"travail" poems
There came a time in the history of Nigeria when she dreamed for independence,
There came a moment in the history of Nigeria when she groaned to gain freedom from the British;
There came a season in the history of Nigeria when she desired to obtain independence from her rulers.
The moment when she groaned for independence,
The season when she was ready to groam freedom;
The moment when she desired to be independent as a country.
The moment when she seeked her elites to stand up and fight for independence,
The season when she awaited the voice and appearance of her freedom fighters;
The moment whe she believed that independence was ready to answer the call of nature in her country.
The moment when she believed to find freedom and independence which as that missing part of her that made her a complete country,
The season when she trusted and believed in the treasure called independence;
The moment when she hoped and desired to be called an independent and sovereign nation in the history of the world.
The moment when she was expectantant of the mother called independence,
The season when nothing meant anything to her except for the father called freedom;
The moment when she still believe to be an independent country despite foreign exploitations,
with the understanding that she could still stand up on her feet as an independent country.
She believed that someone who understands her tears and passion for freedom and independence,
will arise and fight for her freedom knowing that he will never bear to see her travail in birth for independence.
The elites she knew not but believed was out some where fortiing and preparing themselves for independence and fight for freedom.
Independence she waited for like an expectand mother of a child,
Each step she took was believed to bring her closer to freedom and independence.
She believed in freedom and independence for her country and it's occupants, and not
colonisation and exploitation from the British colony.
She believed in fighting for freedom and independence than dying a coward,
She believed in her elites efforts to obtain her independence and sovereignty.
She expected her elites to stand up and rage for independence to freedom and sovereignty,
which they did when the opportunity and strategy came for them to uphold.
She believed that destiny will bring her independence and freedom,
when the hour of liberation from exploitation comes.
She believed that her pains and heart beat was felt and understood by her elites.
The name independence she was passionate about and the fame freedom she was desperate about.
The memories of colonisation she groaned to erase and the histories of exploitation she desired to filtrate.
The name independence she struggled to uphold and the gain freedom she strived to unfold.
Before her moment of independence,
she strived to make full proof of her countrie's ambitions,
she sort self asset and not self liability.
She seeked and desired independence and freedom from exploitaion which she got.
Her dignity and hour as a country was restored on that fateful day of October 1, 1960 whe she gained and famed her independence and freedom.
She believed in independence and freedom which she got.
The death of her elites and freedom fighters was never in vain.
This is Nigeria At 53 and she is still a sovereign and independent country.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 4:28 AM UTC
Who believes what we’ve heard and seen?
Who would have thought God’s saving power would look like this?
The servant grew up before God—a scrawny seedling,
a scrubby plant in a parched field.
There was nothing attractive about him,
nothing to cause us to take a second look.
He was looked down on and passed over,
a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand.
One look at him and people turned away.
We looked down on him, thought he was ****
But the fact is, it was our pains he carried—
our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us.
We thought he brought it on himself,
that God was punishing him for his own failures.
But it was our sins that did that to him,
that ripped and tore and crushed him—our sins!
He took the punishment, and that made us whole.
Through his bruises we get healed.
We’re all like sheep who’ve wandered off and gotten lost.
We’ve all done our own thing, gone our own way.
And God has piled all our sins, everything we’ve done wrong,
on him, on him.
He was beaten, he was tortured,
but he didn’t say a word.
Like a lamb taken to be slaughtered
and like a sheep being sheared,
he took it all in silence.
Justice miscarried, and he was led off—
and did anyone really know what was happening?
He died without a thought for his own welfare,
beaten ****** for the sins of my people.
They buried him with the wicked,
threw him in a grave with a rich man,
Even though he’d never hurt a soul
or said one word that wasn’t true.
Still, it’s what God had in mind all along,
to crush him with pain.
The plan was that he give himself as an offering for sin
so that he’d see life come from it—life, life, and more life.
And God’s plan will deeply prosper through him.
Out of that terrible travail of soul,
he’ll see that it’s worth it and be glad he did it.
Through what he experienced, my righteous one, my servant,
will make many “righteous ones,”
as he himself carries the burden of their sins.
Therefore I’ll reward him extravagantly—
the best of everything, the highest honors—
Because he looked death in the face and didn’t flinch,
because he embraced the company of the lowest.
