"tunic" poems
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.
The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.
The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.
Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.
Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.
She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.
When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.
28.3k
Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net
Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.
Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak
Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light
Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight
Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.
Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;
While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit
Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?
6.7k
I was awoken from a dreamless sleep
By a boy with short brown hair,
Who, with an urgent stare,
Told me to head to the showers!
As my eyes creaked open to recognize,
The orange glow of this unfamiliar room’s lighting,
In front of me, in handwritten writing,
A page on the wall showed three in the morning.
When I glanced around a room of shared bunks,
I saw all sorts of people and things,
Running around with things to bring
To these showers I had yet to see.
In a winding line down a high ceiling’d hall,
I stood with so many,
Who like me, hadn’t any
Idea what was going on.
With a whirlwind flurry of commotion
Steam crawled from the showers and water sprayed,
As we were told in a big disarray,
To wash off the place from whence we came.
In a neat little stack, I was handed my clothes
A tunic, with a sash
And a captivating mask
To “celebrate our exciting return home.”
Down dark rustic stairways, I watched like a child
The vibrant light and affinity,
Radiating with enchanting divinity,
From the otherworldly people and creatures below.
Through that noisy, jolly crowd,
We were led as a group
And the boy said with a whoop
That we were all to stand up and dance.
His eyes glinting with excitement,
The brown haired boy explained
That our spirits would be ordained
Through a celebration of our inner light.
Onto the stage I was led
As I stood with my class,
Nervous amongst the mass
Of silent, numerous spirits before us.
As the boy hit the music
I felt something from deep inside
Rush out like a tide
And through tears of joy, I danced.
It was at that gleeful moment
That my friends and I,
Realizing we'd died,
Knew we'd returned to the forest.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 10:59 AM UTC
Vivacious, atrocious
Super capricious
Precocious and ferocious
Precious and gracious
Malicious and facetious
Long lashes
Gory gashes
Fiery slashes
Tunic mashes
Souls igneous
In the end, it’s all ashes, just ashes...
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
reverence in poetry. everything to every person.
reader claims they can a necessary skill for
uncover the reverence. successful hypothecating and
in the scripts that (buying)poetry-creation outta nothing,
life straight hands me, tell them what thy want to hear,
for collection & correction, and they’ll call you laureate,
secretarial transcribing, instead of good listener
binding, typo correction or just a keen observer-fakir
mundane are the tasks, just take what they give ya,
that’s all them muses ask, dress it like Joseph in a
don’t interfere, taken what’s given, coat of many colors,
bow, curtsy, show respect, don’t let on your plagiarism
treat its aspects/instincts correctly is all them, redressed legally
you’re just the pass through agent, true you, gotta be smart about it,
patient for no payment expected, variant spellings, swinging verbs,
be our adherent, not our truant, be discreet, they’ll call your script
we appoint don’t disappoint, a real keeper and give love or sun,
accept our patent, render legit mucho poem emojis accoladeya
as for this reverence thinge devil in a blue dress, walk the streets
if I do my job ok, on any day, grabbing snatches of overhearings,
any poem could save a life, pressed into a single tunic, you think,
if I get the commas placed, he a genius, knows my thinking,
just right, the periods period, exactly, what a great poet and
while obeying the speed limit con/hu-man par excellent
them muses so **** pleased even fool muses, too full themselves,
by this true confession released, muses who think we stink and
and self deprecation, couldn’t do it without them
they call me reverend, great pretenders by stealing
imagine them silly folk, everything in everybody and
calling a big fat liar. all thieves and cape riders,
reverend, duh, the end original liars, pants on fire
before midnight and after 3:20am April 7~8, two oh nineteen
any message you send becomes my intellectual property, fool....
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:24 AM UTC
It was you, Atthis, who said
"Sappho, if you will not get
up and let us look at you
I shall never love you again!
"Get up, unleash your suppleness,
lift off your Chian nightdress
and, like a lily leaning into
"a spring, bathe in the water.
Cleis is bringing your best
purple frock and the yellow
"tunic down from the clothes chest;
you will have a cloak thrown over
you and flowers crowning your hair...
"Praxinoa, my child, will you please
roast nuts for our breakfast? One
of the gods is being good to us:
"today we are going at last
into Mitylene, our favorite
city, with Sappho, loveliest
"of its women; she will walk
among us like a mother with
all her daughters around her
"when she comes home from exile..."
But you forget everything
3.5k
*The Sound of delight as the truck tyre rolls on the silent gravel
The clamorous sound of a Child torrents, and marks the race to calls heard by the 'siren devil'
Dusty feet running with cries of others who can't afford that red ice drenched in syrup
Ouma stunning, as a child dampens her tunic with red eyes pressed to see them
Hand reaches in my pocket coined with the Old
Man, I'm missing those times with no dockets for stealing a coin from the Old.*
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
You ask me to enter to the tilt of your head towards the computer screen
and see, in two words my definition -
bipolar disorder.
You do not look at me, just talk at me
medication? last relapse? severity of episodes?
You count failings, the moments in which I have lost my mind
and you reproach me for them.
You, as you two-finger-type a cold clinical echo of me,
I, on command, recite the past transgressions of my sanity
and you have me – three inches tall on my knees,
in a disease that thrice almost cost me my life
and in your Jobsworth view you tell me I will get ill,
as if this weren't a fact I fight and fear daily.
You with your tunic, blue, cold as your indifference,
announce this, as if calling time -
self-important, unfeeling, with one eye on your watch.
And I smile at you apologetically,
honestly offering up my faith, prayer, medication compliance,
self awareness, begrudged reliance on those I love to wave the red flag
if the waters I get into are too deep.
You are curt with your nod - as if all this is folly between now and the inevitable.
My recovery, my striding, my passion and profession -
All folly.
You are doing the last offices on quick time
because your time is precious and short
and not to be wasted on crazy dreamers with barely a shot in hell
But even with every mental regression, psychotic expression
manic obsession and abyss of depression -
still, still, the world needs more of mes and much less of yous.
So make your disclaimer and write your reports
I'll chant, share the truth in the streets and courts
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
this long red tunic
hides her battle scars well.
centuries of fighting incarnations of cunning lucifer
her eyes sea blue,
her lips blood red,
the crescent moon on her forehead
witness to her numerous accolades.
in the continuing saga of good vs evil,
her next battle begins.....
this warrior goddess of exquisite beauty
pauses to smile,
just for you and me.
with this gifted diamond earring
now worn
as her cosmic amulet,
her ultimate victory is near certain!
© 2021
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 8:45 AM UTC
Got a message from my half
Mrs. Hypochondriac
Moody right, moody right
Tell your CC
Let everyone know
Beatnik **** beatnik ****
Listen to that beaten sound
Keeps me running, keeps the engines hummin'
Listen to that beating sound
Tic Tac Tic Tac
Got a lookout for King Me
Watch your Q's and watch your P's
Dot your eyes and cross your tease
You're gonna see what you still won't believe
Birth your rumors of immortality
Pound them 'til I can't help but agree
But when the truth slays the light
Don't blame me
King Me King Me King Me King Me
I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King
Keep your filthy black stained hands off of my crown
Take up your own bleeding cross and ride it to town
I'm the King
Too good for my own good and don't give a fu ck
Hatching plans to freak out the Man
Got a meanness in me that I don't understand
A lie for a dollar, a life for a dime
There's a well, a deep, deep well I fell
Into once
Where in the tumbling I found
The true hidden meaning of falling down
The treasure at the bottom wasn't worth the minute
It took to get there
King Mad, King Mad, King Mad, King Mad
These songs for a King
King You and King Me
King Kong's a Ding ****
Monkey Tales
Banana on a stick
Dipped in black chocolate
Rancid and arcane
Read in, read in
The main character wears a black tunic
His queen is the one with the brain
Better half, better half she tells him
It's best you stay quiet you'll give it away
You've done enough damage for one other day
What's done is done
Nothing but another bridge to burn
Another corner to turn
She says
You understand it less than I
And your understanding is void and dry
Quiet now, my loveless love
My misunderstood drug
My salt melted slug
Quiet now, before people believe
In the nonsense you write, the ******** they read
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
I am no longer rusty
tunic driven like a alabaster skeleton through tongues of wine
hearts of misshaped happiness breathing beneath my tongue
aqua marine
risky
danger zones between close mouths and breath
long locks of dark brown trail against your back
like water paint fluid on your paper like skin
hold me here beautiful forever
I will rest in between your palms
as you open them to gather water from the
river of our sacred dreams
I will lay there like a small fairy
for you
at ease
I understand the viscousness the inexplicable vitality
with a woman next to a woman
I can teach you how to be comfortable with me
we might become black at times
we might burn
reminents built
torn and ashy
but here there is a beauty
a burgundy understanding of similar nature
rich with cause
suitable by death
night bound by the man who believed he was clever
driven insanity
crude hearts gestures
leave that castle
be my vampire
join my tower
touch the sent of the wicker
and dive into this feminine power
I set hot trembling
tender sighs let out
every hour
I will hunt those wild beasts within your breast
hold your hand and kiss your chest
stitch myself to your ivory neck
seek you
until my hearts a wreck
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 8:11 AM UTC
Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
Driving the congregants
in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.
Parrotic tongues set out
commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
permeates the entireness
of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.
Command darkness to produce
light.
But you turned moonlight into
tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle
Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.
Righteousness afar from the
apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.
Pastoral advertisers of chattels
in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.
Disentangle faithfuls from the
webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
separate out afflictions from
feebleminded faithfuls.
Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
Leftovers from a red hot feast
My heart turns gray with ash.
As smoke clouds infect my lungs and flow into my blood stream
Soon enough I was destined for suffocation from within
Volcanoes spit ash out into the atmosphere
I inhale ash and exhale happiness
Gone with every breath goes every smile I have thought of.
Disappearing with every breath my motivation flies into the atmosphere and burns up into ash.
A crackle and a pop and a slow burning fire in the brick fireplace.
Heating homes the old fashioned way,
I am ****** into a vortex to the sky where I can fully appreciate life.
Where the sun smiles down on all of the boys and girls and makes ashes glow with embers just wishing for life once more.
But after all, all stars burn out.
A forest fire rips through northern Montana.
Smoke filling the air while ash fills the heart full of burned memories and homes
Part of what once was life turns into the most innocent of monsters.
A volcano erupts in Pompeii.
A city paved in ash I am lost.
A family buried in an unmarked tomb
that they once called home.
Writing on the walls suggests propaganda existed since time has.
A man wrapped in a lambs wool tunic and a one inch coating of ash
Lays his head in a museum.
After all,
Ashes, Ashes.
We all fall down.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
It seems the battle now has passed me by.
I walk unhindered on the ****** beach.
I cannot hear the screams of shot and shell.
I am immune and quite beyond their reach.
Some men I knew deploy a Bangalore
And blow a hole in Hitler’s grand defense.
Machine guns sputter but I heed them not.
For me the battle has lost all suspense.
My kit and rifle are light upon my back.
My rage is spent; I lack the urge to ****
There are others who make up my lack
Here there’s blood in buckets to be spilled.
I meet a German, sitting on a rock.
His tunic bloodied there about his heart
He offers me a smoke and I accept,
Although I’ve heard that smoking isn’t smart..
We speak and somehow understand each other
As we watch our younger brothers play at war.
He apologized for his part in my ******
I assure him that I’m not the least bit sore.
He asks if I’ve brought coins for the boatman.
I fish through my pockets and come up with dimes
With images of Mercury on the obverse,
rods and Fasces on the other side.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:22 PM UTC
*an inscription on the side of the door
that I didn't see
upon entering*
I like visiting you when you spit real
you hop from moon to moon
and never tire of handing out
your remarkable brand of smiles
as you go
you see
the thing is, you
are probably the most rare
of humans
I've ever known
you're the kind of person
I didn't realise it till now
I've always been on subconscious search for
no longer bereft of beauty
I am
so many sides
and so much fire
sometimes, it's hard
to keep pace
with mental fireworks
out on rocky shores
some sweets can cut the tongue
my feet edge tentative
over uneven edges
and move forward
slowly
there's a golden child in a tunic
who walks miles to learn of this wonderful world
which dips its ever-pen into the inkwell-head
of innocence
polluting the sweet waters there
changing for all time
the complexion of healing time
there's always hope in the smile of a child
thank heavens for the eyes of children
yet, look what we do...
yes, he's walking to his next lesson
if he only knew what waits
when he grows up
something inside will die
something so beautiful and deeply precious
will simply perish
when we grow up, we actually die
innocence is replaced by blasé crap
young girls are advised to carry
silver spoons hid in drawers
to spark their chaperoned freedom
sleeping families never wake
as silent clouds settle insidious
placed by forces
no cherub wants to meet
the wicked are pardoned by the blind
and yet another child is trapped
and Babel's tower lives once more
the world is such
we **** our own
for the merest pretext
yet hope must live
keep candle of humanity lit
*taking the time to find
that beautiful inscription
a prayer of infinite beauty
follow the steps to your heart
love comes
to light*
S T, 25th augs
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
the roles people play
cosmetic tunic, armor and robe
in cerebral dungeons delay
and physical dragons slay
pursuing love's elusive Yahtzee
flowers, candy and ethereal prince
show the smile, hide the ****
intensely adore, joie de vivre
blessed are those whose heart and eyes
see us for who we are
the stage, the act be circumsized
undressed relationships the prize
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
Lord,
you tell me to serve you,
but I haven't heard even a whisper
about this path and purpose
you intend me to pursue.
God said
“love your enemies”
but he didn't tell us
what to do when it hurts,
when a piece of your heart it attached to every kind word and gesture
that then gets picked apart
and shredded into shards that shoot
right back at me.
Our Father affirms
how we must forgive our trespassers,
but he didn't tell us how to repair the damage,
how to stop being taken advantage of,
or how to stand up for ourselves.
He didn't tell us how to end the the cycles,
just how to continue them
by turning over your other cheek
and not withhold even your tunic.
Jesus preached
about how we should love our neighbors as ourselves,
but he didn't say what to do when you’re full of self-hate
or when nobody cares that you care about them
because they're too busy trying to get someone else's approval.
He also said
"Don't let your hearts be troubled”
but he didn't say what to do
when they don't listen to you,
when there's so much at stake,
when your world caves in,
when you're cast aside like dust
but the world still wants to much,
or when you're just not happy and you don't know why everything is so hard,
or when you're wide awake at night,
knowing
the ones you care about the most
could be on the verge of breaking
their skin.
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 11:44 AM UTC
You're far from the drumbeat
Young girl
Lions and zebras in cages
You never liked their stripes
Father would grind his teeth
At the sight of those
Dom perde
Once you saw a man
Lying in the street—a kaffir
His skin raised and bloodied in lines
Across his chest
Reminding you of standing between bars and
Those streaked beasts
Stamping in their own mess
Kept far away from your
White silk tunic
Still young enough to marvel
What would father think
******* swollen with milk for
Bearing a child the color
Of Christmas chocolate
"An abomination above all others"
Father always fired the dienaar seuns
On the day of their thirteenth birthday
For your protection
He said
For your protection.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
A lovely woman comes suddenly in sight;
Her lively eyes, full and black, cheeks
Brown and bright like the day; a tunic of red,
And a pure countenance that made him obey.
She speaks in gentle tones, in words like sweet honey,
From a mouth smoother than oil.
She sat down next to him, legs stretched out in sight,
Eyes agape to the wall opposite of them.
She pretends not to notice the man.
She orders a drink, “Jack and Coke, Double-Tall please.”
Amazed by her beauty, “What is your name?” He asks.
“Where have you come from?”
Like smooth butter, she speaks, “Lie with me,
And you will know the secrets of my heart.”
With soft enticing speech, her words became like
Drawn swords.
She made him forget his loneliness.
With Pleasures only to let borrow, he forgets
His sadness, his sorrow.
Her lips were full, soft and wet,
Pressed against the man, sparking
Wicked thoughts as they went.
Deeper it gets, stroking
The man’s fire, lighting him up,
With much intense desire.
She was a lion hidden in tall grass,
Ready and waiting.
Like a moth to a flame,
He did not know that she would cost him his life.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:10 PM UTC
You come from a line of pleading
heavy enough to slam the door, dampen the folds of flannel sheets or
a furrowed brow.
'More' I hear your glossy eyes breathe.
They've been softened by endless searching
Scan after scan.
We've made a game of it.
We readily laugh at our preposterousness
believing love could grasp and stay, the last shriveled grape on a branch
smaller than the others.
Sweeter, too.
What we have precedes us, I say
Grimacing since I don't know exactly what I mean by that.
Once, in a dream, I walked down a corridor adorned with empty picture frames. It ended at a desert clearing, laced beneath a silver sky.
My ears alerted me first: before me lay a jumping cactus before me, embracing a teary coyote softly whimpering a prayer as thousands of needles sunk more securely into its fur.
I laughed and still couldn't tell you why.
I held my hand more closely to the shadowy breath, every release a firm match to my own.
Either to help it or endure its hateful bicuspid sink into my rigid flesh
I waved my hand faithfully before the dog.
Diverted, the stab of the plant wounded me instead.
I awoke, floating down a gushing claret river
The blood shimmering beneath me was my own.
My jaw split slightly enough to taste the salty tang of my demise.
Looking down, the once-pale tunic I wore was stained, candied.
I open my eyes to see your patient breath escape, confirming the truthful slumber I pray for you.
I expect you are told to say the most, so I tell myself through your waiting ear:
Love is irrevocably illusory.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
But Kora sat unmoving, in great magic.
The walls, her home, faded about her. Warmth
went; all alone and on a freezing plain,
dressed in a tunic, sharp knife in her belt,
bow on her shoulder, arrows in a quiver
behind. Her eyes gleamed; a pale cold light,
ˈlɪmpɪd ɪn ˈdʌlnəs
She looked around. Away, at vision’s limit,
a dark shape rose above the plain: a Tower,
the only thing in all this barren place:
no bird flew, no grass grew. Despite the wool
she shivered. Breath-clouds hung in the raw air,
ˈsləʊli dɪˈzɒlvɪŋ
Then in eye’s corner something moved. She turned
to gaze across the Waste and saw a Cloud.
Far, almost straight behind her as she faced
the Tower, it too reared up black and sheer.
Unlike the Tower, moving, whirling, wisps
trailing their tentacles around a core,
ˈtwɪstɪŋ ɪnˈseɪnli
The beginning of 'The Songstone" https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/174533
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 6:11 AM UTC
your tunic pupils
extractions from the sky
encircle all that which lays in your deepest masculine eyelashes
Im enthralled with your profile
meager looks of
hearts dispelled
onto something greater than life in its most simplest form
you represent everything natural
extracted from the very womb of earth
I am lost in my own thoughts
of my responsibilites
as a woman of culture and as an artist
will I forgive myself
for touching your wounds
maybe not
your judgment passes me
as a frail child looks upon his guardian
no I am not that
I cant be
yes
yes
I need these little things that make us move
with what you say
love
love
I do agree
I nod my head in acceptence
awfully
to these things I can never posess
I will speak to you in these matters harshly
you see
sometimes I come off as too intense
too ******
at times I will make you forget
that I contain any kind of beauty
I have a holocaust in my heart
somewhere in its driven corners
and a black plague forfiting casting spells
to hearts somewhere in my eyes
I have sold many goodbyes
ignored many whys
and kept many standbys
black I watched these skies
turn
red I watched these thighs
burn
and just as quickly turn
pale
with an execution that very well
lasts a year sometimes
I want to be yours
but the sun and the moon
cannot live side by side
and neither could our two seperate cores
the ****** and the sores
sleeping somewhere under the beds of these bookstores
you see
I want to be yours
but Im afraid I have been burnt single
due to my wars
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:08 PM UTC
I am from a row of white and gray
houses on a loop,
from green lawns
manicured and rugged
Bird song, barking dogs
living silence,
the crying of peacocks.
One of the oldest
kids in
this neighborhood.
I am from a green gray house,
screened by blue Plumbago and Orange Vine.
Deep shade under
reaching branches
overflowing with red.
From bromeliads and wind-chimes,
slippers piled by the door.
Lived in rooms with
messy harmony.
Music slips from under doors
and books
stacked
high.
I am from a family of four,
Dad yelling, red in the neck,
“Do your homework!”
Mom watching, trying
to keep me doing my work.
“God helps those that help themselves.”
Brother playing Halo on legendary,
DeadSpace only at night.
“ Before all else be armed.”
Me doing math,
headphones on,
a world away.
“She wasn't where she had been.
She wasn't where she was going…
but she was on her way.”
I come from boxed cheerios,
Brother's signature explosion on a plate.
Curry, bean burritos, spaghetti,
fish, papayas, steak
and spicy chilli
I come from T-shirts and sneakers.
Forever in blue jeans.
Tunic tops, velvet dress.
Slippers, necklaces, hair ties
and bracelets.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC