"unprovided" poems
Unprovided -- the pleasure of pleasing
is, after all, a painting that resolves
the irritating swings of a taxed evolution.
It seems that energetic trainees
of the future keep firm invitations
on the list of approved measures.
Yet living is not a guesstimate, reality
is attached by humor to the document
that simply reads "I'm not sure."
Imagine civilization as eight-years-old.
By want, business drains, not one laugh,
but the replacement of being one's own.
Shaped, the body is wary of the
counselor and satisfied by the character
of a farmer and time away from scorn.
Hang a map of sensibility in the kitchen,
where bare eyes can respond -- tokens of
action are the door prize for motivation.
The lessons not yet learned are musical.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 11:42 AM UTC
the minister spoke of renewal
all I heard was death
little comfort were his words
when never I'll see my friend again
he spoke of moving past
but what tragedy had he today
what loss was he to mourn
never one moment he spent
in my chair amidst the helpless
each of us dressed for royalty
and not a smile between us
I sat among the newly burdened
breaking faces transcended broken hearts
shudders betrayed dignity
not a single stranger
longed for an unprovided shoulder
and the choir voices sang
as no other could
every cousin and friend
hummed along in weary tears
wept their pleas for comfort
never so many eyes I seen
find so much to see on the ground
and never so much love I felt
push so many apart
he left us something beautiful
when he lost his life to fog and headlights
he died
and showed us all we are less than invincible
all the times he put me down
I remember him gone as a gentle soul
never a time did I forgive and grieve
like there I did this day
and still the minister spoke
of transformation
catipillars finding angel wings
but not one butterfly did I see
above all the aching hearts
speak on he did
of better places we may dwell
but of no better place could I think
for a child than a mothers arms
the choir sang of gods salvation
but the voices I heard pray
sang of no such truth
rarely my eyes found more than my feet
as the solemn words passed
but I saw all that was to be seen
as I heard family speak of ashen hopes
praised be god for water and rainbows
praised be god for Daniels life
I thank god for these tears
praised be god for Daniels life
the whole day I sought for reasons why
but theres no questions to be asked
more it hurts to wish for answers
than to try and let it pass
not of faith I felt no place
to pray among the rest
no peace for the soul of the son
was asked by me this day
only an apology I hope was heard
I'm sorry
**** I'm sorry this happened to you
praised be god for water and rainbows
praised be god for Daniels life
faces I so longed to see
turned and broke and poured on me
childhood friends
left their smiles in my memory
and understanding was all we exchanged
how have you been
how could I be I just lost my best friend
never have I hurt like I did this day
when I watched that scared boy
turn and walk away
Daniel left us something beautiful
he gave us all this day
to unite in being thankful
for this earth in which he lay
I thank god for water and rainbows
I thank god for Daniels life
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
Merry is the marionette,
almost a miniature man, who finds
his wires new-severed do flap
where once strum-tight they dictated
the when to fall octopus-limp
or to dance a sprightly jig
accompanied by silly jug tunes
he never even liked.
Stringlessness comes at a price.
On disjointed steps, Merry
would he have to make his own way
as an unprovided walker.
He sets out, philosophical
tomes in hand, for the wooded
fringes where a brook gurgles
and he'll grapple with consequence.
"I have a goodly appetite,"
Merry remarks. "I'll attack
these meaty words with fork and knife."
But the ideas do stew
and uncomfortably stowed
between 'Being and Nothingness,'
Merry wonders whether freedom is
not what he bargained for.
Just then he's startled by the tug
of wires gone taut, and caught up
in the dangle of an enormous
eagle, its talons eagerly
trying to untangle the strings
of a new play thing. Merry
might have wept, but who could cry
over the spilling of sour milk?
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 8:04 AM UTC
My most dear lord, king and husband,
The hour of my death now drawing on, the tender love I owe you forceth me, my case being such, to commend myself to you, and to put you in remembrance with a few words of the health and safeguard of your soul which you ought to prefer before all worldly matters, and before the care and pampering of your body, for the which you have cast me into many calamities and yourself into many troubles. For my part, I pardon you everything, and I wish to devoutly pray God that He will pardon you also. For the rest, I commend unto you our daughter Mary, beseeching you to be a good father unto her, as I have heretofore desired. I entreat you also, on behalf of my maids, to give them marriage portions, which is not much, they being but three. For all my other servants I solicit the wages due them, and a year more, lest they be unprovided for. Lastly, I make this vow, that mine eyes desire you above all things.
Katharine the Quene.
7 January 1536
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
Nostalgic body wishing for a cold spring
Lonely nights with horror cinema and unprovided love
Chocolate and endless food for the dawn
Dreams and daydreams were real and alive
They weren’t covered in shades and dark
I wish I could feel hope and love
I wish I could find a good movie that I cannot forgot
A good album that abide me by and a time for me to feel alive
Poetry isn’t poetry anymore
When it’s losing its meaning
It’s losing its meaning
May 26, 2021
May 26, 2021 at 5:30 PM UTC