"uncharitable" poems
~
*In her sulking-place
alone and naked
framed in soft sepia
—the vintage, harlequin hue
at this supposed faded hour
she sits looking back on memory
she sits and stares
into the boudoir mirror
at herself
at her embonpoint
yes, at these *******
—at their landscape
how they fall
(like Niagara)
where they point
(like a compass)
what they tell (so fondly)
when pressed together
about their time
—their work and play
towers on the precipice
of judgment
both callous and
uncharitable
if the mirror
truly be her reflection
her vision is turned around
as illusion
—a study of tonality and tolerance
for one's own flesh
the room
an invitation
or perhaps
a lockaway
where she even keeps secrets
from herself*
~
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 10:37 AM UTC
I care about you Tomorrow's Girl
But you are right to fear me
I can be uncharitable
My intentions, sometimes dishonorable.
You do well to distrust me
I do not always wish your best,
even as I pledge you my loyalty.
Your desires are interpreted through my jealous filter,
the Maya of my own creation.
I will wish you ill,
And neither of us will know it.
Beware, I warn you from a higher perch.
I have also trusted in a Yesterday Girl.
My deceiver she was.
And wounded I was by her
In the very sanctuary she had created for us.
Above all suspicion,
She cradled me from weakness to strength
Then coldly abandoned me with the scars of her desires.
But she is not dead.
She whispers to me still, of promises unfulfilled.
And I listen.
These I must pass to you Unfortunate Friend.
I can choose nothing else.
Release me from your grim judgement,
As I have long-forgiven my beloved betrayer.
You too will wrong your charge.
You too will give a Judas kiss.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
The bleeding hearts were on the street again begging on behalf of some man in Vietnam who sits in his hut day in and day out staring at the four walls, while his wife and child draw water from a well five miles away and I ask these ladies, is yet man a christian?, why yes they reply and is your God all knowing, all seeing and graced with omnipotence, why yes mister they cackle.
Then I says he can look after this man in Vietnam, his wife and **** child, but mister they said their voices laden with shock, you too are a child of god and it is your duty to help these poor people.Sorry ladies I said , I so ain't naive, so I left them and their pleas. I don't feel guilty nor do I sympathize for this man in Vietnam who sits in his hut starting at the four walks day in and dayout, while his wife and child draw water from a well five miles away.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
You folks wonder why no one wants to walk through your wooden doors.
You act like we’re all supposed to swear the same clothes, sing the same songs.
What if our doctrine didn’t line up?
Would you judge me for not agreeing?
Recently I’ve become increasingly sensitive and hyper aware of my surroundings.
Your church reminded me of middle school,
And I couldn’t stand middle school. Everyone was clicky and exclusive.
Since when is church about who’s wearing the best outfit?
When did we Christians become so shallow?
It’s amazing how people can judge you when you’re not like them,
Carving out an image of perfection that never existed in the first place,
Because when it gets down to it we’re all broken.
You are not entitled to people coming to your church when the feelings are not welcoming.
Except one, she gave me a free ticket to the Beautiful Eulogy show.
Sadly to say, she was the only light at your church while everyone was dead,
or just full of themselves.
*There are good reasons why churches across America are dying off.
Christians can behave worse than non-Christians, at times even more cruel and uncharitable.*
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
A thousand remembrance is but one remembrance
a stirring melody only resonates if it moves the spirit
Lingers not a remembrance needlessly uncharitable
For on it's return will only find a soundless empty vista
You can gaze a thousand sights with empty glazed eyes
knowing it pours with transparent ease into a withering hole
for neither soul or mind find allure or worthiness in facades
the sages teaches passions governed not passions extracted
A thousand orators does not mean a thousand pulpit wits
sounds,voices needs welcoming home to attain completeness
in absence thus, they might as well be anything and nothing
disinterest, unattuned renders a deaf companion readily
A spartan is more than everyman less than the warrior king
in acute governance of mind, spirit and the call of the beast
for the chimes of climates races uneven, fallible thrones beware
In vagaries and shifts certainty stems within in tempered minds
copyright04April2019@Yensonallrights reserved
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
They ****
They Mame,
They steal,
They play,
They laugh,
They covet,
They test
Hell as an oven!!!
They backstab,
They backbite,
You pulleth and grab,
They moan in delight,
They cheat,
They lust,
They thrive,
Of bones and of dust!!!
Their uncharitable,
They murmer,
Their a narcotic using world,
Their explorers,
Their punks,
Their freaks,
Their madmen,
Their geeks!!!
Their warlords,
Their pacifists,
Their hatred,
Is all nonchalant!!!!!
They get high to get what they want,
Their complainers,
Their lazied!!!
Their pilled out,
Junkies,
Crazy!!!!
Their low,
In disguist,
They use perfumes of sixty dollars of more!!
A delightful expensive musk!!!
Their cheap,
Penny pinchers_
Their losers,
Their winners_
Their warriors,
Their jocks,
Taking selfies of shame,
Of perverted stuff!!!
Their tounges are asps,
Their hands are weapons,
They'll meet you in hell,
I looketh forward to heaven!!!!
Their babies,
Scaby infested,
Some get off on ***
Others love molestation!!
Their racists,
Their rapists to!!!
Of mother earth,
And mankind's tombs...
They turn on each other,
Sister and thy brother,
They gaze in mothers purse,
As with dad arguments stay cursed!!!
They are disobedient,
Disloyal in their love!!
No god do they worship,
Just Shaitan's to Satan's club!!!
They eat on organics,
They eat pesticide!!
Some live on freely,
Others seek thy easy way out(suicide)
The have no one to turn to,
Except their vain imaginations,
Their nonhumble,
Proudfully tumbled!!!!
Their fall is bound to occur!!!!
These are the humans!!!!
Welcome to earth!!!!
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 9:04 AM UTC
Give it away to keep it
Don't need a reason
Generous and selfish
Charitable treason
Mined it from the source
Runnin' through my heart
Lord, it's runnin' through my brain
Love don't tear it apart
I need you to want it
I want you to need it
This narcissistic fire for you
I need you to feed it
Your validation means too much to me
I feel I cannot love without it
You give it then you lose it
I think too much about it
I know there's a closet in your room
Filled with unwanted memories
Piled so high but still some room
For more unwanted pieces of me
If I had any pride I'd raid that room
Plunder it and take what was mine
Maybe give it to someone else
Everything I can find
For I cannot keep it for myself
What once I never owned
The sentiments have gone their seperate ways
From forgiveness unatoned
This addictive need to share
Has drained me of reasons
To find anything worth sharing
In this uncharitable season
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 9:55 AM UTC
a heavy cape of mist
hung over the rolling hills
the air twas replete
with the frostiness of winter's chills
all of the countryside
wrapped in a trembling shiver
even the rabbits and foxes
did repeatedly quiver
the setting in of the season
of protracted cold
freezing paws did clutch
with an uncharitable hold
all portions of the landscape
dead of state
the naked boughs of the trees
hung their heads in lowly gait
into a morass of tundra
which wasn't pleasantly nice
all would lay encased
in a gelid block of ice
a frozen solid mass
prevailed for a long spell
the New England region
devoid of the warming summer's knell
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
upon the spine
of the countryside
she places
her frigid fingers
all shudders
at the coldness
of her feel
uncharitable her freezing
persona
no pity
has she
the glacial scourge
of her iciness
doth so chill
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
My wishes for others,
at times,
are uncharitable to say the least.
I'm not proud of anything but my honesty.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 12:58 PM UTC
They sit in the humblest of frames,
Faux wood-grained plastic grotesqueries
Purchased long ago from some doomed Grants or Bradlees,
Though one or two enjoy something nicer,
Left behind by some long-timer taking a buyout
Or a sympathetic youngster denied tenure
(She has, for the better part of three decades,
Cleaned up the detritus of middle-school children,
A bit stooped from the work,
Not to mention the burden
Of any number of she’s just or she’s only
Tossed like so much bric-a-brac in her direction.)
The approximations of old masters equally eclectic in origin:
One or two gallery-quality reproductions
Blithely abandoned by some haughty faculty matron
Mentoring children through noblesse oblige,
The odd promotional piece from a scholastic publisher,
Mostly things she has cut from magazines or discarded texts.
She studiously avoids pieces tending to the dark or muted,
No Stuart portraiture or pensive Vermeers;
She has a strong predilection for bold, boisterous Gaugins,
Mad cubist Picassos, lush Cezanne still-lifes,
Even the odd blocky *******
If you pressed her to explain her fetish
For the brightest of the great masters,
She would likely be at a loss to explain,
Having no academic bent for such things
(Though she has been known to curse the shortcomings
Of lithographers and pressmen under her breath)
And, as she freely admits, I’m not much good with words.
There would be the uncharitable suggestion
That their purpose is to mask cracks and pockmarks in her walls
(She has, to be sure, lived in a long series of such places)
But she has never, consciously or otherwise,
Used them for such pedestrian and utilitarian purposes;
They are, to her anyway, beautiful, and that is all they need be.
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
If I could write you a poem,
Every hour, every minute,
To transcribe how I feel,
I would.
I ‘d let your hands touch my cheeks,
See right into my brain,
Read my thoughts, read my heart,
If I could.
I can’t always explain them,
The things that I do,
I go crazy, and selfish,
And blind.
But insane as I am,
I never forget
You’re my only,
And you’re one of a kind.
My hands,
As they stumble
Through keystrokes
Can never do justice to the warmth in your soul.
Or the way you are more
Than lips I can kiss,
Or a smile,
Or some hand I can hold.
Like a gentle roughness,
An echoing whisper,
Or an imperfection that makes something
Absolutely flawless,
You are something
So few souls can understand or fathom
That the thought of you
Makes them incredulous.
And being the uncharitable girl
That I am,
You’re a treasure
I won’t willingly share.
To risk something
So rare,
And of such high value,
Would be like walking into a snare.
For you, my dearest love,
Are not my just moon,
Or my stars,
But my radiant sunset.
Daily transforming beauty
That’s taken for granted
Into something
I’ll never forget.
Our every encounter
Is a rose among daisies—
Making memories
And never squandering time.
Though of it,
We lose track
As the clock fades into the background
Disappearing along with its chime.
But as goodbyes rush on us,
All too quickly,
And we kiss,
So reluctant to part,
I hope you always will know,
No matter how far you go,
My train of thought will always lead back
To your heart.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
i have loved you since the dawn of April
how fitting to fall in the rise of blooms
among the whispers of spring
we danced all night--
turning a bed of greenery into a dance floor
our feet didn't mind the faint fumblings
because our hearts were to busy skipping and tripping over beats
that night i fell in love with you
but was too scared to tread the unknown waters
filled with passions of uncharitable ferocity
so silent i kept
carefully tracing infinity signs on the inside of your arm as you slept
because this moment
i knew
was infinite
almost as infinite as the night that hid the tears shining in my eyes.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
The world's ablaze
Filled with rage
Mother nature is to blame
Not your God who is supposed to save
Not your God whose hands create
It's mother nature, the one who gives
Mother nature, the one who shares
Mother nature, the one who loves
Not your God who turns his back, no
The God who cares more
About your "unholy" bedroom life
More about your uncharitable deeds
Than he does the state of peace
Blame it on our mother
Who gives us her breath so we may live
Who gives the fauna from her back so we may eat
Who is crying silent tears so we can drink in peace
Yet you praise God
For his Mercy
For his 'generosity'
While he steals all her credit
Our dying mother, mourning her broken body all alone
While we dance across her continent sized bruises
And blame her abuse on herself alone
Jan 10, 2020
Jan 10, 2020 at 8:28 PM UTC
If I could write you a poem,
Every hour, every minute,
To transcribe how I feel,
I would.
I ‘d let your hands touch my cheeks,
See right into my brain,
Read my thoughts, read my heart,
If I could.
I can’t always explain them,
The things that I do,
I go crazy, and selfish,
And blind.
But insane as I am,
I never forget
You’re my man,
And you’re one of a kind.
My hands,
As they stumble
Through keystrokes
Can never do justice to the warmth in your soul.
Or the way you are more
Than lips I can kiss,
Or a smile,
Or some hand I can hold.
Like a gentle roughness,
An echoing whisper,
Or an imperfection that makes something
Absolutely flawless,
You are something
So few souls can understand or fathom
That the thought of you
Makes them incredulous.
And being the uncharitable girl that I am,
You’re a treasure I won’t willingly share—
To risk something so rare, and of such high value,
Would be like walking into a snare.
For you, my dearest love,
Are not my just moon,
Or my stars,
But my radiant sunset.
Daily transforming beauty
That’s taken for granted
Into something
I’ll never forget.
Our every encounter
Is a rose among daisies—
Making memories
And never squandering time.
Though of it,
We lose track
As the clock fades into the background
Disappearing along with its chime.
But as goodbyes rush on us,
All too quickly,
And we kiss,
So reluctant to part,
I hope you always will know,
No matter how far you go,
My train of thought will always lead back
To your heart.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 3:25 AM UTC