"transgressions" poems
Disconnected the more we’re connected
Our children are affected and feeling neglected
While our rights to privacy are no longer respected
An idea our ancestors never projected
The transgressions of technological progression
An obsession creating social oppression
A Millennial’s iDol, a prized possession
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
I went to the Cordon Bleu
And my name is Pierre
I work in the kitchen
I’m a French chef extraordinaire
With fine French food
My name is synonymous
But I am an addict
I attend McDonalds Anonymous
When I make a quiche
I just want to hug it
But I keep getting cravings
For a Chicken McNugget
Fast food or French food
I am conflicted
Fast food or French food
Yes I am addicted
The 12-step program
Keeps me on track
I have to fight my desire
To binge on Big Mac
I pretend I’m a food snob
My life’s full of lies
When I buy burgers
I must wear a disguise
I should come out of the closet
Admit my transgressions
Then they would accept me
For my fast food obsessions
Maybe the other chefs
Would heap me with praise
If I smothered my Big Macs
With Sauce Hollandaise
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
my whispers,
they float over the currents
braving the undulating waves in our overture...
around their necks, hung time-worn pendants
whispers...
struggling to convey my sentence
like wreaths adrift perhaps with hope
like a requiem filled perhaps with remorseful penance
but more like weakened footholds on a slippery slope...
this dream...
only spoke grandly of sprawling blackness
where nothing did gleam
only thoughts heavy but...
oddly weightless
except for...
a repertoire of transgressions...
raucous and obnoxious
mischievous taunts that pull me back
caging me,
enslaving me,
smothering me senseless
that was my consciousness
where second chances exist...
in faint sporadic eruptions
through the heavy curtains of uncertainty's mist
finally awakened by hastened breaths
heavy and laboured
as like previous temporary deaths
I could hear my heart
thumping...
beating...
fighting...
to set its beats apart
breathe deep...
allow the new day's air sink in
rise fully from sleep
wake up
and...
let today begin
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
.
Quiet! Shhh!
Can you hear it?
The animals are talking.
No, they are panicking.
Can you smell it?
The Forest is on fire.
My Forest is aflame!
I run, following nostrils singed with heat,
against the tide of the fleeing fauna.
Reaching the blaze I see....
eight of them.
My anger rises and erupts.
'STOP!' I bellow. They turn and draw swords.
My eyes narrow and a look of pure disdain unfolds.
I continue.
'I am Rook, Lord of the Forest Kingdom.
How dare you, enter my domain with no permission
and reek havoc on my Forest'.
A step is taken, toward me.
The eyes of a fighter glower, at me.
The point of a sword raises, threatening me.
I punish.
'For your transgressions and your destruction
you shall stand as stones, for eternity,
and as a warning to others'.
A scream pierces the air as a foot,
then another, compresses to rock.
The rest join the chorus, agony,
as each become statues,
twisted and contorted as
the Ancient Oaks they had destroyed.
My Oaks.
This is my Anger.
Would you care to see my Love?
© Pagan Paul (2018)
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
It's deep night, damp and sticky with the
residue of southern heat which refuses to
totally dissipate this far into the night.
The night is thick with the voices of insects
and sleepers sweating atop their sheets,
committing sins in their vivid imaginings.
Dreaming, I'm standing by the wide river
wishing I could fly with the breeze through
the trees, the soft, warm, cradling breeze
that comes up from the Mississippi River.
It stirs the boughs of cypress and oak trees
and arouses a wind chime's music somewhere
down the dimly-lit street, while scattering
a newspaper like huge leaves; a wind that smells
of magnolia and dogwood blossoms and
river mud. A full moon casts long shadows
which melt into even darker, yet benign
shadows. The night has compiled its secrets,
mysteries, transgressions; surely that is the
charm of night - it frees the mind to settle not
on what seemed important during the day,
but on the longings kept locked away, hidden
from the disclosing light, struggling to break
free and take wing with this night wind.
--
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
I sit here and I begin to ponder
Upon the past and grow with wonder
How quickly, how the tides doth turn
And green take over that once was burned
To see the change so quick, and stark
And so again, will I soon embark
Upon a path that leads me where
I do not know, though take this dare
I’ve learned so far that life is not
What I have hoped, my thoughts begot
Anticipation is what I feel
Embrace the future with honest zeal
There is so much that I must learn
To know this I have hoped to earn
So much, I know, I do not know
Tis arrogance, ego that is my foe
Open my mind, I ask from Thee
So that I may learn to be finally free
Of past transgressions and hurt and pain
I hope and pray, shall I never again
To feel lost in spirit with none to hold
In reverence, in awe, in all truth be told
Much more I see, this life for me
Let go of the chains I may be free
To see with eyes not dark with cloud
And ears to hear the cries aloud
I turn my head and I look behind
One glimpse, just one, and I know I’ll find
That I have let go to what is past
And find the future, my heart at last
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 12:15 PM UTC
What the **** am I doing with my life
There is no gain
Would you like a large fry with that pain
Thanks, come again
She seems miserable and glowing
Contoured on smile
Forcing her to be happy
Counter tops seem befitting tonight
God, I lost my light
Life seems to strip you naked
Bare and thin, it's always in
Lust will **** you dry
Leaving you asking why
She sweats smudged transgressions
He pushes deeper in
His ****** tension draws her sin
She never was meant to win
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC
You are who you are
I am who I am
We are same same but different indeed
I'm sorry if I tried to change you
I realized change will only become scars
I will accept you for who you really are
We come from different places
We have different values
We all think differently
We are not the same
It took me so long
To see these differences
I want to accept you
I tried to love you
But it was never easy
What differences we have
But I know I have to
Only then will I see the uniqueness within
Sorry for the transgressions
I never meant to be
Everyone is special
I know you are too
All that I ask for
Is for you to be true
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
I absorbed,
Blotted misery,
Lapped with eyes,
Soaked-up transgressions,
Mopped-up history,
Was steeped in trials,
Ingested triumphs,
And truly assimilated.
But the ground is saturated,
My prints fill
With the brine
Squeezed out.
I am the salt on the earth,
Parched and cracked.
You preferred candyfloss;
I dripped the last drop.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 8:20 AM UTC
A retroactive reconstruction of
whats forgotten forms what’s real.
We rob and steal
past transgressions,
but what happens
when the mechanisms making memories
twist elegantly toward
the ego?
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 4:19 PM UTC
Ghosts of all my lovely sins,
Who attend too well my pillow,
Gay the wanton rain begins;
Hide the limp and tearful willow.
Turn aside your eyes and ears,
Trail away your robes of sorrow,
You shall have my further years-
You shall walk with me tomorrow.
I am sister to the rain;
Fey and sudden and unholy,
Petulant at the windowpane,
Quickly lost, remembered slowly.
I have lived with shades, a shade;
I am hung with graveyard flowers.
Let me be tonight arrayed
In the silver of the showers.
Every fragile thing shall rust;
When another April passes
I may be a furry dust,
Sifting through the brittle grasses.
All sweet sins shall be forgot;
Who will live to tell their siring?
Hear me now, nor let me rot
Wistful still, and still aspiring.
Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;
I am frail, be you forgiving.
See you not that I have need
To be living with the living?
Sail, tonight, the Styx's breast;
Glide among the dim processions
Of the exquisite unblest,
Spirits of my shared transgressions,
Roam with young Persephone.
Plucking poppies for your slumber . . .
With the morrow, there shall be
One more wraith among your number.
3.7k
When he sees a shine inside of her
Even while the Sun's descending rays are beaming in his eyes
Or the beautiful glow she has at the darkest hour of the night
He begins to hear love calling his name
The way she makes him feel like he's being nurtured all over again
Isn't a coincidence
She's not attempting to change him, only mold him into a better man
She makes him feel limitless
When the tips of her fingers smoothly caresses the hair on his head and whispers into his ear
She kisses his temple, her lips makes him tremble
And her soft voice is all he hears
He closes his eyes and Thank God
For sending him such a golden soul
Through all of his iniquities and transgressions he don't deserve
Her sweet sufficient love
But his graciousness for her is in evident form
He will walk with her during the pouring rain
Shed blood to share her pain
Captivated by her mysterious allure
He opens himself to love
Inviting her by her hands to join him
In Unison
Still blesses her with enough expansion to stride her confidence in pride
She makes the candle inside of him ignite
The romance inside cry
Out
She's his rib
That God silently plucked from his side in the still of the night as he slumbered
She's the dire lightning to his thunder
From her kind love he knows he's invincible
SHE is the principal
Of why he suits up his tie and perform longs days of labor and sweat
Because he knows that
He's her Eagle, soaring in the sky
He protects her with all of his life
She brings comfort to his soul
Strength to his bones
With one knee planted on the dust
He will hand her The World
No bedazzles are needed
He has his pearl
He refrains from anger
Controls his temptations
Exalt his rapture
Inside of his dominant, sensuous life
She is captured
In his confusion
His pain
frustration
passion and
emotional being
Words, Money, Jewelry, or Love can't explain the joy that she brings
He is a Man In Love
and a man in love, is no simple thing
Copy Right 2013
©Patty Ann
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
please excuse my miscommunication
I didn't need it growing up
all I needed was the consistent dedication
to escape from where I was
please look past my fragile heart
it grew in place of the stone
I don't care about my emotionless art
by to lose the few hits solid bone
reprieve the foundation I can never find
stability was never my forté
I seek instead for a solid state of mind
or at least that's what I claim
forgive me for my transgressions
they were not meant in vain
I don't live up well to expectations
I only thinly mask their blame
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 12:46 PM UTC
I've abandoned a withered state, fumbling
Toward your ecstasy - opening windows to
A brave new world: What a scene to behold!
My heart has calmed consuming life’s tonic -
I'm filled with attraction, alike an alchemist
disposition to discover their personal legend
How far, do thoughts travel? Become aware,
we’ve covered only but a few hours of sleep
The vicissitudes of motion - by faith we move
At luminal speed, ’til visions dawn and we’re
Before a sky clearing moon
Shall we recline in that loft above?
While it be suspended in the fetal position?
Or tarry until morn’ when reflections are reborn
From spurts of spontaneity, to cycles of growth
Apprehending blessings so as to appreciate the
distance of our obstacles
For camaraderie's had since severed –
And authenticity perfidiously pilfered –
And liars became prosecutors of liars
Pregnant with delusions of grandeur
Freedom is the temporal prison for
Revolutionaries wails of conditions
Psalms of sentimentalism provoke
An emotional tug of war, conscripting
another soldier of love – wearing a fig
Leaf of inhibition and foul remains of
passed transgressions...
Where to turn to when you’re cold?
Intransigent echoes give no warmth
I’ve fallen into the (d)earth of sanity
Erstwhile
Fumbling
Toward
Ecstasy
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
Submission upwards towards the void of eternal blessings in disguise
The angel behind the leather mask
Just wants us to feel out the sacred nature of our transgressions
Just vibrations stuttering along to a heartbeat
Liberation lashes
Tearing a hole in the sky
Teasing out the idea of turning you on
You were already lit up
Reflecting the Sun
Igniting fire to my *****
Illumination everything
switch
You came in the dark and left marks
Bruising my ego to dismantle itself
Dreams manifested
You held me down like sleep paralysis
Demanding my soul to sacrifice itself to the Moon
Watching with pleasure
You were the shadows in my room
Dancing the divine candlelight
A cuckold of my imagination
as I took it lying down
This is worship
This is tribute
3 cheers
3 chants
3 times
Go down
Descend on me
Goddess archetype
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
well then shepherd in the mess why does that sharpened cowl of wheat surround those sweet yams in the satchel, some scene of loosening transgressions, no pear ripening itself one dull, and one unfulfilling afternoon, rolls down over its branch of sister and brother father and mother Bartletts from the stem, only to make its way into the bottom of that stretched out tawny hide. Where by the wayside every other nobody can see straight inside when a hand moves in, sweeps its fist and then goes deeply down into that can of rotten novelties we all hate, but you feel keeps us in suspense. I wonder will it ever end? Bells busting from the insides of their guts, another candy shock, up and bounces, popcorn kernels, roasted almond slivers, and some preceding green vegetable posted on the 8th St. Diner marquee display on 9th, another advertisement fighting at the sore, devoured hunger for that silhouette following closely behind the moistened wells where my brush dabs lightly into the cup before the gouache and paint mixture begin to dry, that is where I wait and wonder why? Why? Pained with hunger but besmirched with fright, skin sweaty, knotted like muslin yards growing weak against the coil. So humbling were the groans that nearly a decade crossed swiftly across his face, only five or ten minutes had passed before another twenty years flowed into the vast matrix of the rivers of blue sweat marked by estuaries, creeks, and streams across the brow, down the cheeks, and ultimately across the neck, lazing down into the chest, before settling its heavy panic soaking in the guts. Where a heavy glass brick has been vitrifying in the sun, never have two people seen the steamy and piping-hot quarry go from its conviviality and festivity of life, into this shriveled up tree having found its way into the prairie where giant winds bend its branches and enormous thunderstorms nearly strangle it with its own roots. Frisked by sin and pangs of nostalgia in which a thousand thoughts intersplice the whorls imprinted upon our brains.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
The essence of the pure spirit
The path to the Holy of Holies
Inbuted with the Holy Spirit
My Soul roams in a world of darkness
Dear God allow your light to shine thru me
Let your prophecy land upon my shoulders
Allow your parables flow thru my mouth
Heal my soul from my worldly afflictions
Do not delay Lord for I am weak
Silence consumes me
When I was naked, you clothed me
When I was hungry, you feed me
When I was lonely, you accompanied me
Lord, your hands created me in my mother's womb
I thank you for my 26 years of living
You are the living God I praise thee
For your Kingdom be sustained forever
You are King of Kings Lord of Lords
May your Holy Grace fall upon us
Please forgive us for our evil transgressions
Deliver us from Evil I pray Lord...Amen!
©Franko the Christian Poet
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 2:19 AM UTC
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect
no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap
me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants
which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then
morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing
over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall
with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:
forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles
blessed and cursed I thought!
too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it
and never let go
6/23/18
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social ***** now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __________ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled…
Out ****** spot! Out, I say!
I must regress to becoming the white blanket.
I must know nothing but God.
A simple cloth.
A towelette.
Rags!
Rags!
Rags!
…
….
…God?
…Hello?
…Is it too late to become
…plain?
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
.
**•point
our fing-
ers to the
nearest a-
vailable s-
uckers• to
take respo-
nsibility a-
nd be acco-
untable....no
one really bothers•we
do it so well unlike any other•al-
most a skill that never gets duller•shit hits
the fan, we all look for someone to blame•it's a
hapless situation when we partake in such a ga-
me•it's become a norm that simply never ends •
it's a nasty situation that makes enemies out of f-
riends•i look at myself and realise that i am no
different•for i too, have my finger pointed si-
lent•i too, have erred...warranting reproach
•milling over transgressions my words
dare not broach•sigh...why is it so
that such a habit we can never
sever•think no further...let's
just blame it on......................**
human nature•
.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
Her presence is superfluous and your demeanor is vindictive, and you can’t hold her close enough to pass the hours with any more trivialities. Your allusions to Eos mean nothing to her comfortably deaf ears. Her smile drips with poisonous innocence and she’s reaching for you, and oh no, you’re doubled over again, and she’s rubbing your back, and you’re clutching at your insides and you just want to hurl them at the wall and redefine expressionism. Transgressions displayed in a mason jar atop the fireplace mantel, like the ashes of some dead relative who stopped mattering when the estate paid out and your dad blew it all at the casino again. With a knock and a bump, the skeletons come tumbling out of your closet; their bones crumble into dust on your carpet. You've lost track of how often this happens but you think the carpet looks better grey anyway, and she’s still looking up at you. Those eyes so much like a child, riddled with naivety and wonderment, like you’re the perfect picture of Eden. It’s 5am and you can’t see the room through the smoke, and she can’t hear the cries for help over her utopian illusion of This Is All We Need. You were never one for cathexis and you hope she can’t see the blood on the walls, or the blood(lust) on your hands. She has the uncanny ability to not know, despite your nuances. She’ll never read into your mind the way she reads the words you carve into the trees and the sand and the snow. Every articulation of Truth is just refracted through her pretty little head and sent spinning into the abyss. The sun is rising and you wish she’d leave, but your shift in weight and your sideways glance is subjective to her and she promises to stay. So instead you make bets with yourself over whether your body falling from a 30 story building, or the rising sun, will reach the horizon line first.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
Asle,
Amazes me
Asle,
Phases me
Asle,
Gets me high
Asle,
Gets me ******
Asle,
A shack of amour'
Asle,
Gives me a home
Alsle,
Tucks me in bed in mine mind
Asle,
A lacy string of hourglass time
Asle,
One I can't release
Asle,
Every mans belief
Asle,
A contact to god
Asle,
A wandering pod
Asle,
A loot for the steal
Asle,
A dream to me, maby one day real
Asle,
Letters shall I write
Asle,
A suddening polite
Asle,
A capsule of ******* numbing
Asle,
For the birds alls humming
Asle,
A party to oneself
Asle,
Alone on stilts
Asle,
Canst thou not be afraid?
Asle,
I'm not others oh sugar cane
Asle,
Wrestled with thy demons
Asle,
Cut, broke, and bleeding?
Asle,
Down thy aisle I want to walk
Asle,
Let me post thou a forgetnot!
Asle,
Let me be martyr'd for thine transgressions
Asle,
I see thy train rolling in, shalt I come to thy station?
Asle,
Ive got a strong premonition
Asle,
Shalt I enter thy kitchen?
Asle,
Is thy bed warm or cold?
Asle,
Move over mine love and feel ourn kindling coals!!
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
You ask me to enter to the tilt of your head towards the computer screen
and see, in two words my definition -
bipolar disorder.
You do not look at me, just talk at me
medication? last relapse? severity of episodes?
You count failings, the moments in which I have lost my mind
and you reproach me for them.
You, as you two-finger-type a cold clinical echo of me,
I, on command, recite the past transgressions of my sanity
and you have me – three inches tall on my knees,
in a disease that thrice almost cost me my life
and in your Jobsworth view you tell me I will get ill,
as if this weren't a fact I fight and fear daily.
You with your tunic, blue, cold as your indifference,
announce this, as if calling time -
self-important, unfeeling, with one eye on your watch.
And I smile at you apologetically,
honestly offering up my faith, prayer, medication compliance,
self awareness, begrudged reliance on those I love to wave the red flag
if the waters I get into are too deep.
You are curt with your nod - as if all this is folly between now and the inevitable.
My recovery, my striding, my passion and profession -
All folly.
You are doing the last offices on quick time
because your time is precious and short
and not to be wasted on crazy dreamers with barely a shot in hell
But even with every mental regression, psychotic expression
manic obsession and abyss of depression -
still, still, the world needs more of mes and much less of yous.
So make your disclaimer and write your reports
I'll chant, share the truth in the streets and courts
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
a yellow fabric just
as vibrant and brilliant as the
golden tulips that grow in
the banks of the fields
in which innocence and
laughter roams.
A young woman cloaked in
such material searched for that
of her hearts content,
a romance that would file suit
in the realm of the books she
would read.
She was hopeful, and the
springtime was her catalyst.
The earth was replenishing,
coming back to life, the
tulips springing to life
and the days were longer,
the sun brighter and the clouds
less dreary and forlorn.
He skin was soft, untouched by that of
another, but she wanted to change that.
Her sheltered mind ached for the
touch of a lover, a prince of sorts,
and she'd wait for him,
no matter the length of time,
no matter the cost,
no matter the physical
or emotional
transgressions.
She'd wait alongside the tulips,
alongside the budding of spring,
the scorching of summer,
the closing of fall, and the
harboring of winter.
She'd wait in her gown of yellow,
just as vibrant as the
tulips around her.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 11:42 AM UTC
Open mouth,
Exhale smoke rings of equations and formulas revealing answers only discovered with the liberation death brings
Disperse your arsenal of gray matter upon me
While I absorb your reality T.V. and high school science projects
Accepting an empty proposal
Negotiation always on your terms
You spit game with out passion
Inhale sentences of herbal essences--
Burning like open flame on my voice, stealing my breath
Never stumbling over mistakes or transgressions
Dominating any and all fields of study with which you choose to fill your brainpan
I submit unwillingly in this prison,
in this prison for eternity.
How enveloping
This overload of pumping adrenal glands, excreting testosterone and overzealously prejudiced masculinity
Lack of understanding for femininity and sensible comfortability
Close your eyes
Heavy lies the head that wears the crown
So content atop a pillow bursting at the seams with $20's
1, 2, 3.
Knife. Fork. Spoon.
Drifting
Hundred dollar bills bouncing over the moon holding the cow's hand as you count your materialistic disguised happiness.
I can't read your poker face
I can't keep up
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC