"triumphing" poems
Oh, will you ever return to me,
My wild first force, will you return
When the old madness comes to
Blacken in me and to burn
Slow in my brain like a slow fire
In a blackened brazier - dull
like a smear of blood,
Humid and hot evil, slow-sweltering
up in a flood!
Oh, will you not come back, my fierce song?
Jubilant and exultant, triumphing over
the huge wrong
of that slow fire of madness that feeds
on me - the slow mad blood
thick with its hate and evil, sweltering
up in its flood!
Oh! will you not purge it from me -
my wild lost flame?
Come and restore me, save me from the
intolerable shame
Of that huge eye that eats into my
Naked body constantly
And has no name,
Gazing upon me from the immense and
Cruel bareness of the sky
That leaves no mercy of concealment
That gives no promise of revealment
And that drives us on forever with its
lidless eye
Across a huge and houseless level of
a planetary vacancy
Oh, wild song and fury, fire and flame,
Lost magic of my youth return, defend
me from this shame!
And Oh! You golden vengeance of bright
song
Not cure but answer to earth's wrong
22.8k
A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,
There falls on the old, grey city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.
The smoke ascends
In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine, and are changed. In the valley
Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
Closing his benediction,
Sinks, and the darkening air
Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--
Night with her train of stars
And her great gift of sleep.
So be my passing!
My task accomplished and the long day done,
My wages taken, and in my heart
Some late lark singing,
Let me be gathered to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,
Death.
10.1k
A late lark twitters from the quiet skies:
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,
There falls on the old, gray city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.
The smoke ascends
In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine and are changed. In the valley
Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
Closing his benediction,
Sinks, and the darkening air
Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--
Night with her train of stars
And her great gift of sleep.
So be my passing!
My task accomplish'd and the long day done,
My wages taken, and in my heart
Some late lark singing,
Let me be gather'd to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,
Death.
3k
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
2.6k
There is darkness behind the light -- and the pale light drips
Cold on vague shapes and figures, that, half-seen loom
Like the carven prows of proud, far-triumphing ships --
And the firelight wavers and changes about the room,
As the three logs crackle and burn with a small still sound;
Half-blotting with dark the deeper dark of her hair,
Where she lies, head pillowed on arm, and one hand curved round
To shield the white face and neck from the faint thin glare.
Gently she breathes -- and the long limbs lie at ease,
And the rise and fall of the young, slim, virginal breast
Is as certain-sweet as the march of slow wind through trees,
Or the great soft passage of clouds in a sky at rest.
I kneel, and our arms enlace, and we kiss long, long.
I am drowned in her as in sleep. There is no more pain.
Only the rustle of flames like a broken song
That rings half-heard through the dusty halls of the brain.
One shaking and fragile moment of ecstasy,
While the grey gloom flutters and beats like an owl above.
And I would not move or speak for the sea or the sky
Or the flame-bright wings of the miraculous Dove!
1.9k
The 'gyre' hints arrival-
Twenty centuries making room
For a new epoch,
I’m a modern bird now,
I may sound haphazard, troublesome, and brooding
unimportant topic for hours,
It's up to you to lend ear or not;
I was a winged rooster confined to land only,
Now I’ve become a 'hawk', with knowledge of flight
perhaps power too,
Seeing the world from far above
Envisioned me a seer sight;
I see the world functioning; the lowliest on top,
the best in daze, and mediocre relishing mediocrity,
One or two good men wasting
life in poetry which none cares.
Oblivious armed men guard the periphery;
White termites gnaw the door at the Centre.
At this height, all seem different,
I can’t relate with my earlier self;
My knowledge seems nothing but
a frail sound in a vacuum.
When I became 'conscious'-
My dreams stopped being dreams—
My thoughts were invaded daily—
Life evolved in million years—
'God is dead', the universe all naked.
We’re the supreme, the Satan both;
Busy in triumphing Desires.
Converging all— blazed my beliefs.
We’ve progressed too much, portends
trembling of the earth
And smoke eclipsing the sun.
'Death I breathe',
War looms again,
Life is traded in forfeited currency.
I see the world functioning,
I know one or two tricks too to cheat,
To assault, to **** to loot.
I can foresee the end—
Its good to die starving then
Fly in the proximity of land.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 5:52 PM UTC
Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;
And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And meerly mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum’d,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of him, t’whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav’nly-guided soul shall clime,
Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,
Attir’d with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.
1.6k
The crest of solemn ocean wave
So early breaks on windy beach
Where fairest Phoebus struggles sadly 'gainst
Triumphing clouds.
His horns, his blares to no avail:
Fall deaf on Egypt's Temple crushed to sand
To make this morning beach where sail
The looming gulls.
They hunger as they soar, their lonely cries
Are swept away by dawn's uncaring breeze.
That shore I wandered all alone,
Apart from you in restless dreams,
Disturbing sand-crab holes with stepping shoes
Sought lenses lost.
Possess'd of power to see without
Refinings of their frame, my need mere want,
I walked, a pool, and filled with doubt
That proud waves tossed.
Would sharpening vision truly help me find
That which I knew was only in my mind?
When then in heaven's light aloft
I spied a weightless patterned kite:
I called not to my glasses, but to Thoth
To aid my sight.
The soaring toy like silent hawk
Without the weight of sadness flew so light
Beneath the clouds now heard to talk
Instead of fight.
It seemed to catch a fleeting floating bliss
As pillars of the firmament it kissed.
The time was chill, the morning swift,
Where icy waves brow-beat the shore,
Impassioned blew the wind and kite did lift,
Yet hues endured.
What children tugged upon its string
Wishing to live capricious life, to soar,
Bemoaning birth neglecting wing
And all allure?
Yet came a haunting cry, in winds was clad,
Reminding me that still the seagull's sad.
I reach the crest of rocky fold
Beholding barnacles held fast,
Sea grasses over corals bare and cold,
And broken glass.
Sight has no sway of nature's spell:
I ponder Neptune's endless shoals
And whether glimpse of youths should tell
Me of their souls.
Can ever we catch sight of inner form
Reliant on the jelly of our eyes?
I turn to face my sandy steps,
Triumphant Phoebus clouds did rout,
I feel there's folly in my aided sight
So leave without.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 2:37 PM UTC
Dormant aspirations lie in winter's fallow ground
Burgeoning freedom furrowed in shallow soil; sovereign elements do pound
Infertile seeds in barren hearths tightly wound
A cold wind from on high scourges each, desolate mound
A dreary drizzle from hovering, satin crowns seeps deep; hopes are drowned
Nutrients for spawning growth are leached; blighting tentacles surround
Ambition suppressed, inactive period of malaise doth abound
In due season, warming rays of light shine thawing frozen hearts
Incubating innate desire to fulfill individual destinies, from chained depth departs
In destitute minds, a burgeoning sprout of liberty starts
Branching forth into fertile souls, intestinal fiber imparts
Taking root, it spreads deep, penetrating shielded ramparts
A fragile frond from each wavering limb darts
Triumphing in tyrannous environment, a fruitful future charts
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 6:33 AM UTC
Fresh from his fastnesses
Wholesome and spacious,
The North Wind, the mad huntsman,
Halloas on his white hounds
Over the grey, roaring
Reaches and ridges,
The forest of ocean,
The chace of the world.
Hark to the peal
Of the pack in full cry,
As he thongs them before him,
Swarming voluminous,
Weltering, wide-wallowing,
Till in a ruining
Chaos of energy,
Hurled on their quarry,
They crash into foam!
Old Indefatigable,
Time's right-hand man, the sea
Laughs as in joy
From his millions of wrinkles:
Laughs that his destiny,
Great with the greatness
Of triumphing order,
Shows as a dwarf
By the strength of his heart
And the might of his hands.
Master of masters,
O maker of heroes,
Thunder the brave,
Irresistible message:--
'Life is worth Living
Through every grain of it,
From the foundations
To the last edge
Of the cornerstone, death.'
1.3k
your ears are jammed with
energetic beats and good melodies
though accompanied with
lyrical lies that
distort
our views on what really matters and
define
who we are and how we should be.
and your eyes:
glued to the screen
as you await to see
if your face
is worth enough of those
tiny blue thumbs up.
but
you've absorbed
too much nonsense and radiation
from those handheld contraptions that
you have grown
too deaf and too blind
to see anything beyond yourself
but I say that it is time that you
look up,
open your eyes,
and see
His holy
glory setting upon
our minds waking
our hearts stirring
our passion blazing
our generation rising
our people fighting
our nation triumphing
look up,
open your eyes,
and see that
hope is alive and abundant!
because Hope is with us,
Hope is in us, and
Hope is through us.
all these chaos is translating
into something beautiful and exciting
so come
look up,
open your eyes,
and see.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
I love it when you think
ever so logically
You make my gears grind
and my clock tick
make my heart whirr
We could be victorious
Righting wrongs,
Triumphing over evil,
We could be playful
rolling, tumbling
bounding over eachother
I'm sure we could almost be anything we wanted.
When you truly love someone,
you don't need proof - you can feel it.
Like upside down tongue touch,
We realize what is real and what is sense
What do we really know anyhow?
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
This clade of “tree”
if you can believe that
! That this is what the
... silversword alliance technically are.
It's closely related tarweed...
The first **** wasn’t lonely for long and had
multiple terrains to colonize.
& tall tales take solidified liquid form
from the something
making water like fire
or air we can’t see floating like ice.
Pushed in a away a tsunami
seem small as they cross over the ocean.
Only they roar
louder then anything heard, but a drip
silenced lost lost
to deaf ears
empty troughs of the dunes
soft sand triumphing over the oceans.
The four subclades within the crossing times
sowed their alliance,
silversword are the tall tales
detail of long ago seemingly insignificant kept
life form, form life , forms
forms life
we know because it’s indistinguishable from the rest.
probabilities estimates Vertical
no horizontal or dashed lines.
Bound by the ' it was', see.
we are to the way we
were. Read the possible
probability of a tale, A tale
of a tall tale. Told.
Origination, will, times. They tell,
seconds per island
complex (from left-to-right:
Kaua‘i, O‘ahu, Maui Nui, Hawai‘i).
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 9:41 PM UTC
words.
i just
love
them.
big ones,
little ones.
just love them
they are like
honey on my lips,
poprockz candy to my
brain.
they crackle and fizz:
igniting,
exciting,
vibrating,
reawakening...
synapses too quiescent;
jiggling,
wiggling,
slapping,
trappin,
thoughts....
caught snoozin and napping;
flip flopping
flim flam-ing
photograph
framing...
opinion only halfway dressed;
jitterbuggin,
jiving,
striving
sometimes conniving....
fighting for a voice;
half formed,
brainstormed,
uninformed,
spoken on a baited breathe,
giggle, gaggle,
gobbledegook...
given egress;
hornswoggle,
bing bang boggle,
lolloping through....
galumping,
triumphing,
tree stumping....
both
me
and
yoohoo
too!!!
zip
it,
zinger
coming
on
thru.
my
mind
a
veritable
word
zoo
where i
graze
and nibble
and
nab
a
theasuarus
or
2
.....
words.
i just
love
them.
.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
There's a regret
So grinding, so immitigably sad,
Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad . . .
Do you not know it yet?
For deeds undone
Rankle and snarl and hunger for their due,
Till there seems naught so despicable as you
In all the grin o' the sun.
Like an old shoe
The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie
About the beach of Time, till by and by
Death, that derides you too--
Death, as he goes
His ragman's round, espies you, where you stray,
With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way;
And then--and then, who knows
But the kind Grave
Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm,
In that black bridewell working out his term,
Hanker and ***** and crave?
'Poor fool that might--
That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be,
Think of it, here and thus made over to me
In the implacable night!'
And writhing, fain
And like a triumphing lover, he shall take
His fill where no high memory lives to make
His obscene victory vain.
1.1k
For I would that ye knew what great conflict I have for you, and for them at Laodicea, and for as many as have not seen my face in the flesh;
2 That their hearts might be comforted, being knit together in love, and unto all riches of the full assurance of understanding, to the acknowledgement of the mystery of God, and of the Father, and of Christ;
3 In whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.
4 And this I say, lest any man should beguile you with enticing words.
5 For though I be absent in the flesh, yet am I with you in the spirit, joying and beholding your order, and the stedfastness of your faith in Christ.
6 As ye have therefore received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk ye in him:
7 Rooted and built up in him, and stablished in the faith, as ye have been taught, abounding therein with thanksgiving.
8 Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit, after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after Christ.
9 For in him dwelleth all the fulness of the Godhead ******
10 And ye are complete in him, which is the head of all principality and power:
11 In whom also ye are circumcised with the circumcision made without hands, in putting off the body of the sins of the flesh by the circumcision of Christ:
12 Buried with him in baptism, wherein also ye are risen with him through the faith of the operation of God, who hath raised him from the dead.
13 And you, being dead in your sins and the uncircumcision of your flesh, hath he quickened together with him, having forgiven you all trespasses;
14 Blotting out the handwriting of ordinances that was against us, which was contrary to us, and took it out of the way, nailing it to his cross;
15 And having spoiled principalities and powers, he made a shew of them openly, triumphing over them in it.
16 Let no man therefore judge you in meat, or in drink, or in respect of an holyday, or of the new moon, or of the sabbath days:
17 Which are a shadow of things to come; but the body is of Christ.
18 Let no man beguile you of your reward in a voluntary humility and worshipping of angels, intruding into those things which he hath not seen, vainly puffed up by his fleshly mind,
19 And not holding the Head, from which all the body by joints and bands having nourishment ministered, and knit together, increaseth with the increase of God.
20 Wherefore if ye be dead with Christ from the rudiments of the world, why, as though living in the world, are ye subject to ordinances,
21 (Touch not; taste not; handle not;
22 Which all are to perish with the using;) after the commandments and doctrines of men?
23 Which things have indeed a shew of wisdom in will worship, and humility, and neglecting of the body: not in any honour to the satisfying of the flesh.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 6:29 AM UTC
Love is not a contest
It's unlike any congress
In which both parties throw in their two cents
To dismiss a common nuisance
Of who loves who more or even less
Love should be of equal parties
A bond so resilient, bright, and hearty
One body halved and separated
Leaving two figures devastated
Until they find each other's heartbeats
Love should never be about triumphing
It's about two souls intertwining
It's about sharing each others toils
In hopes to knot their mortal coils
And to be blessed by fate and timing
In short, love is too sacred and fragile a view
To argue about who loves who more: me or you.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
Every winter since I was just a boy the noon sun shone upon my bedroom window
As I turned my head away from the wall I noticed that light shone upon the entryway to my bedroom
The red hue cast across the carpet by my curtains fell into the crevices beside my bed
Radiation of day’s star was refracted by my frame
And night time had been vanquished
When each spring’s blossom erupted from beneath the hardened surface
Every breath welled from my lungs into the external world of the elements
Then it was replaced by the invitation to partake
In smells of sweet bread, flowing tears
Girls in dresses dancing, boys aloof
Schemed beyond the pasture fences
Catastrophes were addressed if need be
By silence
By calm
By flowing breezes and gentle consolation
By the wonder and force of spring
Triumphing over winter
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 10:48 PM UTC
This shroud of darkness is overwhelming
I stumble blindly through it, hoping to grasp onto something familiar
The most powerful of lanterns cannot, will not, pierce this shroud
The darkness, in itself, is alive, moving to engulf this world
Much like light, which only wishes to illuminate this world
But will not, for fear of being extinguished by the darkness
However, there is one torch, one light that defies this shroud
It tries tirelessly to pierce the shroud, continually failing
Until one day, the darkness relents under the powerful gaze, and recedes back
Allowing a single ray of light through
Although the ray is slim and starting to recede, it gives hope
Hope that light will touch this world again
This hope was not just limited to the inhabitants, but also to the lanterns, and torches, and any source of light
This hope became something the darkness feared
It became a force, a force so powerful that is caused lanterns and torches to ignite on their own
Other objects that shouldn't have, emitted a powerful light
The powerful light, which was everywhere, eroded the darkness away
The light triumphing over the darkness
The torch, the one that defied shone brighter than ever in the skys above, destroying any trace of the dark
Soon, the darkness was gone, even the shadows
Save for one shadow, MY shadow
And what a curious shadow it was
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
This is me.
The purest form of myself, in front of you today.
I'm a timid, analytical creature, sitting at the corner, just observing.
I am terrified to be standing here right now.
But this is also me, triumphing my fears and doing things that knock me off my socks.
"Wow, she must not always be her true self," you may think. Is it true, though?
I am not trying to put words into your mouth, or trying to make you think that I'm full of myself.
I want to share.
The idea of one's true self does not exist.
My essence lies in the fact that I really don't know who I am right now, or who I'll be in the future.
What if I knew who I was?
I would probably stick to being this timid little girl - hindering myself of all the possibilities that could shapen my personality.
My point is that timid me is me.
Confident me is also me.
Profane, rebellious me is also me.
Concealed, or raw; I am me.
I am the encompassment of all my personalities.
I may be a ***** with you, and I may be too liberal with you - but I will, still, always be myself - no matter who I'm trying to look like, sound like, or smell like.
This, is me.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 12:37 AM UTC
We are living in a dictatorship, a tyrant is at large.
The Aristocrats are clawing on to their wealth and privilage
Ebenezer Scrooge pales in all spectrum
The Peasants awakened in anguish, brews a tempestous whirlwind.
Torches brought to life,
roaring ******* flames of justice
Torture’s a friendly foe,
the time for lamenting has been extinguished.
Directing their stubby fingers, master of guile,
stroking their overgrown stomach
“Leech the Swines!
Bury their bodies, all but their sham crown
Garlands of heads, draped on my wall.”
A source of warmth for the winter’s plight, A trophy
triumphing the seeds of abeyance
Desolating fate is sealed by this stern decree.
Free hand-reading; not requiring an oracle.
“Am I not a benevolent King?”
**** out the roots.
One by one,
**** out the roots of evil.
For the root of all evil is good.
The peasants thin and scrawny.
Hunger, their morning advocate and evening lover-
Lusting to sink their teeth in to Pride.
The Nobel robed in mulberry silk
making love to a ********** pastry, birthed by a coinless *******
Ascended into the abyssal inner circle of Hell
Those armoured with royal blood adorned in leather costumes
-vagrants cannot discriminate-
slaughtered while Mercy slumbers.
**** the aristocrats, for they are selfish!
The abolishment of poverty, the bane of the Monarchical eradication
A diabolical scheme!
Says the soulless estranged with peace.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 9:56 AM UTC
My sister’s a mister. She cares for her plants,
Her orchids from Cuba, Tahiti, or France.
She grows lovely children entirely from scratch
In homemade production runs, two to the batch.
She teaches the women of her little town
To belly, to yoga, to boogie on down.
She’s always found living alone such a bore;
A harvest of husbands – she’s on number four.
She drives a Miata with careless aplomb,
The very ideal of a hot soccer mom.
But me, I was thinking of how to invent
A Booker prize novel to cover my rent,
Or lysergic rhapsodies for the guitar
Or finally learning to drive in a car.
The hours spurted onward in skips and in bounds,
Years twirling away down a hole in the ground;
How gently appalling my ultimate fate,
To grow wispy white whiskers, and sit on a gate.
She spins on the dance floor like wind on the wing,
To Western and Latin and Manhattan Swing;
Her elegant limbs grace the South Jersey beaches,
And people go mad for her raspberry quiches.
Her daughter (my niece) with her blue eyes so dear
Sets the upper crust of Baltimore on its ear,
While her brother my nephew is cutting a swath, (um)
Through the au courant circles of fashionable Gotham.
That’s my sister, triumphing wherever she goes,
And she never had anything done to her nose.
But me, I was dreaming up world-shifting rubrics,
Or imagining screenplays to shame all the Kubricks;
My ****** could make you explode in your jammies,
And my song lyrics won theoretical Grammys.
Of invisible kingdoms I was the past master,
I walked with Elijah, I lunched Zoroaster.
Yet somehow I find myself at this late date
With my brain in the clouds, and my *** on a gate.
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 1:37 PM UTC
I am queen of moon
Decider of darker nights
Defender of fireflys in the moonlight
Fighter of wrong and right
He is ruler of fire and ice
Warmer of frozen nights
Giver of precise
Cooling the fire
But only if need be
Just enough to let her see
Watchers of moon, night, fire, ice
Manifesting in words
Triumphing in intellect
Wanters of the next
Without the moon there is still night
With no fire no need for ice
Together there is balance
Combination of galaxies
Creating moon
To live in night
Making fire
To melt ice
In the all arround
Whispers are in the air
Quiet words of precise
Humming whats wrong and right
-Jennifer DeAngelo
Copyright 2017
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 3:48 AM UTC
Vane glorious and absolutistic,
though I defiantly,
cavalierly, and blithely attest
Yukon bet your (laugh-in) sweet bippy
mine acidic breast
houses anarchic, anti-poetic ballistic,
barbaric, and bubonic
cannibalistic demons within thy
safely guarded Pandora chest
atomic cesium clock
timed to trigger avast
burst of anxiety, frenzy, and
(What me worry
Alfred E. Neuman) blast
ting mental quietude at most
inappropriate, inconvenient,
inopportune, out classed
adrenaline rush, nausea,
palpitating heart, vertigo
besieging, corrupting,
endeavoring fractured arrant
cleft daemonic gripping
hellishly psychic chant
rendering unto sieze ****
a choking vise grip extant
yule hiss sieze indomitable
banshee fully controlling grant
diabolic, dogmatic, and dynamic,
anguished corporeal ache
easily, egregiously, and emblematically,
exemplified historically
graphic fatalistic, and ecstatic coup,
(koo), when I caused furious frantic flight,
and/or fight betake
king angst causing just desserts
for Marie Antoinette,
who got her humble pie cake,
thence dispensing with formalities,
where a joshing drake
(named Gill O. Teen)
also known (solely known
to mine selfish source error ways)
alias i.e. as; the Lewis (loose)
lunatic, heady harvester,
and decapitation Deacon trumpeting,
trouncing, and triumphing tranquility
for fifty three Tuesdays,
thence sea king punishing psychotic
pre pound payment
basking in glory (re: gory us)
amidship crashing quays
music to mine ears hearing plaintive neighs
high pitched straining
vocal chord hamstrung keys
regaling oceanographic
lambent hagiographic essays
and keeping at bathos bays.
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 11:45 PM UTC
Triumph with diversity.
Not knee deep in
Not wading
despite the extra gravity.
But with - taking it with me
on my journey making me
who I am building, i.e.
a stronger, fuller me
triumphing in the company
of those who walk ahead of me
who know what it will take me
to more fully glory
in my whole me.
Come with me.
Let's triumph with diversity.
Oct 23, 2021
Oct 23, 2021 at 1:29 PM UTC