He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many,
he took up the cause of all the black sheep.
~ Eugene Peterson
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
A flight of three crows
added to
a dense grey day
Next add four
iconic conifers
as high as the sky
eternally ******* down
These things are
always in my sight
through my window
on this wet world
Multiply all of this
by a sweet daughter
who makes me proud
and raise the whole
to the power of a strong woman
who carries us all
on her back
The equation produces
a result that I am 95 percent certain
equals happiness
though the confidence interval
is wide
And this result
sweet as it is
and as uncertain as it is
will outlive me
leave a faint echo in time
an echo that will bounce off a star
and finally be found
gripped in my shriveled paw
long after the epiphany
nowhere near paradise
somewhere short of
the end of the line
This is a moment of happiness
stolen from time
hijacked by a fugitive
from civil society
I'll hold it close
until death pries it
without mercy
from my hand
Leaves it as a blessing
and a curse
for all who come after
Take the blessing.
Leave the curse.
That's the advice I give
with my dying breath.
And I leave this to you
from the generosity
of my heart.
With a nod to
the scant traces
of God's grace
that I find on these pathways
of travail.
Never lost.
Never found.
Always present
and generous
to all.
Be that.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
Honest,
that meaningless word left dangling before children,
a damoclean sword held fast in a gordian knot tied with scarlet thread,
finer than the spider's that once tied men's souls to an angry American God,
birthed in Transylvania,
over the woods, and through the dale, no lie
There is a tale of lies told in Nobel houses, never reachin' ground,
Down here, we situations manifested to, vain, again, stem the tide,
We flounder, fish out of water, why are we sent if
wait
he hears, he listens, haps he knows, and
how such as we came
to be here,
Welcome and see, dare ye ask me in? Might I ply you with lies
and you, believe 'em?
I could make a mindless robot out of your parts, but
that would take forever and
that's not how
Wisdom's child would tend to be, for first,
You must believe a lie and I, amusing as can be,
can't tell lies.
Discernment, fine points, per-spicacity per se, the only way.
Good luck (Luc, said luck in many tongues, is said Lose- as in Luc-ifer.
It means light, as in light, regular old granted light.)
Lightifier, good, take some, good light, for the travail, in the night.
You see, not so long ago, for me, five years before I'as born,
my momma moved to town.
What was that like, I axed my old uncle, while back,
movin' t'town, in 1943?
Well, he says,
We had electricity.
USA, 1943, some folks still was poor, and all the good men
was gone to war.
Cities, it was different,
if the movies got it right, Bowry Boys, n'em.
In the desert we did, okeh, in town, though,
we had electricity.
He was ten back then. He'd been huntin' rabbit's,
to buy Christmas presents from Sears and Roebucks,
since he was five.
C'mon, I say. No lie, he say,
BLM or some gover'ment
whatsajigger, was payin' 2 cents a pair fer jack rabbit ears.
'Said he bought Christmas presents for his mom and dad,
and my mom, with his first rabbit money, at five.
Shootin' with a single-shot 22, 12 cents a box,
Jack Rabbits, 2 cents a head.
Three Christmas presents, plus postage, $2.56.
Do the math, I think, and go -
Five years old, at ten, he moves to town, 1943,
we had electricity. That's all.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
Memes! Angels, aberrations of opposition super standing
overseeing you,
The screamin' heebie jeebies.
Yo, where you wanta go, you axin me we just go
with it, the flow 'know?
What I mean is, are we memes or mes or messes of yeses
gone all johnny rcome late-rotten scarred scared, some thing not so far
from sacred when you put your mind to the whole idea of life being
at all. Thinking this is not easy. We are Able. Our belly's living waters cry out,
you are your brother's keeper, yes, you are.
Be leavin' that be, I am is, and you is,
too. When you apprehend the meme named
war.
That meme has led the me-me mob for as far as men
remember, but
now, machines remember for us, all the facts, just
the facts, ma'am.
Why'd the d go into a comma, Pop?
Welt (Duetch, bitte) Enshaung, glaube ich, vie leicht, aber
are we ever going to filter out these German bleed-overs?
stay tuned, next week the meme beacon is pulled down,
who shall pre or post or ex maybe vail, travail, like
trip
wow, I hate being a 20 year old vet back in the U.S. of A.
FTA All the way, Airborne
******** Herman Hesse ********
Jorney to and fro the east to west, and soon, et
cetera. Siam is a mere myth now, eh?
As the Narnia thing not called a heathen lie was allowed
allowable in mere Christianity.
I've only seen the English POV's on PBS, they may be filtered through
feedback, meme belching bursting bubbles from new wine 'nold vessels about to plode into eternity, singing along.
Thank you, very much. May I introduce, duce, intro duce, y'gittin this?
Duce means 2 if you see e squeen between, you see that?
Fun. No reason for fun? Who here, now, believes that or, no,
bees leavin' those lies be told?
Hunh? Y'know? Watch man, waht of the night?
See, what I mean? All this from me hearin' some guy say,
"Come and see, like that was okeh. For any body, n'me, too.
Thinking, as a past-time, is pointless. You know, if you act like it.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
i'm walking under darkness
i'm looking for a fight
old town knock em down and drag em out
drag em out into the light
a wanted poster bounty
i'm looking for a bail
you dress in dark and do your things
in the darkness i travail
blood money is life's blood
i just want it to flow
my people have been hungry too long
in their own dark below
i'm working for the beneath
it's blackness that i love
all this time walking on us
those under feet now rise above
Oct 7, 2021
Oct 7, 2021 at 11:59 PM UTC
(This verse is painted for my Loving Daughter P Suzanna Christy on her 8th birthday)
It was the day she began to move out,
She’d been in the cradle of her mother’s womb
Some seven years before silently in her dreams,
And her dreams! Who knows? But He knows.
Her mother, yea, yet to be a mother then!
Then in her travail, yet rejoicing in God’s Gift,
With her friend and neighbors close by she was wriggling.
Her father, yea, yet to be a father then!
Then in his journey, anxious, yet praying all the way,
None but the Father in Christ is beside him.
She reaches the eighth milestone of life,
How she hath reached is by His Mercy.
I remember the day of entry into the world,
She made a cry within and it was not heard unto us,
We could not know why she had cried within,
But we know for she had prayed within,
And now we’ve learnt that her first cry would be to Him.
Her mother’s friend took her in his arms,
And showered thousand kisses on her tiny forehead,
And it is he always the God-sent providence unto them.
Her mother rose from her anesthetic sleep,
And her every breath, it’s the fact, pronounced THANKS unto HIM.
She longed for her God’s Gift and took her in her arms of love.
I watched her imprinting kisses on the silky cheeks.
Every one wept and there were tears of joy,
I collected those tears in the deep of my heart.
She hath reached the eighth milestone of life:
She flutters as the dancing star in the sky,
Like the tiny trout in the running brook she plays,
Sweet like the ripe apple ‘midst the orchard,
‘cross the horizons of joy and laughter she traverses,
Dressed in the Blessings from Above,
She looks purple with floating frilled skirt,
She wears the smiles of her mother,
Filled with friendly wishes from her school mates,
She walks amidst the song of her little blooms.
I can’t hold her joy she experiences,
And so her mother shares it with her
And too with her for she hath carried my prayer in her womb.
She grows with the Heavenly Grace,
And does proclaim the Glory of Heaven in her life.
Now she’s a little plant to grow more flowers,
And every flower shall be the message of His Mercy
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:22 AM UTC
Furnace is dead, cogs have stopped turning.
With all destroyed, my workshop is gone.
Against me my own creations he has been using.
With everyone killed and dead, I have been left alone.
Master of the science of steel,
So strong and with a gifted arm,
With power so great even, still
To evil I could do no harm.
I can't fight it
Can't beat it
Defeat it
Can't shield those
I have loved with such pride
Will the world have respite?
I won't rest 'till I make the greatest blade:
A sword with the power to tear the skies!
The greatest that Man has ever made:
One that will bring tears to the gods' eyes.
I will steal the essence of the Sun!
And with the power of a nova
Will imbue it. When it will be done,
Then the darkness will be over.
I will weld it
And mold it
And hone it
And hold it
Hold it ever so tight
A sword of burning light!
But, still, even with such a lofty sword,
How could I fight the evil that has crept
Into our lives? No, I must find its true lord:
The Hero that the sword will truly accept.
I must not succumb to its call, its lure!
This sword's destiny must not be tainted
By any unworthy hand - to make sure
That from evil the world will be mended.
I won't steal it
Will seal it
Conceal it
And only reveal it
When the time will be right
May the stars be my guides...
After the longest of journeys, following gods' will,
It has finally been revealed, finally been shown:
The visage of the metallic daughter of Steel,
The only that is worthy for this sword to own.
Made by the man who ended all I have loved,
With eyes grim, under slavery of the dark,
With snideness, back to me my sword she had shoved:
"Why shouldn't I melt its greatness for its parts?"
Will you refuse it
And diffuse it
And discard it
Disregard it
Your duty to wield all of its might
To undo the wrong that once was right?
Take courage to your heart, fair soldier!
And listen to me as I will say it thus:
Stand firmly before a mirror and just stare her
In the eyes, as those eyes do scream: "Liberate us!"
Take the word of an inventor and a swordsmith:
Leave the world of comfort where things are nice and fine.
In your heart there'll be a fire forever lit,
If you will only believe: "The power is mine!"
You will fight it
And beat it
Defeat it
Complete the
Conquest of your greatest fright
You will travail through the night!
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
Mon papa, c'est le plus fort des papas.
Mon papa, c'est le plus beau des papas.
Mon papa, même quand il est fatigué, on dirait Richard Gere.
Mon papa, même si il est carnivore, moi, je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, quand il mange, on dirait qu'il a 5 ans, mais moi, je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, il a des voitures super cool qui font vroom.
Mon papa, quand il conduit, on dirait Michel Vaillant, même pas peur.
Mon papa, quand il me dit bonne nuit, j'ai même plus peur.
Les monstres sous mon lit, eux, ils se désintègrent avec la force des bisous de mon papa.
Mon papa, parfois, il ronfle et je l'aime quand même.
Mon papa, quand on est dans la piscine, il joue au crocrodile avec nous.
Mon papa, quand il porte des choses, les manches de sa chemise se déchire sous les muscles.
Mon papa, avec une barbe, on dirait un homme des caverne, c'est trop cool.
Mon papa, quand il fait des câlins, on disparait sous ses couches d'amour.
Mon papa, quand il nous emmène faire du shopping, il supporte des heures et il sourit.
Mon papa, il nous laisse faire des trucs qui lui font peur, mais il veut nous faire plaisir, alors il dit oui.
Mon papa, il m'a laissé faire du saut en parachute, et je suis même pas morte.
Mon papa, il râle parfois mais on sait qu'en fait, c'est parce qu'il nous aime.
Mon papa, même quand il voyage, il pense à nous.
Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage avec des photos tout le temps quand il travail.
Mon papa, il nous emmène en voyage tout le temps quand il est en vacances.
Mon papa, il fait des trucs de papa trop génial.
Par exemple, il connait nos restaurants préférés, et il sait ce qui nous fait plaisir.
Alors il nous y emmène.
Mon papa, même quand il est en colère, il est beau.
Mon papa, quand il sourit il est comme Thor, le dieu du tonnerre, il est puissant.
Du coup, parfois, ma maman elle fait un nervous break down.
Parce que mon papa il est trop beau c'est même pas normal.
Mon papa, il a un double menton pour que si un jour Game Of Thrones arrive dans la vraie vie, on pourra pas lui trancher la gorge.
Mon papa, il fait du vélo plus vite que le Tour de France. La preuve, ca fait des années qu'ils sont en France, mon papa, lui, il est déjà à Dubai.
Mon papa, parfois il oublie notre anniversaire quand on lui demande au pif, mais il oublie jamais de le souhaiter, donc on lui pardonne.
Mon papa, il voyage en first class.
Mon papa, il connait les aéroports mieux que James Bond.
Mon papa, il regarde des series TV de jeunes.
Mon papa, il porte des costards.
Mon papa, il nous emmène manger des dans endroits incroyables.
Mon papa, il nous emmène dans des hôtels de luxe.
Mon papa, il devrait être président du monde.
Mon papa, il est mieux que les autres papa parce que c'est le mien.
Mon papa, il est irremplaçable.
Mon papa, si on m'en donnait un autre, j'en voudrais pas.
Mon papa, je veux que celui la.
Mon papa il est pas toujours là, mais c'est pas grave, parce qu'il est jamais ****
Mon papa, il traverse le monde mais après il nous raconte, alors c'est cool.
Mon papa, il fait une super vinaigrette. Dommage que j'aime pas la vinaigrette.
Mon papa, quand il fait un barbeque, ca fait beaucoup de fumée et pas beaucoup de feu, mais c'est pour mieux nous impressioner quand il fait rôtir la viande.
Mon papa, il parle Anglais.
Mon papa, c'est le meilleur papa du monde.
Mon papa, je l'aime, même si maintenant, il a presque un demi siècle.
Mon papa, c'est comme un druide.
Ca meurt jamais.
C'est trop cool.
Mon papa, c'est comme une mode indémodable, tu veux jamais le remplacer, il est toujours tendance.
Mon papa, on peut pas le comparer a une mode fashion, parce que c'est un humain.
Mon papa, c'est le meilleur humain que je connaisse.
Avec ma maman et ma soeur et mon chat, mais chuuuuut.
C'est un secret.
Mais ce que je préfère à propos de mon papa, c'est que dès que je le vois, je peux lui dire:
"mon papa, je l'aime."
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
Through the pregnant universe rumbles life's terrific thunder,
And Earth's bowels quake with terror; strange and terrible storms break,
Lightning-torches flame the heavens, kindling souls of men, thereunder:
Africa! long ages sleeping, O my motherland, awake!
In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking,
And its golden glory fills the western skies.
O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise!
For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking,
Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave's disguise,
And the foolish, even children, are made wise;
For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making--
O my brothers, dreaming for dim centuries,
Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes!
Oh the night is sweet for sleeping, but the shining day's for working;
Sons of the seductive night, for your children's children's sake,
From the deep primeval forests where the crouching leopard's lurking,
Lift your heavy-lidded eyes, Ethiopia! awake!
In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking,
And its golden glory fills the western skies.
O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise!
For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking,
Ghosts have turned flesh, throwing off the grave's disguise,
And the foolish, even children, are made wise;
For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making--
O my brothers, dreaming for long centuries,
Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes!
2.3k
The Buddhists Teach
There is a door
Between the conscious and the unconscious
On the threshold of awareness
Where, from this sleepy place
Mind-door takes in space
A snap-shot of what’s around
The shapes and the sounds
Be it red, blue or brown
Sensory fed and felt and judged
A conceptual conclusion
Based on memory and illusion
Served up ofttimes with a bit of confusion
The sixth sense of inclusion
Transcending time and allusion.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
The unaware
From where?
Memory Lane
What a pain
Insane and mundane
Tainted and sainted
Familiar and unfamiliar
It’s the object and the flavor
It only makes sense
To bring in the other scents
Can you feel it
Through my poetry?
Because I have no other way
I’m sending you the sweetest berry
In bloom
And tea scented perfume
For some lazy afternoon.
Starting out so poetic
Descended into the prosaic
I’d like to stay in those high-minded places
Between the sheets of my faces
I’m at peace and war with myself
No one else.
I know I shouldn’t get attached
Shrug it off with panache
When I think about impermanence
Makes me cringe and
create another circumstance
A twirling happenstance
A devil’s dance
A devilish lance
It’s getting better
Like frankincense
Then it fades
Like the past tense
How does one let go
When clinging’s become a way of life?
A hunting knife couldn’t pry
My pathetic fingers lose
Holding on to
A hangman’s noose
I’d scream and rail
Holding on
To the nail
That pierced my travail
As life stomped and pounded
grounded me down
But, I wouldn’t let go.
Oh no, not me
Fool that I am
Was it a question of pride?
A fear of the night
The ego chasing its’ tale
Personal blackmail?
A forgotten memory
A mishmash
Lack of mindfulness
A Pandora's box?
Nonetheless,
I confess
A little bit of everything.
I tell myself
Baby steps
Baby steps
Baby’s need to let go
And fall and get up
Or they won’t learn to walk
Or talk or grow up
It’s baby talk
And baby steps
Knock, knock
Who’s there
No one
Then come on in
Naked and all alone
Rest on the threshold of time
Rest on the threshold of awareness
But, In all fairness
Don’t expect it to last
Such is the nature of impermanence
Only the bliss shall remain.
You can find it once again.
When you learn to let go.
But,
Don’t listen to my advice
As you can see
I’m still holding on for dear life.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC
The briny tears have dried
The sounding knells are stilled
The grieving crowd, dispersed
The parting pain, allayed
Benumbed lie the dead
Beneath the marble vaults
Bereft of power and prowess
Benighted and beaten.
The sun shall never cast its glorious rays
The stars shall never their brilliance shed
The breeze never shall bring tidings new
The showers shall no more drench them through
A thoughtful friend sometimes seen around
A fervent prayer at times chanted aloud
A plaited wreath, rarely laid over
A trite rite, randomly carried out
There’s none left to mourn or weep
Nor anyone to sing, sigh or sob
Leaving the dead to rot in the closure of graves
To life’s alluring charms, the dear depart.
Cold as clay the dead lie so still
To be feasted on by maggots and the worms
Life with all its glory – defunct
Its fever and fret too – extinct.
How in vain we run after wealth
The power and position we deem so great
Shall come to naught within Time’s gloomy vault
Yet we run and yet we straggle behind.
In vain ends our travail for might
Inglorious is our quest after fame
Transient turn the riches, we garner
Short lived is their gleam and glitter.
Oh Lord! Lead us not into illusory charms
Deliver us of our avarice to hoard
For all that is born and made
‘Must consign to death and come to dust.’
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 6:29 AM UTC
The encapsulating power of silence is a beckoning wonder of the universe, as we abandon our awareness and travail toward psychedelic oblivion.
Although Neolithic tendencies have shaped our foreign fields of hybrid plantations at the expense of organic exuberance, it is wise that we listen to the concerts at dawn and dusk as they echo from the depths of the woodlands.
In our unwitting state of being, owls often grace us with their ghostly presence.
This sullen atmosphere is so damp with the juices of forgotten dreams, and we are not yet shrouded by the mysteries of such treacherous slumbers and defensive immobilisations.
Look at the patterns upon the rock of the Badlands where geological delicacies are too difficult to masticate.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
WHEN the flaming lute-thronged angelic door is wide;
When an immortal passion breathes in mortal clay;
Our hearts endure the scourge, the plaited thorns, the way
Crowded with bitter faces, the wounds in palm and side,
The vinegar-heavy sponge, the flowers by Kedron stream;
We will bend down and loosen our hair over you,
That it may drop faint perfume, and be heavy with dew,
Lilies of death-pale hope, roses of passionate dream.
2k
.Soul in anguish,
Soul in torment,
Soul in delirium,
Soul in pain,
Soul in ecstasy,
Soul in anxiety,
Soul in frustration,
Soul in disdain.
Soul in passion,
Soul in laughter,
Soul in death and
Soul in life.
Soul in penitence,
Soul in reflection,
Soul in love and
Soul in strife.
Oh, my soul, you
Keep me dancing.
I can never
Dance alone.
I search for my
Soul’s companion.
Who will offer?
Is there one?
Here are now my
Suitors willing.
There is envy.
Look at hate.
Bitterness and
Self-absorption,
Pity looking
For a date.
What of vengeance,
Narcissism,
Self-indulgence
Dressed up fine,
Pride and guilt with
Sad depression,
Desperation,
What a line!
I have danced with
Every suitor,
And I’ve wondered
Who is mine?
I don’t want to
Lock into a
Partnership that
Doesn’t shine.
All of these have
Looked attractive,
Yet they weaken on the spins.
Where is one that
Lasts forever?
I will only
Look at him.
I need one who
Will not fail me,
Leave me when the
Going’s tough,
One who’s strong and
Knows the dance steps.
Treading on my
Toes is rough!
Something deep
Within me tells me
Suitors there are
More than enough.
I must search the
Highest mountain
For the one whose
Name is Truth.
Mr. Truth will
Undergird my
Weakness, lift
My spirits high,
Warm my coldness,
Light my darkness,
Hold my trust as
He draws nigh.
He will lead me
Without falter
To a banquet
Richly spread.
I will follow
Every dance step
Waiting for the
Day we wed.
Then forever
All those suitors
And their lies will
Disappear.
There will only
Be the glory
Of beloved
Jesus here.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
I have to prove this tonight. Mind over matter. Thought is sharper than any knife, and moves faster than any bullet. Thought leaves the body at 10,000 signals per second, if propagated correctly it goes directly to who you send it to. It grabs friends along the way. Friends who want to **** for you. They will hang out around the target and then actually go into others and into the target. They can take over cells, thought, and well being. I am sending them tonight. In a few moments I will release these white stallions to trample and to bite the backs of the dark ones who travail in the shadows. No hiding. I know the routes to send them. There will be a lot of friends. The good spirits that are beaten down and awaiting their bodies to finish the dying process. They are in purgatory. I help them, and they are thankful for me, as I am thankful for them. I hope they are more gentle this time...I truly do.
Mar 15, 2022
Mar 15, 2022 at 10:42 PM UTC
Peace is a weapon
against the smallness of self
that excuses war.
Peace is the sharp blade
pruning the olive branches,
never drawing blood
Peace is soothing balm
for quarrel and division
instilled by zealots;
Peace is the watch-word
that makes soldiers deserters
of lower causes.
Peace desires itself,
making no root in travail
for other peoples;
Peace says, "Don't enlist
to be a pawn in the games
of elite slavers."
Peace has no Colonels,
Lieutenants, or Generals:
merely the faithful.
Peace is the Only.
No other weapon shall do
against each other.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
A simple melody, a yellow rose
A forgotten tragedy, my sweetest repose
A ****** trail, snow white sails
The end of all travail, my sweetest repose
A gentle brook, the sweet warm air
A good old book, my sweetest repose
A grain of sand, a giant oak
The touch of your hand, my sweetest repose
A drop of dew, the evening hue
A day with you, just to name a few
You're my sweetest repose
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 8:47 AM UTC
We live the life
pined with sores
battling the battle
in a defeated
hope
out of lacks
we've known
plenty of yawns
in a helpless
battle where
none prevails
but travail
the future of the
youth of the land
is but buried in
the arms of
corruption
we run,more
haste less speed
the ambitious
youth becomes
enslaved to
unrewarded
efforts
but clothed in
gowns of
discouragement
we want to learn
we want to read
we want to write
we want to
speak and be
heard
but the road to
learning is
blocked
by them that are
known by
godfathers
who shall lead
us by the hand
to cross this
ocean that
opens its mouth
wide
to swallow all of
our effort,all of
our zeal.all of
our enthusiasm
which hope lie
for us?
When shall we
know reward
for our efforts?
When shall
success
breakforth to
harvest us all
that searched
diligently?
When???
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
methinks thou confuseth
thy heart's impatient beating
with the tremulous and sonorous
summation of the immeasurable
wail of clocks ticking, begging,
listen!
these wondrous matches glorious
arranged in heaven,
where weighty watches
and yellowed human calendars
long ago dismissed, irrelevant,
discarded.
marked full well,
they did
upon thy heart,
when as babe
you drew first breath.
when thou will receive
love's bounty,
nothing more and nothing
less.
heavenly their watchfulness eternal,
impatience does not grant favour
to love long lasting,
ever true,
even if struck anew
with first impatient glance,
for much thought and endeavor,
masterfully planned,
thy turn scheduled,
recorded, awaiting only
for inevitable
discovery.
for though the streams of spring
rush full fleshed,
swollen forward,
thy truest love is
best read in the
gentle constance of
a gentle lake's
modest waves lapping,
like a beloved's
best ring finger
stroking thy cheek
in one continuous
caressing.
need not thou lament,
nor groan
with impatient travail,
fare thee well,
for the sails,
the course inexorable,
the destination prescribed,
foretold and heralded
upon the flags of thy eyes,
the banner of thy words,
that rest prepared upon
thy fullest and hungry
lips.
chance is but a
secondary miscreant,
whose role is but as narrator.
let's him speak infrequent,
but when comes his time
to conduct his sale,
well behooves you to
listen to that littlest of voices
you so oft disregard,
victim of your willful
fears!
the time, the play, the locale
all matched and set,
now we await only
your demonstration and forbearance
to honest augur the
greatest courage
to speak the hardest phrase
e're spoke:
I love thee more than myself.
for whence
can only be,
when thou breakbeat
the chains accursedly nominated as
Me First.
shout the key out loud
In the hour, nay, the instance,
thy first believe,
then long life and long love
can then
and
only then
commence.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
.
(Sippy cups are for toddlers, designed to let them sip but a little sip at a time, and when it falls, the disaster is lessened.)
totally by accident is this dedicated to TL Sipple, whose introspection offers comfort to more than many.
~~~~~~~~~
*who among us has not begun the
journey's poetic, by first examining the
mirror that reflects organs internal,
flipping the reversible glass over,
for all you exposed,
it's the curse, the birthing natural,*
of the first poem
*all your life, streams bustling, streams drying, drought dying,
leaves windy flying up, but final poisoned by gravity,
come to rest and crunched under your footfalls,
but of this did you write, scrivened or scribed?
no
our first child is of our ***** where real borning does occur.
the rest too, but now, and soon thereafter,
put aside the me, and write of he and she,
the first love, always the second child,
for this the nature of the soul and ermine robe,
you elected, when you first self-selected*
I am a poet, therefore I hit send,
*and the diecast, is the first of many hot rods
piercing, invading, calling out to you,
poet,
"set me free, set me free"
then when walking in September,
the leaves un-glistening, cracking and *****
like an old person who cannot care for them self
then you lift your pen, point to the sky or to the earth,
no matter which, for both are loco parents in loco,
and the truest hardest journey begins,
looking outside in, with eyes colored by
global truths
then and only then the real journey begins,
a differing agony to be learned,
to see as others see,
to write as others have before you and me,
and in doing so, this testing travail,
will earn you, could earn you, a time grade of
pass/fail
you are the only judge in this show,
the only contestant,
what grade will you assign yourself,
what standards will you set,
until you ask,
who are the poets time idolizes?*
american idol, throw away your sippy cup, and drink from the river, from the sea, drink deep, until sated,
then begin your foolishness
readied, all over again
poet to please invisible gods,
that all can see
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
My thoughts bear me back
I can hear self speak
To mediocrity n’ tack;
Horror, how my words leak!
Hear me dish out
What I was handed
My worst - Infernal spout -
The vermin banded.
If I do live in me mind
What Paradise I expect to find?
Despite the daughter, my sole joy, laughter
What! Must my body travail
From rafter to rafter?
Then again, vermin mill round
I tap away, coroner profound
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
Got your wire asking me to meet;
The wire that travelled rounds to reach me
Weeks or even months to reach me
After all that while you waited me going
From where I have now traversed abound
Years didn't know what months held within
Months didn't listen to day's throbbing
But we boarded the same space and time
It wasn't crowded with any ‘other ones’
Why didn't you meet me then, me around?
Why didn't you meet me there, me waiting?
Silly or serious, the moments we digressed
You turned your back and switched me off
Making up, I sat by the side, hands feeling
I knew you were pretending asleep;
Then slowly gone to an indifferent self
Why didn't you meet me there, by your side?
Remember all those questions I asked?
Of compulsions and convictions of yore
When you wore an eerie silence as answer
Looking away saying I don't want to respond
I had waited for you there, for long
Why didn't you meet me there with the answers?
Remember all those things you have hidden
Things that changed my takes on life
On trust, respect, love and sorts
You slept over them and woke up afresh
I stood there unslept; carrying scars ever after
Why didn't you sight me so, there?
We were walking along and away,
Not knowing the long pauses we took
Two souls trapped in the same maze
Crossing and nodding days after days
But more as strangers; on a courtesy call
I wish you stopped and met me there.
Now that I have been on this travail for long
With miles to go for that unknown destiny
And a lost way back in labyrinths of mind
Meetings won't be of hearts anymore;
Would set us only on old routes we loathe
So wait no more on your wire...
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
your pallid expression and impoverished demeanor
left everyone astonished as your quivering opulence was revealed
you lived the high life yet chose to burrow yourself in the dirt
in a dire attempt to conceal your true wealth
you bought crystals instead of diamonds
all for the satisfaction of being thought of as equal
when in reality all everyone truly wanted was to be grand
to flaunt their own diamonds
their diamonds that can easily be shattered
while yours could travail
without a scratch
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC