"unsheathed" poems
I have shorn the hair of Samson
And the tiger's claws unsheathed
I have spit into the hurricane
And defied as fires breathed
The minutest one is fastest
And the closest one to me
The largest is the strongest
The most likely to break free
The middle is most cunning
Spits and growls at my resolve
Yet I face the fearsome challenge
As should one the more evolved
I have bravely fought the battle
To triumphant victory
As I fiercely clip the claws
Of not just one cat, but all three
Cori MacNaughton
20Mar2001
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
6.3k
this makeshift democracy
yearning endearing
breeding festering aristocracy
petrified on the sidelines
black hispanic asian european
the manifesting minority
which built this republic
political policy withered to marrow
echoes of Washington
fade in graves marble halls
politicians etches unsheathed
to feast in bribery sorts
the gleam of monetary value
blinded patched pockets
burning the fabric
to be later devoured
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
We spread our blanket on uneven
ground, bodies embracing in descent,
They lay on the boxcar floor,
fingers twisted, clutching slats.
Transfixed by the spell of evening,
limbs entwined, interlaced,
Barbed wire punctured palms
faces creased as in old photographs.
We stretched in dawn’s light,
poured coffee out of cups,
and left as it merged with the dust.
Bones upheave ground
unsheathed fingers
clotted with soil.
Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
rite like Dylan/past the point of no return
all my life wanted to rite just once like Dylan.
but too set in the errors of my way to complement/compliment a master of the phrase, the original tunes I hum’em all
plagued and plagiarized and yet pleasing
head the Head over to the refrigerator, arrive in one piece,
but totally not remembering why I came this way,
cause i am way way past the point of no return
Oh yeah oh yeah cool brother Corona light to succor the soul,
while roasting body slow in a lavender bubble bath and it ain’t
even noon and no no room for company, this solo wonder-boy
tripping alone
pay my bills in the bath, winnow the widow-maker reading list,
good ****** on a free sundaey and there ain’t no football to watch and autocorrect authority don’t like ****** it only godded one D, as if He needs two D’s to mess us up better
the Corona doing magic trick disappearing so fast and here i am
certified past the point of return and there ain’t no more beer
in the general vicinity
so now the time to summarize my little darlings;
don’t break beer bottles in the bathroom,
don’t pay your bills in the bathtub when u gots 53.42 in cking,
don’t take your iPhone unsheathed into the same vicinity
all you will be left with is maxed out cc’s,
messes you want
not to tangle with,
brain leavings of a bad poem half write,
it isn’t even bad dylan mimicry
but confirmation you passed the point of no return
and u happy hum
don’t think twice it’s alright
it is all on my cover photo
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
He unsheathed his sword
And you retreat,
. . Stepping backward . .
Tears fell from his cheeks
As he surrendered,
"Your doubt, it hurts."
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
Slick grass glistened heavy
After summer showers fell before a sun
That trickled veiled toward transcendent trees
Towered on the outskirts of the demesne - It unsheathed
A pearlescent canvas for a dreamer who paints ideals;
A reader finding signs in smiles and glances
Strolling paths free of fear to free imagination;
Summoning hopes against a fresh red/orange
Backdrop, and ignoring perilous heights to cast
A thought to moments yet unlived -
This fool's masterpiece.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
The owl and the ***** cat***
Were out having tea
After a simple beach side walk
The owl took out a guitar
And sang to kitty brash, kneeled
Before her Crimson chair
A sweet romantic ballad it was
Yet ***** cat was too busy
Observing owl and noticing
What a dainty meal he'd make.
Interrupting his declarations
She stole him away
Under the starry midnight sky
Whereupon in the woods
Her claws she unsheathed
And silenced his poetic display
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
Have you ever done nothing wrong
Yet to be punished so severely?
Body of a monster, face of a woman,
It isn't flesh that you wear
But scales, green ones
Hissing is your music
And the sound of an unsheathed sword your funeral dirge
Have you ever
Been Medusa?
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
in a land where four languages are official
a church was named only in three; for the fourth
is the language of a weak and fragile faith
whose edicts are above the law of the land,
and whereof knowing a church's name is temptation
and the tempter the sinner and the tempted sinless;
a rock is evil for stumbling the weak,
and if truth offends the truthsayer dies,
and the thief blameless for the rich flaunts his gold;
thus protected by an unsheathed ****** sword
a faith strengthened with every tempter's death
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 11:17 PM UTC
Here I sit, pen in hand a mighty sword, unsheathed. Ready to plunge its tip into the blank pages of this book. A lifeless martyr ready to spill its blood in delivering a profound message. It will fight wars on paper readily pour out its life out at its masters will. Its meets an ignorant page and leaves it a scholar. It transforms shapeless thoughts into vivid language. It halts at memories of old, days of love, joy, surprise, anger, frustration, sadness, fear and solitude. It wonders of days yet to pass, will it write anymore. For the present time, it is content laying in-between the pages of this book.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
Brown-eyed eraser
Subtract scars, blurry
Hurry up, you gotta chase her
Stand straight over the river bluff
Reach a toe to touch
A cloud, a puff
Of smoke from dragons underneath
A sword unsheathed
I'll tell you if I'll let me
Count it down
One, two, three
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
i asked my god for rest
and in pagan desperation
he gave me apolaki
god of the sun and war
i mistook him for seraphim
God struck me down
with the force of a thousand spaniards
reaching my country's once untouched shores
*your land had a god of the sun and war
before they pinned you in virginal grace
your country wanted you to see the sun
and remember war was not for the bloodthirsty
for your people it was god's will*
i asked my god for love
and in carnal frustration
he gave me anagolay
goddess of lost things
i mistook her for a saint
archangels unsheathed their swords
celestial eyes filled with rage
*your land had known loss
long before you did
your country had known loss
long before love had made it known
you will find yourself again*
i asked my god for light
and in familiar search
he gave me tala
goddess of stars
and i stopped seeing them as stained glass figures
i no longer saw my banished gods
engulfed in the power of rome
my land saw the stars before God's first day
"let there be light" He said and apolaki bowed in recognition
tala greeted Him with a smile and promise
anagolay laughed in joy and gratitude
my country had gods before wooden crosses
before the galleons carrying friars came armed in holy water
before my archipelago had become a sprawl of cathedrals
now i'd like to think my God and bathala smile down on me
saint jude conspiring with lakapati
cherubim sleeping in diyan masalanta's arms
i'd like to think the gods are at peace
i'd like to think they would only want me to remember
to never forget every disfigured reflection of the almighty
Thy will be done.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be.
For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
Has one ever known
The therapy of cutting fruit?
To pare a pear
Its skin left bare
And cleaned of its coarse green suit?
Underneath
The white meat
With knife parts so easily
That, in my grief
Blade unsheathed
Slice here and here and here.
Sweet relief! The nectars pour
In the sink and on the floor,
Its ****** sheen
--The loveliest I’ve seen!—
So I cut more and more.
I’ll cut the fruit, just like I said
One can't **** what's already dead.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
It’s brave to acknowledge the faults
Standing naked, without the armor
Behind which the fears hid
Unsheathed swords ready to strike
Everyone around wants to avenge
Cloaked with the veil of vulnerability
Cornered and taken to trial
None, but you have faltered ever
From the trials and tribulations
Emerges a strong soul
Which had the gumption to acknowledge
The faults that one may succumb to
Yet, the bravest cannot concede
It takes a valiant heart
To be not scared to acknowledge
And emerge a winner
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
Upon the gate
Words inscribed
"TRESPASSERS BEWARE"
Behind me mist recedes
Steep cliff revealed
At the brink I tense
My footsteps echo as
The gate looms larger
Damp black rocks under
Hits me the tortured's howls
As I step across the threshold
Legs steady, eyes set
Dense fog obscuring
Flame and body
The torch flickers
A winding path I follow
Patient and unwavering
With sword unsheathed
Cold wind announces my destination
Before me the chasm yawns
From my hands the flickering torch
Fell boucing down jagged rocks
I grasp the hilt of my sword
Light refracting off the blade
I hold it outward through the fog
Its light dimming by the minute
And await the terrors to come
Rumbling from the distance
The gate crashes down
Darkness falls upon this realm
The chilly wind picking up
All sounds coming to a halt
I close my eyes
Steps unsteady as I pick my way
Not knowing how many
Gasping I pull my feet back
As it touched empty space
Then tentatively I inch
Forward with a heavy breath
Until I stop at the very brink
For a minute staying still yet
With a lurch I slip into the chasm
Cloak billowing above me I
Flail around in a frenzy
I feel the cool hilt still and
Point the sword downwards
Taking a deep breath and
Bracing for the impact
Jul 25, 2024
Jul 25, 2024 at 7:37 PM UTC
Under the grieving moon
we whispered secrets long kept.
Beneath the roaring waves
that drowned us as...
we quietly wept.
We spoke in hushed tones
of promises made to last.
Our cracked voices
melded with the echoes of a time...
of a fond memory in the past.
Water in our mouths
with words we jousted and lunged.
Heard only as hapless gurgles
and inaudible whimpers.
Unparried speculations
unsheathed and then plunged.
We cupped our wounds and retreated
knowing that we each drew blood.
We kissed with our eyes,
broke down walls
and welcomed the flood.
We wiped our cheeks
now smeared hot with tears.
Where did we err?
Who do we blame...
for dishevelled years?
We would never know...
but we must learn.
Time had shown us our mistakes
but our hearts had taught us
eternal love that burns.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
As you speak careful words they fan out
From your lips to soak adoring souls -
You paint their cages with a message of escape
And you reach between bars to warm the
Cold cheeks of the lowly.
As you search for the people behind
Translucent skin you spare a kiss -
Guiding them out, granting them
The freedom you pen in never-ending
Spirals on unsheathed arms.
It wasn't you who promised your crown.
We all grew to take more than we deserved.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
in the blue steel sky
where new northern
mornings arrive
and the stark chill
of predawn elementals
reign across the cycles
of timeless millennia
Orion stands, emblazoned
returned from a summer
season of hunting
in far off hemispheres
greeting old comrades
tied to the fixed points
of fluxing terra firma
with mighty sword
unsheathed and risen
to stalk the spare game
of a dire season
in seasons past
i too was once a
great hunter
now i thumb
the dull blade
of my ill used sword
commencing a search
of deep pockets
for a stout heart,
diligent resolve and
a sharpening stone
Philip Glass Ensemble
Orion: India
Oakland
10/25/13
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
she comes from the foam
the knife from her gut
hidden in her rolling cloak
taking steps along the shore
her coral hair
catching the light of the moon
she stumbles across a bonfire
a party for a prince’s fiancee
introducing herself to the couple
the girl stares past them at the slowly tossing waves
the lead her to the castle
giving her nicer clothes, a shower
the graceful princess
her gilded gown glistening
as she teaches the beauty of the sea
to brush her hair, use a fork
she walks with them.
...
the atrocities committed
by her new family
oil in the oceans
disastrous runoff
carried by the currents
putting the sea, her sea
to a slow and painful death
at night, she crept into their chamber
her knife unsheathed
shimmering, poised above her captors
she moved to strike
stopped, by a sea witch
the cruel being smiled
her teeth, cracked and crooked shells
striking a deal:
a life for a life
the sea maiden would be turned
a daughter of triton, son of poseidon
fins instead of legs
protecting the ocean, her home
from the inside.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Darkness creeps, a heavy, silent shroud,
Enveloping my soul, a mournful cloud.
Frantic, cold, I search drawers wide,
Pills my sole solace, survival's wild ride.
Anti-depressants stare, empty, bare,
Desperation grips, no refuge there.
The nightstand jerks with a forceful sway,
Scattered remains of emptiness lay.
But in the chaos, our feather lies—
Goldfinch quill, a sharp surprise.
Black as night, like my sorrow’s blight,
Yet golden glints hold memories bright.
I sink back, sweat stained silk slides on skin,
Coldness seeps slowly within.
Curled fetal tight, the tears cascade,
A storm that no memory can evade.
Yet memories rise—a forest fair,
Blooming wildflowers scent the air.
Through filtered light, we walked unseen,
Our steps soft under leaves’ green sheen.
She found the feather, bold and slight,
“Look,” she smiled, “it’s our love’s light.”
“Like you,” she laughed, “a fierce gold flame,
Unbroken strength, and spirit’s claim.”
At water's edge, we undulate,
Lips meet, bodies entwine, love creates.
Wet skin tingles, to our feather’s trace,
Legs gently open --
A sweet, secret place.
Reality pulls, the cold seeps through,
Back and *** ache, stiffness breaking through.
Time lost, darkness gathers, depression's sway,
Minutes or hours, endless disarray.
Clutching our feather, memories sweet I breathe,
Yet, beneath love's scent, depression’s blade, unsheathed.
Depression's shadows creep, darkness claims space,
Our feather's comfort, fading grace.
Defeated, armor shed, lace silk unfolds,
Transparent whispers, love told.
Soft stained fabric slides, silk underwear released,
Vulnerability unveiled, depression's dark gold.
Naked, exposed, lying still, curtains closed,
Darkness envelops ----
Weightless, sinking, water's gentle grasp,
Slowly submerged, darkest pass.
Eyes closed, descending, beneath waves,
Depression's undertow, heart enslaves.
Silence --
But through the depths, her whisper calls,
“You are strong, though darkness falls.”
A feather’s grace, love’s healing might,
Even as shadows steal the light.
Nov 21, 2024
Nov 21, 2024 at 10:23 AM UTC
.oh... hi y'all:
or rather - how did i find this in the noun Ohio?
i guess after watching
the disaster artist
and no having watched
the room...
the tetragrammaton
is so glaring to me
in the English tongue,
i might as well be
a reincarnation of
Belshazzar
(but not really...
because, to me,
reincarnation
implies
a fixed number
of people...
and an mingling
of solipsism from
philosophy,
and NPC from the gaming
world...
no, i can't believe
in reincarnation...
saving grace of
the Hindus?
they're not lactose intolerant;
boogie-woogie-boo-woo
ooh things are turning,
freak-y...
why is that a Y and not
an E?
see... the tetragrammaton
is glaring at me...
like an ***** protruding
phallus with the added
"flavor" of a circumcision
snippet...
me? i'm fine...
no snippet...
i can **** off as much
as i like and not feel
stupid -
or catholic, about it,
having, in my possession,
an unsheathed "sword").
p.s. it really is the case
of circumcising men
as a procreational motivation,
no ******** on you...
plenty of ******** on her...
and how the east meets
the west...
back in the east i'd be a blessing...
over 'ere?
i'm a walking abortion...
a nuisance...
something you send off
to fight in incestuous...
here's my 100 year closure celebration:
V!
like the Welsh longbow men... up yours!
who? in the 100 year war...
the French would cut off the...
**** index or middle finger?
they would cut off one of the fingers
of the Welsh longbow men...
so they could fire an arrow...
P.O.W.s...
so the Welsh longbow men
came up with V... a salute
to the French... up yours!
i still have mine!
hence? i don't feel ****** jerking off...
too bad, ol' chap,
you've been given an incentive
to find your missing ********
in a woman's *****
sorry... i actually feel sorry for
you having this imposed on you...
the missing caftan / hood and all...
sometimes i wondered:
does she even know what she's
doing performing ******** on
me? maybe i could cut my torso off
and show her how to do it?
in the east i'd be a godsend,
but in the west i'm an
embarrassment...
great in tissue... greater still
in pointless wars...
auxiliary pageant...
sure sure...
glorify the women...
last time i heard my ex-girlfriend
gave birth to her fourth child...
her fourth daughter...
i seriously should have been
born a ******* Mongol.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
I am not disposable.
That's a fact, it's non-negotiable.
A fact, which right now you smirk at-
but I am not a servant, and
you're certainly not an aristocrat.
I am not expendable.
I wish proper etiquette was injectable,
because that's a vaccine you desperately need.
Caring and truly caring-
you need to learn the difference between those two things.
I am not nonessential.
You think you know me inside and out,
but you don't have the right credentials.
I try to understand your motives,
but your thoughts are cryptic and confidential.
I am not unnecessary.
You make yourself into two faces-
the object of all my affection, and my greatest adversary.
This situation is just a coal mine-
your treating me like I am these things is the canary.
These things are what I am not.
I should be paramount in your life.
Through your own actions you've proven these are all I am to you,
You've unsheathed a backstabbing knife.
I am here to stay.
Though you've nonchalantly tried to toss me away,
you will learn someday,
that I am not disposable.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
Once upon a time in the days of old
There lived a very ugly troll
But her heart was made of gold
Her body was round and lumpy
Her brow furrowed and grumpy
She always stood all slumpy
She was abandoned as soon as she was born
For her mother had looked upon her with scorn
For with beauty she was not adorned
She was wrapped in a towel and placed under a bridge
Right up there on that little ridge
She was nothing then but a little smidge
The forest creatures insteed of eating her up
Raised her as a cub
They even shared with her their grub
The wolf taught of graces
The vultures, patience
The skunk, fragrances
The mouse taught of need
The crow, greed
The fox, speed
She lived in an ugly house of mud
Just like her the outside was a dud
But wow the inside of that hut could warm your blood
Late one night came a knock on her door
It was a knight in shining armor complete with sword
Battle weary, and badly gourd
She took him in and sewed up he's wounds
He looked longingly in her eyes, she thought loved had bloomed
But in reality she unknowingly sealed her doom
For he had seen her heart of gold
Please excuse me, this is where the tale turns cold
For this knight was not so nice, he had a heart of mold
Late that same darkened night
He unsheathed his sharpest knife
And plunged in the troll's chest just right
With a wailing mournful cry
Right there in her hut she would die
In that fleeting moment that sparkle left her eye
That knight cut out that gloden heart
It was so huge he had to put it on a cart
He didn't feel bad, what an ugly troll was he's only thought
The animals came to see what was that screaming sound
The wolfs smelled around
Nose to the ground
Off to hunt that evil knight down
The vultures did what they do, and ate her remains
The crows joined in and did the same
The mice and the fox just ran around all insane
The moral to this story is an ugly body can hold a heart of gold
But this world is very, very cold
So be very careful with your heart and to who it is you show
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC