"triumphal" poems
Butterflies kiss the sage, where sun drips off primrose
into mute lily horns who know but cannot say:
This is the day. In yonder Sycamore a cardinal's question
is answered from afar: This is the day. Sleep no more
fields of green. Arise and be heard all who dwell within.
The night has been, has poured out all its darkness like water
onto parched earth that cannot be gathered up again.
When with eyes as good as closed we peered into the night
what stain had we beheld? Was it ink upon our canvass,
dripping from the trees, running on the lawns and fields,
the gardens deep in slumber, staining dark foreboding hills?
"Be thou, " we cried, "a lamp unto our feet, a light unto our eyes."
What then should we have seen who could not see,
or known who could not know, what has once been made,
once beheld, once loved, what was once our own continues still?
This is the day. Let all who have a sound to make proclaim.
From among the pines, from within the thickets come. Let each one
make his song. This is the day. We shall not sleep therein.
Arrogant and proud the night, let all the living cry. Profound
the darkness. Grave the depth of night. Become a dew
for unction of the lilies who know but cannot say this:
This is the day. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
Sacagawea's Capture
As I strolled the Knife River trail
a dust cloud swirled and fell
and earth lodges appeared by the score
extending from the path to the river banks.
Hidatsa women sang at their chores,
husking corn -
beading moccasins -
scraping a buffalo hide.
A band of hunters dismounted
and released their ropes -
dropping two deer and an elk
by the hanging rack.
Triumphal shouts from the river
turned all heads to the shore
where warriors, returned
from Shoshone fields,
lashed up canoes and dragged
their human spoils up the rise.
Several squaws reached out
from the gathering crowd
seizing two of the squirming children.
A Shoshone girl with terror in her eyes
cringed as a warrior raised his arm.
"No, tell your Hidatsa name!"
Sobbing she choked through broken tears,
"My name is Sacagawea."
I bolted to breach the walls of time
to face death in her defense
but a new whirling cloud intervened.
When the dust fell away
all the lodges had vanished
with all the Hidatsa villagers.
Kneeling down to the Dakota grass,
I caressed a circular hollow
etched deeply in the silent earth.
August 6, 2010
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
1
A great year and place;
A harsh, discordant, natal scream out-sounding, to touch the mother’s heart
closer than any yet.
I walk’d the shores of my Eastern Sea,
Heard over the waves the little voice,
Saw the divine infant, where she woke, mournfully wailing, amid the roar
of cannon, curses, shouts, crash of falling buildings;
Was not so sick from the blood in the gutters running—nor from
the single corpses, nor those in heaps, nor those borne away in the
tumbrils;
Was not so desperate at the battues of death—was not so shock’d
at the repeated fusillades of the guns.
2
Pale, silent, stern, what could I say to that long-accrued retribution?
Could I wish humanity different?
Could I wish the people made of wood and stone?
Or that there be no justice in destiny or time?
3
O Liberty! O mate for me!
Here too the blaze, the grape-shot and the axe, in reserve, to fetch them out
in case of need;
Here too, though long represt, can never be destroy’d;
Here too could rise at last, murdering and extatic;
Here too demanding full arrears of vengeance.
4
Hence I sign this salute over the sea,
And I do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism,
But remember the little voice that I heard wailing—and wait with perfect trust,
no matter how long;
And from to-day, sad and cogent, I maintain the bequeath’d cause, as for all lands,
And I send these words to Paris with my love,
And I guess some chansonniers there will understand them,
For I guess there is latent music yet in France—floods of it;
O I hear already the bustle of instruments—they will soon be drowning
all that would interrupt them;
O I think the east wind brings a triumphal and free march,
It reaches hither—it swells me to joyful madness,
I will run transpose it in words, to justify it,
I will yet sing a song for you, MA FEMME.
2.2k
Every dawn is a nexus, /
Every twilight is a beckoning; therefore, /
Embrace the fickle future /
Ensconscing within the sacral oath /
Of a thousand words: /
These utterances shall envelop you /
When upon Triumphal Arcadian Skies /
We meet again. /
Save your tears, /
For love shall reign /
From the empyreal aethers above /
To the Gaian epidermis of /
The Magnanimous Matriarch; moreover, the mellifluous kisses /
Of The Sovereign of Songbirds /
Will burgeon within, /
Will descend upon you as The Holy Dove. /
Unfurl your third eye, /
See with an indefatigable clarity /
All that you were meant to be: /
Strong, Wise, Just; /
Love; /
A luminary fulminating /
Radiantly, resplendently upon /
The Denizens of the Terrene. /
(—Se' lah)
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 12:00 AM UTC
I regard what calls itself "Christianity" today, as so much RELIGIOUS ****
Why? The Apostle Paul wrote this in his second letter to the Corinthians
2nd Cor 11:4 For if he that cometh preacheth another Jesus, whom we have not preached, or if ye receive another spirit, which ye have not received, or another gospel, which ye have not accepted, ye might well bear with him.
KJV
Some earmarks of "another Jesus"
· He was borne on Christmas
· His "Triumphal Entry" was on Palm Sunday
· His Crucifixion was on Good Friday
· His Resurrection was on Easter
· He turned water into grape juice
· He inspired the NIV (or anything other than the KJV)
· He prays the Lord's Prayer "...thy will be done on earth..."
· His "gospel" is John 3:16
· If he didn't have brothers and sisters
· If he loves EVERYBODY
· If his mother makes apparitions
· If he builds his church upon Peter (Matt 16:18)
· If you have to say the "Sinner's Prayer" to be saved (John 6:44)
· If some "Reverend Doctor" preaches about him
· If a ThD "Theologian" explains him
· If his ministers call themselves "Reverend" of "Father"
· His followers refer to the 3rd Person of the Godhead as "Holy Spirit"
Go tell your Lovey-Dovey jESUS: he can take his salvation and shove it up his ass...AND TELL HIM THAT I SAID SO!
If your opinion of ANY of the above is: "It doesn't matter", then YOU, your church your pastor, your denomination, your jESUS, your gOD - are so much RELIGIOUS SHIT...ask Nadab and Abihu how much it matters! (that is of course, if your stupid *** even knows who they are)
Also, if you still think it doesn't matter, because one day you're going to fly away to meet your lovey-dovey lord in the lovey-dovey clouds...your dumb *** will wonder why you are still here when the FIRST SEAL BREAKS
There are 7 years soon to commence, it's called the Great Tribulation. All you lovey-dovey ***** Chunk "christians" will have an opportunity to PROVE that you REALLY ARE what you claim to be.
++++
Do you think you will survive? The coming Seven Years
It's called the Tribulation, a time of and pain and tears
-
Chances are not good, that you'll live to see it through
You'll probably be killed, your not the chosen few
-
You will greet the Antichrist, and you'll take his Mark
This guarantees you'll burn in Hell, the warnings were so stark
-
For 1000 years you'll burn, before you stand before the Throne
The Great White Throne of God, you He will disown
-
Then you'll be cast alive, into The Lake of Fire
With all RELIGIOUS **** and every other liar
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
translation from russian by rolanda
E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-nude body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease walk
the female wolf her concrete ******
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and morning flow down by sunrise on wood
by Dmitrij Poparev
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
who will read aloud
my poems
when I'm gone?
that old unfriended thot,
a nagging merry query
was for awhile forgot,
put on the back of an upper shelf,
where dust motes and mites
fear to trend
thoughts,
that I thought
I had dispensed with,
letting time
build illusionary wry walls,
fooling World Trade Center tall
morose forlorn,
pensiveness of
red ant armies,
incapable of
black marker redaction,
there is always one
a lingering malingerer
a sole fado singer,
playing woeful jazz in
the Quarter
on an empty emoty street,
dressed and guised
as the soul of a solitary
cancerous cell
"survivor"
cur overlooked,
biding time,
the surgeons gone,
the drugs flushed,
radiation burning
no more
begins then
the unholy
trilogy cycle
worn out, overused...
invasive categorically relentless
maybes,
what ifs,
then
oh goddamnnotagain
because believed, on knee,
I oathed that
loathed, raven nevermore,
ought
that
cracked door would be open
yet like the
New Orleans levee aged locks
hurricane succumbed
overflowed, overcome,
keyholed, infiltrated,
falllen to the enemy,
mes enfilade,
rumps up the black flag of
surrender
brain sneers
periodically,
like every other
minute, ok,
second,
coyly asking
penny for your
worthless thoughts?
just when you believed
"no mas"
was a prayer that had been heard,
teeth kicked in,
body snatching
hordes and boors
bad boys and ******
sitting high in the
saddle again,
grinning torturous
tarty smiles
at who,
at you, fool!
you're as alone in that place
as insufficiently as that
impoverished overused
word can ere convey
the nagging realization
that when asking
no one answers
when your thinkings
perish you
your cutesy sweatshirt reads
last standing poet alive,
stabbed ded by awful-truths,
you failed and
all the black cats,
have fled the neighborhood,
just when need was greatest
who will read aloud
my poems when I'm gone,
has been silently answered
by silent applause,
the last theater goer
shuffles out, and turns
and extends his middle finger
his review leaves a
singular impression,
he looks familiar,
gauntly ghost,
he has accompanied me always
and his finger is his
triumphal parting shot
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
Spear shafts splintering beneath its hulk -
the mastodon crashed to the earth,
roared its final lament and fell silent.
Shouts echoed across the ravine.
Dark-haired Clovis hunters converged:
stripping the hide,
carving the flesh.
Others frenzied about the carcass,
tracing broken shafts
to salvage the flint for tomorrow's hunt -
retrieving all save one.
A triumphal fire hissed and snapped,
hurling heat and smoke
high into the mid–day sky.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
**The archaeologist knelt to the ground.
Heart racing, he scraped dirt from flint,
brushed away the millennial dust
and raised the projectile to the sun shouting,
'Clovis point! '
'Clovis point' - an epiphany in the dust:
found inches from the bones of its prey.
Khaki and blue jeaned hunters gathered quickly
to read the epic written in flint and bone:
Mastodon and Clovis united by the point of a spear.*
July, 2006
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:24 AM UTC
I want to live right up to when I die
and through, beyond the finish line.
Not with a gasp and an ugly stumble,
but run straight on, strong and triumphal.
I want to live right up to when I die
with au revoir and not goodbye.
I want to live with real expectation
and run on into the new creation.
Oct 18, 2023
Oct 18, 2023 at 2:18 PM UTC
Time and Wind raced the wallowing skies,
speeding past spiraling leaves,
glorying triumphal in veiled in lies,
an interminable pursuance of meandering
through mystical myths of life
lopsided and rustical in guise,
hung up on the horizon gates;
"I'm no confluence for commingling
for opposites merged with binds"
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
At the lowering of the flag,
and the rise of white,
let it not be mistaken for cowardice,
but may it be perceived as wisdom,
that my heart, a battleground
torn and riddled with blood and scorches
is now the blessed land of peace,
that all foes are in full retreat,
and the drums of victory loudly beat
and the shout of triumphal praise.
And at the going down of the bitter red Sun,
when flames smoulder, and hearts surrender,
I shall rest easy in the night, knowing, knowing
no more shots and thunder ring to my ears,
nor the tortured screams of twisted souls,
as the sun slowly sets in its ****** colour,
the fields of red and crimson,
are washed clean by truth.
Relief, the greatest sigh of relief,
that this land suppressed by fear
is liberated by an almighty host angelic
in all its glory, that with every rhythmic step
and every lyrical chant,
the enemy trembles and breaks,
no wait, they retreat.
And now, this scorched field of battle
bloodied and burnt, is restored by Christ
to beautiful fields of green and life,
trees, forest, Golden sunlight, skies of blue,
air of purity, and a life renewed, and improved,
rivers ebb and flow, trees creak and groan
as birds sing their songs, and the world is once
again alive and fully well,
this is my world,
this is my human soul.
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC
When skies cry, /
I dare not doubt /
For I know every tear has meaning, /
& not one of them is forgotten: /
Tenuous, airy, heady, divine, sublime. /
He raises me to heights empyreal, supernal /
When I have ascended triumphal arcadian skies /
I fathom the redolent reverie has not ended, /
Rather, I am one /
With all things. /
Crystalline, intemerate, pearlescent /
His glistening irides /
They gleam, they shimmer /
With a luminosity that is interstellar: /
Divo! /
Every morn he awakens me anew /
Reminding me that I still possess life, love, liberty, /
& embrace! /
With boundless freedom, /
I unfurl the wings to soar. /
The clairron voice of The Sovereign of Songbirds awakens me every morn. /
The musicality within, /
I fathom it /
Will never leave me. /
It cascades upon me incessantly. /
(—Se' lah )
Jul 11, 2024
Jul 11, 2024 at 10:12 PM UTC
Tonight,
the Dark
gathers it's
greatest might,
but will
be broken
by morning's
triumphal
Light.
~mce
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
the thought seizes me awake,
after a heart powered hour of sleep,
rise in silent reverie, nary a peep,
though my heart rate breeeches
150 miles per hour, each beat
yesterday wrote of the eloquent
sensibility of simplicity, its natural
native appeal, and when I think of
things that world needs most urgently
which is, for poets a de rigeur activity,
fyi, that more common than uncommon,
sobelieve in my expertise,
we need badly, another Hobbit movie pretty please!
we need rallying after the tallying,
we need fellowship among the species,
a crossover inclusive of the animal kingdom,
require fearless leaders who value selflessness
over personal gain,
less optimism rhetorical,
and some plain honesty to give the world
the equity of equality,
what it wonts,
and not what pro poli’s
tell you think
which slogans sell…well
whent to the corner store,
bot all kinds of fall
colors of berries and tiny flowers,
went all-in unreasonable
on clot colossus seasonal,,
oranges, yellows and quiet quilts of
hardy little greens,
bread, OJ, larger uncaged eggs
a-dozing,
and though my impossible orders all fulfilled, the boss,?her list defeated,
by crossing off
my abbreviated illegibility scribbling,,
it was still insufficient for missing was this:
*what the world needs a fresh Hobbit triumphal,
where self~sacrifice always come first, and duty rightly prevails, over evil,
always a close call,
and the chill of fall,
the dint of wint-
er
is warmed away by
love, justice for all,
besting every close call,
and for a replay of the
World Series where them
Yankee underdogs emerge
victorious and the city lifts
its chin, and says OK to the
new day, week, and that
extra hour of…mmm…
daylight
sleep*
call me naive,
it is an honorific
terrific,
great fully
accepted
Nov 3, 2024
Nov 3, 2024 at 10:02 AM UTC
faithful
forgiving
triumphal
overjoyed
so grateful
and
rest ashored
more
than
willing
to
make
that sacrifice
for
the
blessings
in
my life
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
The steady sunflowers
Follow and glorify the sun
Tracking its light from dawn to dusk.
With each solar tilt
Dauntless declarations
Of unshakable hope -
Rich golden emblems of
The immortal Ukrainian nation.
After the invaders have left
In shame and failure -
Their crimes faded into
Pointless ugly memories and
Liberty sings her triumphal anthem,
Sunflowers will break the soil
And prevail in everlasting glory
Over all her shining fields and valleys.
Slava Ukraine - forever!!
May 10, 2022
May 10, 2022 at 2:22 AM UTC