to fellow man
as my número uno priority
and if the number of prayers diverted
back to you,
in your inbox receiving,
are just the
dues paying kind,
keep'em,
I got more important things to do...
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
“Don’t consider my words the sick
ecstasy of a sick mind, but you are
for me perfection!”
- Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot
I remember
I can taste blood
on the roof of my mouth
I remember her face the first time
I asked her to coffee
when it rippled in a minor
hemorrhage of surprise
like the request was unexpected
but maybe
I hoped
hoped for
holding fiery cider in her hand
she was word and color transfused
when she spoke
she was celluloid and strawberry blond
and her smile looked like water
racing over rubies and the years
that I had waited
to meet someone like her
her hair was tied back
in a hurricane of dim gold
her voice spun out veins of thought
fluid and manic as magma
but brilliant like serrated ice
I remember
the cardial whiplash
when she said she would like to do this again
the sanguine dreams that came
after giddy toss and turning
turned to sleep
the saccharine thought
that I might be with her
suddenly washing away
leaving only the clean sting
from the bluelit photograph
of her having coffee somewhere else
my sheets grew thicker
as I stared
I did not blink
I just drank in cold acceptance
of the stranger staring back beside her
as the palpitating hope stopped
and the sunk aorta darkened
there were no feelings
save the ones that
I remember
I can still taste blood
on the roof of my mouth
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 10:22 PM UTC
Those who see my tattoos think they're abuse
But their views are skewed
My tattoos are my selection of bruises
Chosen by me for me
I am amused that my skin art is met with disdain
After all you didn't undergo the pain
You peruse my tattoos, but don't see the wearer of the ink
Would it surprise you ( if you bothered to ask)
That I hold a degree, am multilingual, and hold a responsible job
No, because you'll never ask
You'll avoid me
Your loss, my tattoos are suffused with a story
A story 40 years in the making.
All of us that are marked with ink are transfused and transformed
We are unique, we are inked.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
~
when joy seems lost, when peace is gone;
to earth falls flat pleas skyward cast;
when those thought once to be a friend,
have all gone on, seems none are left;
when ears that heard, yet now are deaf,
when dreams lay torn, and hope bereft.
do not despair, nor call for end,
beyond these mists i am your friend;
your voice, a cry on wing and clear,
not all have left, know i am near;
i am hope disguised as gentle hands,
that reach to sooth the soul in angst.
i am love cloaked as eyes that seek,
the wounded heart that silent weeps;
i am your brother, i your kin,
though not by blood, nor race, nor skin,
yet beats within this breast as yours,
a heart breathed life at heaven's door.
your breath, my own, my will i share,
till yours can breathe, your burdens bear;
my oath, my pledge, your comfort be,
my blood transfused, beats still in thee;
i lend my hope to be your warmth,
i offer arms to hold you close.
you need not face another day,
a lifeless soul who walks away,
a faceless one who’s lost their voice,
but ’til your own has been restored,
to you the lyrics, lines belong,
'til you remember, i’ll sing your song.
~
*post script.
approximately 96 hopeless souls reach the end each day, and pull the trigger on whatever their choice of escape they had planned it to be (that’s one every fifteen minutes). the number is even larger if we include those who attempt and fail. if there are only six degrees of separation, imagine how many in your circle this means are contemplating, and are in and out of some level of consideration of making this day their last. remember, a song is amazingly powerful. it does not take a fireman to talk someone down off a ledge or a policeman to coax someone into laying down the gun, it only takes someone who is willing to listen, long before the gun and the ledge; someone willing to smile and be hope and notes for a soul who has lost their song... to remind them of the song they have forgotten; their song... hope’s song!*
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC
Lost myself in your eyes, your smile, your soul
Your beauty was contagious, your love was filling
A force I couldn’t explain when I met you
Your touch left me wanting more
Fate played its role in making me yours
Since I've always craved you from a far
You felt lucky, I felt at peace
You became my muse, you became my king
You are my muse, I was absorbed in your love
Transfused your smile into my life
Exerted with great force, you were something from above
I've got to know why you've been kept from me all along
Fell in love with you like the night sky
Favored whatever got me closer to you,
Filled my late nights with your laugh
I couldn't sleep without you
Oh my muse, how much I love you
- Henessy J. Beltre
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 9:21 PM UTC
Diva Trees
Aloneness gives a tree
An opportunity
To stand out
From the scene
She enters nature's stage
Like a many-armed diva
Receiving flowers
Awards
And much applause
She is painted and pictured
By people
As her rings grow
Ever so slowly
Basking in her own glow
Of specialness
With no pretenders in sight
To steal her light
Her water transfused
From veins
Down below
Only for her, they flow
She says:
“I am here
And I will not be ignored
So feast your eyes
“Then feast some more”
Sean Hunt Windermere Feb 21 2016
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
the Webster's, the Merriam's,
residents of the Oxford
say not,
an exclamation or a noun,
but an action,
a doing word,
not so much...
as a poet~sorcerer
digressing rules,
is my input
appetizer,
poems, my exported
entrées
all posted to be
dessert
for all the sweet tooth
parts of you
all to
feast on this
process,
when I
hallelujah you...
"Praise the Lord"
the translation literal
but sojourn herewith me
for a few extants,
together, let's
invigorate, expand the
understanding of an ever expansive
definition...
if I ever fall out of love,
with natural words,
can no longer
hallelujah/scribe
to memorialize
why we claim,
we are alive....
hallelujah's
praises
for you all the
master designers'
praiseworthy creations,
an extension of themselves,
they said
in each human
godlike spark
hallelujah installed
there is nothing more
godlike
than being
human,
so when I
hallelujah
I praise each and everyone
it is a mixologist's dream,
some of it a
thank you,
some of it a
your welcome,
all of it a
celebratory exercise,
in appreciation,
of the finery of what we can
be
come
greater
through
the words
of our blood
transfused
Oh!
act out Hallelujah,
write it as if you must
urgent do
Hallelujah,
do it
not just now but,
Selah!
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
Living in a world of confusion
confusing words of transfusion
transfused, with a simple conclusion
conclusive to living a delusion
it's a story of a new creation
created out of a liars frustration
frustrated without a new translation
translating to a new declaration
It must be just like an addiction
addicted to a life of fiction
fictional words, then a new depiction
depicting your contradiction
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
I do not remember my father as a demonstrative man,
but, hobbled though he was by a pre-war psyche,
we never doubted the depth of his affection for us.
His love of nature shaped our own perceptions of life
and his love of sport showed us the path of true competition,
that the essence is not to better others but to better oneself.
He transfused the ocean into us so thoroughly
that we will go to our graves with salt on our lips.
At all the painful pinnacles of growing
my father was there like a crampon you know will not fail you.
A towering lighthouse in his hat and dark suit
as he led me through the convent gate on my first day
and gently cut me adrift in the cruel seas of education
where the nuns patrolled the playground like killer whales
in search of seals.
He went ahead to each new town to make things ready for us
when I started boarding school he let me go in confidence
he bailed me out of scrapes with the law,
he was as certain as the mountain of his beloved Taranaki
and as solid as the beams of a whare runanga.
When I returned from overseas
my father and I found a space in our lives
where we could really get to know each other.
Through a winter that sparkled
he led me on odysseys into his soul
through the walkways, forests, rivers and coastline
of the city of his birth
which will, one day, witness his death.
If I were allowed only one memory of my father
it would be this: seaweed expeditions.
The northeast winds blew a bounty for his garden
onto the reefs around Belt Road
and at low tide we descended with our gumboots and sacks
to gather the fleshy harvest with its nitrogen-rich pods.
He had a system.
We heaped the seaweed on a number of high, dry rocks
then bagged from first to Iast to allow time for the seawater
to drain and the burden to be lessened.
I watched him as he moved around and about as deliberately
as a crab,
gathering the morsels,
bending to scoop the necklaces from the sea,
the sun's purple fire in the white, white, white of his hair.
He had seaweed in plenty at home,
it was the experience he craved.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
Scribble, scribble, let the pen
Strike infinite scripts
Of ancient runes in syncopatic grooves
Spilling my roots
In open blends of hues
Transfused and
Transfixed in haze
The truest fade
It bade me to tip - toe
Amongst hybrid visions
Indigenous to the deepest blues
The realest thing to me and you
Is the mind and spirit...
The mind and spirit...
The reciprocal.
The body.
Peripheral.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
Transfused with a doted blood
Stainless pattern of the love
Color in red and spiral devotion
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Transfused with angelic poison
Faintless on the road to the crucifix
Color in blue the trial attributions
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Transfused with textual infusion
Sainted in hedonistic space fields
Color in kaleidescope spins
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Transfused with a dared death
Bright visions of another world
Color of purple enlighten
Beat the beast and fold the thrill
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 4:45 AM UTC
Seven generations Roman,
and one hundred percent male.
That voice, like thunder and wind over Lazio,
and a smile that could melt your kneecaps.
Surging with life, laughing, singing,
telling stories from his naughty boyhood,
here on the cobbled streets that he loved so well.
Fiercely loyal, a truer friend could never be found.
When he sang 'Vivrò!' smacking his old guitar just once,
and then roaring into song,
he did live forever, right there and then.
We live on, caro Bambù, transfused
by your vibrant, unforgettable memory.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
I write this letter to my ******
chaste poisonous version
wondering
if kissing is
confused
with love
I drop to my knees revising
poetically describing
somewhere
above me
transfused
in lust
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 3:11 AM UTC
tied up like
the perfect man.
but let my neck drape
low like
an unpicked Lady.
bathe me in attention
but dont ask if ive earned it.
'its chilly out here'
she told me through
smoke
from her breath.
well god bless the
turpentine i transfused
for my blood
thats keeping me
upright.
i only live in the now
and by the time you
get there
ill be gone.
chasing a pipedream
or a dragon that might
give me a different
perspective
on things.
'its chilly out here'
she told me through
smoke
from her breath.
all you want is warmth
but i breathe
snow and
hail
into your atmosphere
not because i want to,
it just cant stay
here
anymore.
i dreamt a pair
of wings into my
life to find if i was
ready to see
the tops of buildings
without wanting to
jump
off them but i
gave up.
only i know whats
good
for me i think
thats the
problem.
'its chilly out here'
she told me through
smoke
from her breath.
she wiped the
frost
from my hair
and i felt
juvenile
the comfort of nothing
all over.
the
high
ive been chasing
from the edge
of a
hand.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
*
*So it was to happen
Nor you knew or me
Nor anyone in this world knew
How it happened?
When it happened?
Why it happened?
For what it happened?
Where it happened?
How does it matter now...?
YOU became I
I became YOU
Thus we transfused
Into "ONE-LOVE"
Only you know
And only I know
Who is who - within us?
No one else knows
About this LOVE miracle
May be.., it was...
The way we met
The moment we faced each other
And looked into each other's eyes
We found our seeking in our souls
As if fate presented a mirror
Of our reflection into each other
As much as YOU are surprised, so am I
Can anyone differentiate us now?
Who is who within us?
No one else knows
About this LOVE miracle
Two physicality
Two psyches
Two beings
Two hearts
But as if we are breathing
The same LOVE
As if we have the
Same spirit and
ONE-SOUL
This must be a miracle of nature
Destiny gulled us into ONENESS
How can even the world understand?
The way we become ONE-LOVE
Who is who within US?
No one else knows
About this LOVE miracle
YOU became I
I became YOU
Thus we transfused
Into ONE-LOVE
ABRACADABRA*
*
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 11:44 PM UTC
Mother me in this maze
Blood transfused in your gaze
The flood is high in confined quarters
your eyes shimmer like coins on dying days
The passage through unknown waters
The light reflects white through our barters
My hand extends to a friend, briefly
we make amends with the alignment of lines on our hands
Bull and battered man combined brute force with a weak mind
but even your unkindness inspired warmth in my eyes
Tears tear holes in maroon silk
Blood red rubies fall from the slits in our faces
The salty seas add insult to injury
transport power from poor workers to hungry eyes
We are mere travelers blessed with wooden cognizant hearts
Secretly teasing the embers of life to ignite our hearths
There is more to see than raging seas of empty flesh
Crimes of passion and tears of possession are weaved and liquidated
Run after the river of your ancestor's pursuits
Bright and beautiful lights bouncing off the mirrors
Enticing secular exchange in specular reflection
The same mistakes are made for eternity since antiquity
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
(lost 13% of my baby)
the littlest one turned three in May,
haven’t seen her in the flesh since March,
parents inform, all gone,
they’ll be disappearing
to another state,
all of July, gonzo.
I say
go forth safely, that’s great.
redefining social distancing.
measured not in feet,
or even by Sara B.’s
borrowed ‘many the miles,’
but in longer specificities:
maturities,
weeks and months,
parts of years,
parts of lives,
March, April,
May, June,
now July.
five months.
counted them on one hand,
many times,
at 3:00am
cause I could not believe
the summing of my subtraction
somehow disappeared,
from our calendars
these monthly ** markings,
months wiped clean permanently.
did a quick calculation.
we’ve lost 13% of her
entire life,
can’t be regained.
her first:
big girl bed,
playing first video game,
another birthday party,
candles extinguished by
a single big girl blowing,
dancing, dancing, and more,
driving her scooter in the apartment,
like only a mad woman can,
(stuffed animal riding the handlebars,)
blowing pretend Zooming belly kisses
on her button,
hiding neath the dining room table,
her laughing uproariously,
with never a “stop poppy.”
13%.
a specific amount,
a poem irretrievable,
a blood loss, that
can’t be transfused,
plasma irreplaceable,
containing antibodies
to a specific virus
Sorrow Unique-19
nah,
nothing
it got nothing
to do with that new forehead
furrow, that slow-suddenly appeared.
nah.
“just, these are the days...”^
Jun 12, 2020
Jun 12, 2020 at 1:21 PM UTC
“show me how you’re different,” she screamed
from her trembling lips underneath the starlit ceiling.
and then she whispered to me, afraid of the angels
hearing her, “show me that you’re the artist who paints
pictures with the backs of his eyelids. tell me that you have
paint transfused in your blood and every time you
cut your veins, you’re really at work and you’re showing the world something
beautiful.” i promised you that the walls of my heart were
lined with red laced bones and they resembled the birth of
balloons when air is pumped into them. my promises
are about the only thing i can guarantee that won’t shatter like
your heart. “tell me that tonight will never end and tomorrow we’ll
wake up as if the sun never rose again. promise me that
you’ll remember this exact moment,” i heard her say as i slipped
into my own world.
i remember the way you bit your lips after they glistened from
the five stars you grabbed from the sky. i still smell that mix of
perfume and lust as if my own father told me about this
during my bedtime stories as a child. my arms are still imprinted
from where you placed your own as if i was allergic to your
skin and i couldn’t care less for what i was doing. i painted my
walls with the color of your eyes and memorized your breathing
pattern so that one day, maybe i can find an easiness in
the art of breathing. “goodnight,” she whispered through my ears.
goodnight, angel of the night; your wings have grown but please,
don’t fly away.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
The way to hell
Is open and wide
But there is no tell
What awaits inside
The blood-red fire
Is a blazing burn
But let me tell you, sire
You have no turn
The intensity of the heat
Will leave you ****** and bruised
So sit down in your seat
For thou, you will be transfused
The way to hell
Is open and wide
There is nothing that can outsell
Your own dried eyes
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:54 PM UTC
I still ponder that day in nineteen eighty one
was that my time to die?
Yes so vivid in my mind how good it felt
laying in that hospital bed!
Feeling at peace without pain or remorse
as nature took its course!
After an operation about one week before
there left to bleed inside!
Then you never saw the consultant again
but for a female junior doctor.
Who observed I was getting very weak
worried the reason she would seek!
Back to the theatres urgently dispatched
where indeed inside I bled!
Just in time the flow was safely stopped
and four units of blood transfused!
Since that date nothing has gone right
was that the day to see the light?
Maybe it was meant for me to be here
with a purpose still to be made clear!
The Foureyed Poet.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 8:40 AM UTC
Below the arms of rambunctious pink vigour
dappled in leaf like shapes
an expeditionary line of soldiers
counters a returning line of sated mandibles
a olive stone hovers in line
'spem in alium' a warbler throats
amongst the cherry’s fruits
tickled with the morning’s warmth
another builds the morning chorus
a caressing swift kiss the tree tops
butterflies wandering their brief path
ruffling on warm air through poppy in memorium
a bee dips in a jubilant flower
above a pointy hill
clad in medieval remains
a source guarded by pillared stones
the clock tower strikes its hourly pulse
encouraged by a marquis ghost
artisans prepare the blank canvas
intoxicated by its fibres
arts fourth dimension is transfused
the clink of glass
a gurgle of rosé
a shuffle of one nethermost
scissor crossing of delicate bangled ankles
a delving hand into a pannier
a cracking of a baguette skin
goats cheese melts on the tongue
matched by spicy sausage
a tractor awakens
engulfed by swarms of gleaming cycles
swathed in coutered body suits
hidden behind go faster sunglasses
quilted vine groves sprout
give birth to a Provencal lawn
seasoned kegs breath their first gasps
quintessential blue fills our eyes
calm are the days
quick is the inspiration
cool are the colours
cherish the vitality
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 2:19 PM UTC
Poetry comes from the
heart ink less inspiration,
intravenous deluges, dammed up
in the veins waiting to be transfused.
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 9:40 AM UTC
Angels come in a variety of ways
When life is cold and stark
And you can't seem figure out where to turn
The ones you thought loved you burn you instead of lift you up
And you end up feeling misunderstood and hurt,
With no where to turn
But God doesn't give up so easily, you see
He won't allow you to believe your misery for too long
For God will flood your life with angels in disguise
Who fill up your darkness with blinding light
From such love you won't be able to escape
For you cannot run away from God's grace
It comes down like a tidal wave
This overwhelming love I can't explain
It gives me an over-abundant bounty to be grateful for,
How could I be so blessed?
And how could I ever deny God and the realness of his love?
I just thank the people,
These angels on earth,
Who surrender their hearts to God
So that they can become vessels of his unconditional love,
Touching and transforming each person they come in contact with,
As the love of God that is coursing through their veins,
Gets transfused into the person who needs it so desperately.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 3:32 AM UTC
The Jury.
<> <>
Vacant eyes looked down
in an unforgiving stare,
Innocence denied its freedom.
What now brave man? One must
but see their pain, trophies from
your violent past, art has no comparison.
Rusting fusils a symbiotic insult to the game
of waste. May the howling winds remind you
nor thoughts alone be left devoid of preditors.
Tell tale signs of hot and cold on the roof tops
told, icicles transfused their droplets from a
weakened sun,
But soon, these veins of life solidified, and as the
heart, a resting place it found, the longest hibernation
had begun.
With weighted eyes, eternity became the face of in-expression.
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
.
The Indelible Army.
Within the moated margins on this island
parchment, where scribes from the past
propagated an ancient art, in ink, the blood
of all creativity, they transfused their genius.
While maintaing an unstoppable march
ad infinitum, attempts to alter, erase and
erode the truths of their painful history
has failed, due to the fossils of fact.
Those rank and file columns of
paleographic characters the freedom
of expression which will in time, hold
those who aggressed them, accountable.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 2:58 AM UTC