"travails" poems
Breathe not, hid Heart: cease silently,
And though thy birth-hour beckons thee,
Sleep the long sleep:
The Doomsters heap
Travails and teens around us here,
And Time-Wraiths turn our songsingings to fear.
Hark, how the peoples surge and sigh,
And laughters fail, and greetings die;
Hopes dwindle; yea,
Faiths waste away,
Affections and enthusiasms numb:
Thou canst not mend these things if thou dost come.
Had I the ear of wombed souls
Ere their terrestrial chart unrolls,
And thou wert free
To cease, or be,
Then would I tell thee all I know,
And put it to thee: Wilt thou take Life so?
Vain vow! No hint of mine may hence
To theeward fly: to thy locked sense
Explain none can
Life’s pending plan:
Thou wilt thy ignorant entry make
Though skies spout fire and blood and nations quake.
Fain would I, dear, find some shut plot
Of earth’s wide wold for thee, where not
One tear, one qualm,
Should break the calm.
But I am weak as thou and bare;
No man can change the common lot to rare.
Must come and bide. And such are we—
Unreasoning, sanguine, visionary—
That I can hope
Health, love, friends, scope
In full for thee; can dream thou’lt find
Joys seldom yet attained by humankind!
3.8k
O brother, tell us where you've been!
What is the world like beyond these trenches?
Is it safe to crawl out —
we heard the wolves were just 'were-' with a sweet tooth.
Won't you help us sniff out the lotus from the roses,
their thorns so cleverly hidden…
Sisters, we're tired of hiding in the dark,
our eyelids shut by the nurse's damp cloth;
To our champions: were you blessed in your travails?
Did you find the loving,
the caring,
the fabled Happy People that
Nashville balladeers croon about?
brave children, remember to return;
we dreamed of setting foot in a place of our own, too.
does one exist in their world ||
// NOT THEIR WORLD
NOT OURS EITHER
BUT ALL OF OUR
UNIVERSE //
Jan 10, 2021
Jan 10, 2021 at 2:23 AM UTC
This was written a few Septembers ago. Walking on the streets of a now deserted beach island, only the leaves, in various states, to keep me company.
September,
walk with me,
under bridges of wedding tree canopies,
still green aplenty,
tho subtle marked for change,
making summer illusions,
environmentally unsustainable.
September,
stroll on pathways
of lesser, off the track, shaded lanes,
the sun blocker trees wear new necklaces,
brown and yellow diamonds,
a coming attraction of
their denouement,
their denudement.
The September trees are:
Ever so slightly stooped,
bent with weight of a surety,
knowing with high certainty,
their future, bleak,
bowed and drooped,
discouraged by the
cold travails soon to arrive.
Living in the recent past,
I am dressed inappropriately,
white tee and shorts,
past pretender,
still dressed in my
Gap issue summer uniform,
summer suspended animation.
Island streets are de-humanized,
gone home are the children,
newly fallen leaves have,
their place, taken.
The leaves are:
magically organized along
the sidelines of empty streets,
quiet stadiums of would be
kid's touch football fields.
browned, crisp and soulless,
first greet this solitary stroller,
like a cheering throng of ghosts,
celebrating a sighting -
man, as a seasonal fossil,
one that still is living
and worth reminding, yet
human too shall pass when
his fall arrives.
the leave's cheers make over
into jeers and mocking laughs:
Oh humans, they say,
your summer songs naive,
mais tres charmant.
On Crescent Beach,
the driftwood sadly forlorn,
looking more adrift than ever,
for no one passes to express
admiration at the past seasons
Nouveau Expressionism,
an objet d'art lonely,
for the beach gallery shuttered,
raising questions existential.
Is driftwood on the beach sans
human admiration,
art, truth or refuse?
I am looking backwards as the
Earth moves forward.
My own axis, my eyes,
conscientious objectors
refuse to be pressed
into service of the seasons.
No, no,
to involuntary servitude,
to rotation and revolution.
Nature's witnesses,
trees and leaves write
their own poem,
of foolish men who:
Bow and droop,
discouraged by the
travails soon to arrive,
Delaying their own fall,
finally shed summer delusions
like leaves upon the ground,
summer poetry silenced,
summer suspended, no more.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
I am a traveller, a travelling man
And have wandered far and wide
With nothing but the flip flops on my feet
And fisherman’s trousers for a net.
And during these travails and trials I
Have heard many a tale, both tall and true,
And one day in a distant field I heard talk
Of a special cosmic law, another worldly rule of physic,
A fifth or sixth sense or dimension,
As earth-shattering as Newton’s apple.
It is...
A law of diminishing returns
Operating particularly at music festivals.
Let me explain.
So far I’ve lost,
My nice woolly zip up cardigan, half my contact lenses
My bass drum pedal, (Though that might still be in the van)
My wallet, containing money and cards, my baccy.
I lost and then refound my filters 18 times throughout the day,
Though each time they returned diminished in number,
Two packs of bacon, lost to the public stomach,
Three lighters, none of which were mine,
My mind, last night, though I found it lying
Outside my tent again in the morning sun,
And fifteen lovely strangers, who turned out to be friends.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
In hollow valleys, off the distant peaks
Down in the dim woods, braiding canopies
In the quietude of slow-dancing leaves
Through the howling and raging of the winds
Across plateau of no growth or decline
along blind, chiseled cliff, a cul-de-sac
In the triumphant reach of high summit
Between the rocky canyons of defeat
Grace at every gaze despite long travails,
dazed in wonder, never cease to amaze
In the bone-parched deserts, devoid of life
Out of flowing streams, rivers without strife
At the depth where lights dwindle to nothing
On familiar shore radiant weathering
In jubilant rejoicing when love wins
Even through the painful cuts as it stings
At the plain of anxious waiting and doubt,
In tiresome striving to glorious thriving
As it always has, Mercy will carry
Crushed, it wont let me be; though tears may tarry
Jun 12, 2022
Jun 12, 2022 at 12:10 AM UTC
There was an old man, I once knew
Peaches was the name he used
He was the drunk, set on our trunk
his body old and abused
Sharing his beer with an old horse
who caroused in the end stall
Each day by three, they'd walk by me
and stumble but never fall
His liver was a lace doily
alcohol pickled him thin
He'd been turned down, all over town
no one ever took him in
He drank his beer with ole Nellie
she could tip a bottle too
Swig and sway, like Don Quixote
as they staggered, swirling, brew
We were headed for the races
this blustery afternoon
Each planned the trip, we had to ship
I knew we'd be leaving soon
From where we trained at the fairground
we carted them to the track
Where all would race, and take what place
each earned in front or in back
Peaches rode in back of the truck
so he could drink the whole way
My uncle said, he'd soon be dead
drinking had seen his decay
We sat apart from others there
he and I were best of pals
He'd tell me tales, of life’s travails
while I ogled all the gals
That day he shared a sordid tale
of pain he caused his own son
He had shouldered blame, bore the shame
for this thing that he had done
Back when he was just a young man
a pillar of support
He took his boy, his life’s great joy
to play their favorite sport
They went to a picnic that day
he had drank one too many
On the way, to watch his son play
of fears he hadn't any
His boy was riding in the back
not thinking they skipped the seat belt
He'd rolled his car, the door ajar
surprise was all he had felt
His boy was tossed out in a field
sweet clover of timothy
The child's light hair, seen lying there
remembered so vividly
"I was a Veterinarian"
said Peaches to my surprise
"I went insane, called out in vain
but God never heard my cries"
"So now I ride where I belong
In back of my self-made bar
Hoping he, will come to take me
by tossing me from the car"
Just then a tear fell from his cheek
the pain enveloped me too
Here cried a man, much deeper than
any of us ever knew
Tate
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
I am
With whomever I speak
Wherever I sleep
I am
Every form of season
Rain, snow, falling leaves, heat
I am
Not bound by culture or belief
For whatever I was
It is only truth I seek
I am
Every color of reason
Suffering and meek
I am
Travails and travels
Loneliness
Unique
I am
Someone to meet
Bowing to my host
Sharing a heartbeat
I am
Restless
Every man a brother
It is you who I keep
I am
The moon that never sets
Circling, reflecting, holding
Secrets that make me weep
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 5:42 PM UTC
The journey within
And the undulating path
River of time flows on
Shores travel along side
All the way long,
Before offering their very existence
At the altar of life
Along with the flow of time
Fabric of ocean is all consuming
All consuming cosmic design
My journey too
Churned in travails of senses
Some times I sink
Some times I surface, in little bit of light
Gasping for breath of life
Some times I wander, helpless
And some times totally lost
Slowly, under my feet
The road disappeared
Am I the destination?
______
Om Namah Shivaya
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 3:32 PM UTC
~~
**Dialogue and Oratory Between
SPT and Nat:**
~
***At the Intersection of
Perfection & Beauty,
By Blue Candlight***
~~~
come let us by and by,
soon meet,
under blue moon candle lit sky,
at this worthy intersection of
beauty and perfection,
be together,
contained,
yet unconstrained
let us speak of what
we see and sense,
come to come
to know,
of what does not appear
in this world easy readily,
what lies between
two points,
sharing,
needy of,
crossing destination revelations
*It's said of beauty,
once uncovered and
gazed upon whole,
be visible only at the
bottom of the bin of the
picked-threw,
it was here, where, perfection
once was lost
and may yet now be found,
where souls,
singled and singed,
seek to find of,
the perfection lost,
the untarnished beauty
within ones self
from the meadow can be seen
The Field Where Wonderment Grows,
wild is the bounty of colored beauty
then
and only there,
can oan one,
locate, judge and
accept
what never departs
a self*
at the road'meeting point,
at our time and place
appointed,
arrived but come
disappointed,
crossed and creased
by the journeys
travels and travails,
burnt blind,
eyes by life's headwinds,
singled and singed,
and the mind disbelieves, doubts,
the existence verily,
of the locale,
beauty & perfection
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
Down through the tomb's inward arch
He has shouldered out into Limbo
to gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber:
the merciful dead, the prophets,
the innocents just His own age and those
unnumbered others waiting here
unaware, in an endless void He is ending
now, stooping to tug at their hands,
to pull them from their sarcophagi,
dazzled, almost unwilling. Didmas,
neighbor in death, Golgotha dust
still streaked on the dried sweat of his body
no one had washed and anointed, is here,
for sequence is not known in Limbo;
the promise, given from cross to cross
at noon, arches beyond sunset and dawn.
All these He will swiftly lead
to the Paradise road: they are safe.
That done, there must take place that struggle
no human presumes to picture:
living, dying, descending to rescue the just
from shadow, were lesser travails
than this: to break
through earth and stone of the faithless world
back to the cold sepulchre, tearstained
stifling shroud; to break from them
back into breath and heartbeat, and walk
the world again, closed into days and weeks again,
wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit
streaming through every cell of flesh
so that if mortal sight could bear
to perceive it, it would be seen
His mortal flesh was lit from within, now,
and aching for home. He must return,
first, in Divine patience, and know
hunger again, and give
to humble friends the joy
of giving Him food--fish and a honeycomb.
2.5k
It’s the damndest thing when attentions focused
on one thing beget the focus of another
Like the rooster crowing the sunlight
in the cold, ungrateful weather,
My eyes scan the ups and downs
of those digital stand-ins for those I’ve known
Seeing mistakes, my own and in others,
Seeing perfection, in other’s imperfect successes,
wantonly rubbed in my eyes
As I springboard from the travails of those
with whom I may never vocalize my adoration
I drop out of the air of a life far from mine,
I see mention of a passed on spirit
Who I truly adored,
no digital fakery of half-true fables necessary
to express my love for the ideals implanted in me
by such a tongue so supplicant to the truths in that vast ether
where I used to swim in the light,
never thinking of the dark climes below.
What choice do I have on an accidental evening like tonight?
I no longer can mask disinterest for other’s soaring narratives
when my true care has been discovered,
been pried away from that dark corner of the airborne pool so ethereal.
My care, my pride have been torn asunder,
by a mere errant glance on a mere sideways mention
Of a massive, earthly idol, who, if only for a stanza of years
held my full gaze with hopeful smiles and ecstatic promise
for bright futures now gone into grey pastures.
I lay here an imposter in authentic skin
if only for the sight of words on screens,
with scant meaning in between.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
I left the dust and tumble weeds
to be incomplete and moved
back east to where I was born
The trees crowded together
There was a change in the weather
I asked mom ,
"Is that rain?"
The people were crowded
With one thought and mind
Everything was designated
to be black or white
We caught catfish from
the Alabama River
Swam in pristine streams
full of soapstone
Then we moved again
Crossed Texas on our way west
Crossed the continental devide
Came to rest in Spokane
I sang God Bless America
while sitting on a fire hydrant
Looking at the purple
mountain's majesty
Then off again back east
Crossed Texas the third time
To Panama City , Florida
where we came to reside
There I learned
to abide by the tide
And that some things
you can't hide
Two and a half years
of bliss
Then we moved
once again
And again and again
and again and again
and again , again
again , again , again . . . .
All my travels
All my travails
I have found home
in the moment within me .
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
All our country's taxpayers are becoming enraged
Bailing out companies which have been mismanaged
Countless millions have been forked out
Dollar amounts which are exceptionally stout
Ever the taxpayer is called upon to cough up
Filling the always depleted company's cup
Giving generously has got to cease pretty soon
Helping them is a cost that's gone well beyond the moon
Injecting our hard earned is too much
Just let them stand on their own crutch
Kick those CEO's into a reality check fashion
Let them not receive anymore of our kind ration
Money has been misspent by our former government
Never ending the out flow it's time for some abatement
Offer not another cent to those ailing companies
Propping them stresses the taxpayer's arteries
Questions must be asked about those per unit costs
Regularly increasing and so high are their imposts
Shores abroad can produce goods for lesser amounts
They run a more efficient book of accounts
Under a burgeoning payout us taxpayers are gripped
Vast savings we'd make if they were nipped
We've been supporting the big end of town for years
X marks the spot where we've been left in arrears
Yonder the companies can take their travails
Zilch is what they'll be receiving from our taxpayer bails
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
I'll never make you smile again,
Not as your lover,
Not as your friend;
Not like it was
Way back when.
What is now, is not then.
I can smile
When I recall
The laugh you gave
When we were all.
Each day our oyster,
Each night we'd cloister
From the day's travails.
But memory pales,
And your smile fades
Into the mists of recall.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
When I meet the morning beam,
Or lay me down at night to dream,
I hear my bones within me say,
"Another night, another day.
"When shall this slough of sense be cast,
This dust of thoughts be laid at last,
The man of flesh and soul be slain
And the man of bone remain?
"This tongue that talks, these lungs that shout,
These thews that hustle us about,
This brain that fills the skull with schemes,
And its humming hive of dreams,--
"These to-day are proud in power
And lord it in their little hour:
The immortal bones obey control
Of dying flesh and dying soul.
"'Tis long till eve and morn are gone:
Slow the endless night comes on,
And late to fulness grows the birth
That shall last as long as earth.
"Wanderers eastward, wanderers west,
Know you why you cannot rest?
'Tis that every mother's son
Travails with a skeleton.
"Lie down in the bed of dust;
Bear the fruit that bear you must;
Bring the eternal seed to light,
And morn is all the same as night.
"Rest you so from trouble sore,
Fear the heat o' the sun no more,
Nor the snowing winter wild,
Now you labour not with child.
"Empty vessel, garment cast,
We that wore you long shall last.
--Another night, another day."
So my bones within me say.
Therefore they shall do my will
To-day while I am master still,
And flesh and soul, now both are strong,
Shall hale the sullen slaves along,
Before this fire of sense decay,
This smoke of thought blow clean away,
And leave with ancient night alone
The stedfast and enduring bone.
2.2k
Boring and rude?
That's a rich call, coming from you!
But rude I'll concede,
Given the circumstances -
You pester me with calls and texts,
And invade my private domain,
And won't listen when I say, "No" -
What would you expect?
That I'd be grateful towards
A drunken lush intruding my peace?
That I'd be receptive to a needy egoism
More entrenched than Catholic Dogma?
No, that is not my way - No!
You can get f**ked! And I told you -
I had to spend an hour
Convincing you I wasn't interested;
That your infatuation wasn't reciprocated;
That, when you're drunk, you're not worth knowing;
That I've heard of your glory days
And your present travails a million times;
That you can't offer me what I need -
A decent conversation, nor a decent *******
And I told you - I didn't pull punches;
I didn't lie - I wasn't playing games.
I told you in no uncertain terms
And you didn't like my Truths -
Perhaps they touched a nerve?
Rude? Sure, maybe I was,
But there was no other way
To sink these facts through your alcoholic haze.
As for boring - I'll not concede boring.
I may not lead an exciting life,
But boring? No - anything ****
You've a hide, when every conversation
Begins with an "I", "Me" or "My";
Anyone would think the World revolves around you!
You take egocentricism to a new level;
So self-involved and hard-done-by,
You feel the need to inflict yourself on others.
Adios, me amiga!
And, Hola, me Amigos!
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
They carried us
Through gestation,
Or took us in
Without hesitation.
Our coming
Was a celebration,
Mothers are our affirmation.
They deliver.
When we're quiet
From travails,
She makes time
For school-yard tales.
The warmth of sunshine
Shyly pales
To her prevailing arms.
She feared for us
Til eyes dried out;
Stayed home alone
When we left her house,
Waiting by the door.
A balm and living cure.
When Moms do well
All can tell
The Madonna-like connection.
No need to forgive,
We'll always grieve,
They've loved us
Since conception.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 11:16 AM UTC
never knew it,
never was I self-percepted,
that anything exceptional,
lay within, neither obvious
or dormant, was just an ordinary
if not, extra-ordinary pained
child by peers and my surrounders
and my own words yet today,
do not confer any distinction
when yours irradiate me into
a stunned and silenced reverie,
a reminder, a minder, that talent
recognizes no laws of equilibrium,
equality, and certainty not, equity
so I read with shocked, shocked, I tell you,
bemusement but comprehensive perception
when the young and extra~special confide,
their own misperceptions, overwhelmed by
the anxiety
of the billions of sky stars, and letters in their
twinkling orbs when forming identifiable comets with tagalong
dust trails^ of the debris of words that are formed by
their travels and travails on orbits
not necessarily predetermined
by gravitational adult pulleys, a gravity upon
their projected, sometimes directed,
sometimes not,
trajectory
*"and yet, though an orbit is a type of trajectory,
not all trajectories are orbits"*
nor are
*"some comets, particularly
those from outside our solar system,
that move so fast that the Sun's gravity
is not strong enough to capture them
into a closed orbit*
*These comets follow an open, curved path
through the solar system and then
continue on into interstellar space,
never to be seen again*"
so be advised,
as you reassemble the debris from the multi~universe,
when assembling your owned,
unique~verse,
create your tail
and trail,
the futurity
of you is to be both
silent and loud,
absorbing and disgorging,
to awed and to be humbled,
by all that and those who went before,
all once younger and talented,
and knew this self-same anxiety,
but never let the fearing of their
the mystery of plotting of their
path
deter them
from exploring the skies and deep mines of the
sea trenches where undiscovered mysteries
abide
<nml>
4:59am
in the city where one can never see the
light of the stars,
particularly
by their owners
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 7:25 AM UTC
I recall the day, before she was five,
She asked to go, and play outside.
I answered, Yes, for awhile;
For I read his poem, about the road,
The travails she'll face far from home.
At our door I watched her play,
And saw the roads lead her away.
There'll be times she's on her own,
In a one-on-one, or in a throng;
In places where she won't belong;
Or find herself between right and wrong.
Yet, I untied the knot,
Dropped the tether; as a father,
I knew there'd be tools to hone,
Wits to sharpen, boards to carry,
An ax to edge on her whetstone.
There was work to be done.
If all goes well,
If I got it right,
It won't matter
Which path she roams;
She'll always know
Which lead her home.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
Touch
You cannot lift or load it,
over your shoulder, throw it,
to best assay its weight -
is it ponderous, full of big *** gravitas
or a snack, a parfait desert,
a haiku delight?
You cannot touch it,
but it can touch you,
It can grasp both your shoulders,
shake you from complacency,
put its hands upon thy throat,
gasp emit, a scream demanded,
paint whimsy lines on thy face,
from ear to ear.
See
With yours eyes, by a mere glance,
true reveal its length,
stanzas multiple or an itty bitty ditty,
but this gives no value clue,
Ogden Nash vs. Tennyson,
in two minutes make you laugh,
in twenty, make you beg, mercy!
Smell
Some Poe poems do stink,
befouled mushrooms in
a dank place, some require nerve to read,
but your olfactory be ill suited for
poetic deconstruction and criticism.
Hear
Wake you with kisses upon thy face,
inject love poems into thy ears,
straight to the brain verbal crack *******
yet even the hearing the whisper
of words from my lips,
is an insufficient,
sensorily speaking methodology,
of how a poem, to best comprehend
How then?
If touch, vision, smell and cursory hearing alone
can't essence capture, what then, weary reader,
is the supposed Laureate's approved analytical tool?
Taste
Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member
in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction
with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows, and the one that follows.
Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....
Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.
Feel the light pressure of the tongues tip
upon the roof of your mouth
and the exalted exhalations of
air rushing past thy cheeks
as you messenger breath from
your chest to be shared with the world,
over the poem's interpreter, your tasting lips.
*As I lay each word down,
a brick by brick edifice construct
of mine own design, I am sated, fulfilled only,
when with I see your lips move
as you savor my words,
my taste you share,
and we are closer for it.*
***Deaf, dumb and blind,
all such travails can be conquered, assailed,
but when I cannot, no longer anymore taste
my poems upon thy lips, then I breathe no more.***
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
The woods have become denser
Where roots have gone deeper
Lost between the intricate mesh
Of the branches and that hold
Embracing each other in a synergy
Here the lost soul is looking for a way
To navigate between the labyrinth
Ideas and thoughts are not porous
Ground realities have become grim
Recoiled are the roots deep within
Looking to move away from the lacunae
As the woods come closer and grasp
This soul has no answer to the questions
Pertinent doubts are raised
No looking away from the harsh world
Feeling crushed between two realities
A hallucinatory phase feels so real
Nothing but prisoners we are
Caught between the woods of reality
Souls filtered us through travails
Here are the sediments seeping
Deep into the ground, where roots reclaim
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
**Because the beauty of your ****** is not a sin.**
I saw you in the twilight
Disrobed in the state of nature
And I gaped and gasped in awesome delight
Spellbound and elated in rapture
As I beheld your voluptuous features
As I gazed upon your priceless treasures
From peak of the mountain
I went down to the fountain
In the valley of your mons veneris
And holding on to your alluring pillars
I have been transfixed at the altar of your estuary
The estuary of your conjugal sanctuary.
I saw the falconer trading his falcon
With the bounty hunter for his gun
Lost in their lust for your connubial offerings
Spellbound by the allures of your charms
And I came in the fleeting mist of the fleeing night
To behold you even before the Aurora Borealis
And saw you embracing the heavenly light
As Father Heaven kissed Mother Earth
And you were enchanted in heavenly mirth
Oblivious of my winking mortal eyes
Hypnotized in the ether of celestial bliss.
At the unveiling of the beloved daughter of Eve
Made perfect in the bowels of boundless love.
Let the fire be kindled in my heart
The eternal flame of my spirit
The breath of eternity
The ether of life formed in purity
Born bare and born free
As my enchanted eyes can now see
Freed from the chains of pains
The pains of natal travails
Oh! Woman! Thou art the vessel of motherhood.
And in thy mammary gourds abound our first food
How much every man in bound to thy *****
For from the canal every man is born
Through the third eye of Eve where love flows
From the seed sown the fruit is grown
The sweetest fruit of love is found in the ******
To behold your naked beauty is not a sin.
~~ Orikinla Oosinachi, 2006.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC
My calico looks like the Lion of Judah
preamble her deftness with cooked chicken
and a sprinkling of lactose
Poor dear , perfect though she is
we all have our travails.
I am finding it hard to believe
age does not make her wary
in fact shes grows deeper into her role
A totem and a sustainer curled up in the one.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
She has a pretty house
With a mansard roof
Punctured with dormer windows
And guests climb
Up the steps
Like rapping woodpeckers
Weighted down
With their baggage.
She opens her door
And they file in
Sometimes weary
From their journey
Sometimes angry
From their travails.
Sometimes complaining
Sometimes malicious
Sometimes happy.
She entertains them anyway
Souls in the night
They are all searching for something
Das Ding
Some are armed with Bruntons
So they might navigate a path
In the dark
But the stars know where
You are
Better to be still
So they can shine their light on you.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
I think
what saves today’s commercial xmas hype
from being absolutely nauseous
is the wide-eyed joy of children
when they open their gifts
and find their dreams come true
a faint echo
of the joy in the eyes of the Kings
when after their long travails
they discovered the baby of their dreams
had miraculously become reality
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 2:52 PM UTC