"vestments" poems
I cannot pick a color
I love more
Each is thrilling
and some seem
the breath of life to all the rest
I loved my crayons
They became my escape
from misery
the contrast to any given day at school
Any excuse to use them all
or just one
to avoid that lowest reading group
the monstrosities of math
If I couldn't sing it
there were no letters in the alphabet
I could not tell you A from Z
But you see--
That day was
purple!
That was all that mattered
I loved its richness and its depth
its mystery
its royalty
King Midas would have liked it, I was sure
almost a religion
Vestments of the priest
in the times of expectation
It is the explanation for
the last of day
As a five-year-old
I drew my love for purple
Passionate
and outside all the lines-- off onto the desk
I was so proud!
But--
Miss Platt, so horrified
asked,
What is it
I was trying to do?
I didn't know....
I was suddenly ashamed
and frightened too
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:06 PM UTC
I.
I'm writing to tell you that I've spoken with your sister.
She tells me everything these days, though recently I've marked the way her voice conceals a quiet shame; rage in casual tones, and fear in quiet whispers.
I haven't kissed her in quite some time.
She's thinking of you.
II.
I'm sorry that I haven't written sooner. This fasting saps volition from my fingers, and the hot smell of ozone still lingers in the air.
But everywhere I see you on the news.
Has Ramadan been hard for you this year? I'm looking forward to hearing from you. I want to know that you are near once more. Please write.
III.
I saw an action flick today, and something of you in the way the heroine roared and flipped her hair just before letting a rocket fly.
I thought that I would die of suspense until the moment when the hero rose from the rubble to stand above his foes.
Crows circled. Credits rolled.
IV.
Thunder tolls. The atmosphere crackles and bursts. It's early yet, and not even my worst. My warring hands will never give you peace. An endless war-song issues from my lips.
You are not brave enough, dear girl, to resist destruction by my hand. The bomb blessed by my lips is indifferent, darling boy.
I will consume the gardens planted with your seeds.
V.
Bismillah, arrahman, arraheem.
VI.
Blessed is he who cries out for peace.
The Lord sees him and sees that he is good.
Blessed is she who dines before the sunrise and loses her life at noon, still clad in vestments of her childhood.
VII.
Eid Mubarak, and peace be with you every year. I've yet to hear from you.
I saw your sister again today. Whatever tinged her voice still holds her.
She said she hasn't written.
It matters who writes, so write a love-letter, I told her.
She's thinking of you.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
After Midnight
The narcissists fall
After Midnight
A new lyric calls
After Midnight
The bugles will blow
After Midnight
There’s more left to know
After Midnight
The lizards collect
After Midnight
All tales to reflect
After Midnight
The ticking won’t stop
After Midnight
The bottom has topped
After Midnight
A cancerous tome
After Midnight
Malignancy known
After Midnight
Betray and deceive
After Midnight
Alone in the siege
After Midnight
All footsteps fall deaf
After Midnight
Last palate uncleft
After Midnight
New story to front
After Midnight
A star for the dunce
After Midnight
The comets rebel
After Midnight
The coroners yell
After Midnight
A suit made of steel
After Midnight
Its melting reveals
After Midnight
The plain and the slack
After Midnight
There’s no turning back
After Midnight
A sacred oath sworn
After Midnight
All memory forlorn
After Midnight
The wheels bend and turn
After Midnight
Lost vision relearns
After Midnight
False birth is stillborn
After Midnight
Old vestments are torn
After Midnight
The here and the now
After Midnight
That one sacred cow
After Midnight
Past-Future unseen
After Midnight
—new eyes that believe
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 12:01 PM UTC
She sits at night, spinning spells of love and luck,
Splashes inscense over hair and hides it under a rock,
Chanting affirmations through a darkened midnight mirror,
Making talismans with earthly blessings for the wearer,
Waxing moon, waning moon, full or half or crescent,
She will make pain go away, or teach someone a lesson,
Your deepest wishes she will grant, for that is what she does,
She draws upon the ocean tides without a hint of fuss,
But never will she use her power to hurt, or maim, or ****
A hedge witch only beckons love, but not against the will,
An alter made from beauty with the softest female touch,
And vestments worn with good intent, to teach us all so much,
Next time you see a hedge witch, tilt your head and say hello,
As she may find you love some day, and you might never know...
Oct 29, 2009
Oct 29, 2009 at 6:00 AM UTC
Coming from the shadows a six armed samurai,
Followed closely by glowstick wielding neon ninji,
Grips of *** swigging pirates swing from the rafters,
Swallowed alive by blacklight monsters,
Gangs of ***** smoking gurus,
Armed to the teeth with translucent didgeridoos,
Monks parade in swirling vestments,
Whilst the shaman trip in lotus testament,
Gods transfixed by blood tear beauty,,
As humanity’s heroes slay bejeweled dragons,
The king with two faces is beheaded,
By his charlatans, harlequins, fools and jesters,
Chaotic, prophetic killers run amok,
The order of lunatics chant as the time is struck,
A battle royale then follows,
As robots and aliens envelope,
Brilliant beams and whirring mechanics,
Clash with steel, rock, bone and sticks,
Screams from the heads of the thieves,
As their brains are devoured by zombies
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
Worship in vanity the thread count in linen
Sacred vestments of Gucci Inquisition
Crimson is the season
She called it blood orange
I simply saw blood
Diamonds in her ears
Stole the glory from the stars
Dull brown eyes hide
Below saturated blue
Lenses to hide her shame
That she wasn’t born a princess
Perhaps prince charming awaits
In another dive bar
Holding a whiskey sour
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
Day's end, sun's caisson doth wend
Residual rays a respite to append
Twilight's shroud dreary dividend
Swirls of gray into firmament blend
Vestments of light shed sacral veil
Luna's naked, pale orb flashes its spell
Twinkling sprites across dark tides sail
Constellation's mystical portents braille
Nyx, Erebos eclipse Hemera's blithe melody with bass duet
Earth's warmed bed yields its thermal blanket
Ocean tides move in rhythmic tandem to cadence of lunar clarinet
Swarming shadows stalk each footstep paring each dark secret
Greek gods
Nyx: goddess of Night
Erebos: goddess of Darkness
Hemera: goddess of Day
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 6:35 AM UTC
Gnashing of teeth,
Tearing of vestments
Crematory waste
Smeared upon my face.
Angst
God has died,
A wanton suicide
Her ******* children
Now run this place.
Angst
***** stained covers
Adulterous lovers,
Depart smiling,
Not hiding their Faces.
Angst
Wounded skies bleed
On terra infirma indeed
It’s poison leaching
Into bubbling brooks.
Angst
Bonita Muerte
Erasing the pain
Setting the corpses
On the pyres again
Angst
AD
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 11:18 AM UTC
After Midnight
The narcissists fall
After Midnight
A new lyric calls
After Midnight
Last bugle to blow
After Midnight
There’s more left to know
After Midnight
The lizards collect
After Midnight
Old tales to reflect
After Midnight
The ticking will stop
After Midnight
The bottom will top
After Midnight
A cancerous tome
After Midnight
Malignancy known
After Midnight
Betray and deceive
After Midnight
Alone in the siege
After Midnight
All footsteps fall deaf
After Midnight
Lost palates are cleft
After Midnight
New story to front
After Midnight
Two stars for the dunce
After Midnight
The comets rebel
After Midnight
The coroners yell
After Midnight
A suit made of steel
After Midnight
Its melting reveals
After Midnight
That voice in the back
After Midnight
There’s no turning back
After Midnight
A sacred oath sworn
After Midnight
All memory forlorn
After Midnight
The wheels bend and churn
After Midnight
Lost vision returns
After Midnight
False birth is stillborn
After Midnight
Old vestments are torn
After Midnight
The here and the now
After Midnight
That one sacred cow
After Midnight
Past-Future unseen
After Midnight
—creation redeemed
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
I love the church: its labara,
its silver vessels, its candleholders,
the lights, the ikons, the pulpit.
Whenever I go there, into a church of the Greeks,
with its aroma of incense,
its liturgical chanting and harmony,
the majestic presence of the priests,
dazzling in their ornate vestments,
the solemn rhythm of their gestures-
my thoughts turn to the great glories of our race,
to the splendor of our Byzantine heritage.
3.1k
of beautiful things
willowy warbler's
wax'n wings
silvery strumming
singing sands
languid lagoons
in luxurious lands
carvings of creosote
cacti create
fulcrum of flame
thru frivolous
fate
volcanic vestibule
vestments and
vestiges
historical hypothesis
harmonious
heritage
melanin melange
mellifuous
mild
woodduck waters
wheeling and
wild
crystal caverns
creating
light
nocturnal nymphs
announcing the
night
sumptuous sunsets
scintillation's
scream
dramatic dawn
drawn
from
a
dream
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/2/2015
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
Preponderant enchantments written
With dawns bereft tears
Of a hircine mendicant
Upon a necromantic acorn
Thirsting times wild-wize monition
During a week of sundays
Atide sins wake awash
Clarities purification.
Natures immure debt drawing
Maledictions masterpiece,
Leys bane web mercifully mirroring
Obsidian sibilant eyes
Peccably prenouncing the portent
Languid whisper inquisitorially;
Heavens augumented vestments
Distinguishable amid eternities
Pensive shade as thuriferous
Hallowed tombs loom black
As ink, somewhere that was
Thought to be void far between
The dark hour anchoring the
Fractured talisman of loves memoirs.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
I presse not to the Quire, nor dare I greet
The holy Place with my unhallow’d feet:
My unwasht Muse pollutes not things Divine,
Nor mingles her prophaner notes with thine;
Here, humbly at the Porch, she listning stayes,
And with glad eares ***** in thy Sacred Layes.
So, devout Penitents of old were wont,
Some without doore, and some beneath the Font,
To stand and heare the Churches Liturgies,
Yet not assist the solemne Exercise.
Sufficeth her, that she a Lay-place gaine,
To trim thy Vestments, or but beare thy traine:
Though nor in Tune, nor Wing, She reach thy Larke,
Her Lyricke feet may dance before the Arke.
Who knowes, but that Her wandring eyes, that run
Now hunting Glow-wormes, may adore the Sun.
A pure Flame may, shot by Almighty Power
Into my brest, the earthy flame devoure:
My Eyes, in Penitentiall dew may steepe
That bryne, which they for sensuall love did weepe:
So (though ‘gainst Natures course) fire may be quencht
With fire, and water be with water drencht.
Perhaps, my restlesse Soule, tyr’d with pursuit
Of mortall beautie, seeking without fruit
Contentment there; which hath not, when enjoy’d,
Quencht all her thirst, nor satisfi’d, though cloy’d;
Weary of her vaine search below, above
In the first Faire may find th’ immortall Love.
Prompted by thy Example then, no more
In moulds of Clay will I my God adore;
But teare those Idols from my Heart, and Write
What his blest Sp’rit, not fond Love, shall endite.
Then, I no more shall court the Verdant Bay,
But the dry leavelesse Trunk on Golgotha:
And rather strive to gaine from thence one Thorne,
Then all the flourishing Wreathes by Laureats worne.
2.3k
**"His mind would never romp again like the mind of God."
The Great Gatsby**
Does he fret,
Does he sweat,
Does he pay his bills
On Time,
Even tho his personal stash
Of anything,
Inexhaustible and
He bills himself?
Is he lonely,
So when he romps,
His greatest pleasure is
Inventing new kinds of pain?
Does he like to watch butter
Snowmelt,
Does he turn the honey jar
Upside down
Because viscosity is
A turn on?
Is he lonely?
Of course he is,
Is that why he endlessly
Tinkers with creative destruction?
Does he put strawberry jam
On his watermelon?
Salt on his wounds,
Caramelized onions in his
Cologne and parfumes?
Does he watch reruns?
The bombing of Dresden, Hiroshima?
The shaving of the heads of the French women?
What's his fav. late night host,
When he can't sleep
And. his damaged dreams
Become our unfortunate realities?
Acting childish, a métier,
So he can scold himself?
Does he keep score,
Ever say no more,
Contemplate suicide,
Or just murdering his sons?
Did he kiss Shakespeare's lips,
Or just his fingertips?
Does he sing a Capella
With Holly and Cooke,
Let Beethoven play rock n' roll?
What is he best excuse
For playing with
Tormented souls,
Making so many wonderful things
Forbidden fruit?
Does he worship regularly at the altar?
Irony his faith and skin his vestments?
Are his twisted straight,
His late, early?
His order disordered and when bored,
Does he just close his eyes and
Let us live in peace?
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
a loop of spume immune to fumes of eastern tombs
a burnin'; a mad flash of candied wrath
and junebug randy newman;
what rumbles jest in vestments yet
to loom a knit or pearl two... a ****** crest
of ***** wrecks and rubber necks
to view you...
a nop of lopsy,
fever pitched in thicket rich begonia;
and roman roads
too golden
kicks
from hydro
in
your hedge
row.
a droop of noon in cool remove
from gypsum dim sum laude.
a drowning witch on boney creeks
of needles and salami.
untongued. a pool of fringe
rhymes with orange,
yes a door-hinge,
off it's moorings...
off it's Meds
death beds
for trampolines
in petrified forests...
a nop of lopsy, frogging Gatsby,
greatly famished to the Nines;
an olden toll of wish fits
then nothing
comes.
and that's
Life.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 2:11 PM UTC
I awoke in a dream
Surrounded by a bilious familiarity
Angry shades of the drying blood of hope
Caked over venomous fangs of discontent
Stagnant shadows of effluvium
Emanate from the molten flesh
Of this creature I seem to know
But how, how do i know this putrid soul
This being, born of irascible acrimony
Seething breaths sear my senses
As I feel the pounding heart
Scream within it's chest
Aflame with the atrocities it has incited
Yet, in it's gentle eyes there is no malice
There is only the reflection of an angel
Gossamer vestments blow in the stillness
So effulgent in the darkness
Again, familiar and uncomfortable
It's eyes bore into mine that reflection of heaven
I could not see myself in those eyes
That gaze seemed to hypnotize in its polarity
As I floated unseen, I looked at this being
Seething miasmata while reflecting a seraph
Acidic tears of truth fell from within my poisoned soul
As the creature and the reflection merged in the bluest flame
And transformed my spirit into flesh
I am both the reflection and the being
Living the anguish of the truth of what I am
Fighting every moment to be less than and more than
Pretending that I do not embody the dichotomy of bile and bliss
Seraph and succubus
The truth and the lie
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
“The Mass is ended,
go in peace.”
the aged cleric said.
“Thanks be to God”
said some dozen odd
parishioners
who then fled.
The Priest dismissed
his server.
and had turned himself to
go
when he noticed still
one worshiper
kneeling in the seventh row.
She was an older woman,
her head swathed in
a blue scarf.
She was obviously in devotion
before the Sacred Heart.
He thought:
“There is no need to rush”
He shuffled towards the chair.
which is where the Bishop sits
when attending service there.
The aging cleric said a prayer
for the gracious soul’s repose
whose generosity provided
his vestments and his robes.
He next prayed for his friend,
a priest, who’d grown too fond of wine.
He’s consecrating grape juice now
the non alcoholic kind.
He thought:
“it now is getting well past time
I need to lock the doors.”
His urban church had been vandalized
a scant few months before.
He rose up on his arthritic hip
and didn’t cry in pain
He accepted this, his suffering,
in Jesus’ holy name.
As he approached the woman,
Her head bowed as before
He had a vague uneasiness
He experienced fear and awe
She looked up then and he said
“Mother!”
and fell, senseless, on the floor.
His housekeeper found his body
on the floor of fitted stone.
The police found no evidence of foul play,
The priest had died alone.
The M.E. said the heart had failed
Though not from shock or rage
The Lord had called his servant home
to grace a grander stage.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 12:02 PM UTC
Ascend and crown the sky, amazing lark
You cannot know what joy you bring
To this winter-weary heart
Bumble on, friendly bee
You do not know how vital is your art
And what relief to see the tiny leaf unfurl
On the grand old oak
Who shunned all vestments through the winter's chill
But now puts on his greenest summer cloak
Come swallows, fast and low
Perform your aeronautic feats (like spitfires)
Swimming through the air
Skimming o'er the growing wheat
Comfrey on the river bank
Milkmaids in the meadow damp
Cow's parsley with its lacy bobbin' heads
Dandelion's golden threads
My heart feels part, as if re-born
Of this rejuvenating summer dawn
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 5:31 AM UTC
One dreary September day
Emperor Manuel Komninos
felt his death was near.
The court astrologers -bribed, of course- went on babbling
about how many years he still had to live.
But while they were having their say,
he remebered an old religious custom
and ordered ecclesiastical vestments
to be brought from a monastery,
and he put them on, glad to assume
the modest image of a priest or monk.
Happy all those who believe,
and like Emperor Manuel end their lives
dressed modestly in their faith.
1.5k
There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess,
Who invented a purely original dress;
And when it was perfectly made and complete,
He opened the door, and walked into the street.
By way of a hat, he'd a loaf of Brown Bread,
In the middle of which he inserted his head;--
His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice,
The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice;--
His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins,--but it is not known whose;--
His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops;--
His Buttons were Jujubes, and Chocolate Drops;--
His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border,
And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order;
And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather,
A Cloak of green Cabbage-leaves stitched all together.
He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise,
Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings, and Boys;--
And from every long street and dark lane in the town
Beasts, Birdles, and Boys in a tumult rushed down.
Two Cows and a half ate his Cabbage-leaf Cloak;--
Four Apes seized his Girdle, which vanished like smoke;--
Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat,--
And the tails were devour'd by an ancient He Goat;--
An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore up his
Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies;--
And while they were growling, and mumbling the Chops,
Ten boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.--
He tried to run back to his house, but in vain,
Four Scores of fat Pigs came again and again;--
They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors,--
They tore off his stockings, his shoes, and his drawers;--
And now from the housetops with screechings descend,
Striped, spotted, white, black, and gray Cats without end,
They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat,--
When Crows, Ducks, and Hens made a mincemeat of that;--
They speedily flew at his sleeves in trice,
And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice;--
They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,--
Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all.
And he said to himself as he bolted the door,
'I will not wear a similar dress any more,
'Any more, any more, any more, never more!'
1.4k
up on Boot Hill
the sun sets early
the soaked anguish
of grieving mothers
swaddled in
twilight's vestments
mourn the death
of another murdered
child
we roll our eyes
and speak in tongues
tiny prayers
incant
RIP
these reflexive bits,
our shattered votives
litter city boulevards
on each solemn
street corner
new alters
of desecration
are erected
then despoiled with
the wasted wax of
misspent novenas
our extended families
are bloodlines of fear
spawning
prostrate men
tattooed with
multicolored pain
who refuse to cover
body marks
bespeaking epic tales
of sorrow,
divisions
countless separations
also marking
righteous reasons
of seething
resentments
eager to settle
accounts
sweet vendettas
clever ambushes
carefully deliberated
for generations
by discordant clans
believing in malice
exalting guns
shared loss
is our
common
affliction
uniting everyone
in envelopes of sadness
becoming live
Dear John letters
bearing news of dearly
departed loves
atop the coffins
of dead children
votives pile high
with scrawled eulogies
of fevered graffiti
solemnly pledging
“gonna make someone suffer
gonna even the score
never forget you
RIP”
and we all die
looking stupid as hell
lamenting
love don’t rest in peace
hearing
it scream from the grave
witnessing
the hallowed earth
churning with revulsion
accepting the bitter ashes
of another dead child
for the love of you
is your funeral march
love don’t RIP
it stalks the tomb
of indifference
it mourns
the ambivalence
of its devaluation
it haunts the
day dreams
of what could
have been
it restlessly
flits among
the playgrounds
of our minds
cluttering the rooms
of our homes
with grief
up on Boot Hill
we clasp the
small hands
protruding from
shallow graves
groping to find
a graceful sleep
for love don’t
rest in peace
Stevie Wonder:
Love Is In Need of Love Today
Written to honor
Love Appreciation Day
jbm
Oakland
1/19/13
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
Oh Gods on high,
I’ve heard thy musings.
As you are above,
So am I below.
But why am I below?
And who hast placed thee on high
Aside from my perceptive imagination?
Your adorned fire illuminates all of element and void.
The Mystery is laid bare before thine eyes
While my dull and hard ember
Barely reveals what is inches before me.
Of what heinous crime have I been indicted
To deserve such a life of ignorance?
Reveal to me the exact pomegranate of which I ate
And I will prove to you
That I can master the Art of Evolution.
Tear from me these vestments of corporeality.
Free me from this prison of time and matter
For I wish to join thy ranks
Of illumined Consciousness,
To see all there is and Beyond,
To be all there is and Beyond.
I am but a piece of mySelf,
A fraction of my whole soul,
The One Soul.
My mind has been divided into countless fragments,
Isolated perceptions seeking to be reconnected,
Floundering so alone in the vacuum of infinity.
And if you are truly above
As I am below,
Then you must share in my suffering
And I am reassured
That my pleas fall not on deaf ears
But on open hearts and whetted appetites
Eager for my ascension into utmost Awareness,
My triumphant return Home.
But if Thy Spirit is indifferent,
If Thou hast turned Thy back toward me,
Or if Thee truly do not exist,
Then may there be a swift end
To this ceaseless and pointless dance of atoms
For I would rather have no experience
Than to play games in the Grand Mistake of Creation.
But this is the resentment of a frustrated child,
One who feels abandoned.
Make known to me Your power and presence
And I will live a humble and devoted life
Or You will lose another exiled child
To the Annals of Hell.
If I am the Devil, then the Devil I will remain
And wage war eternal against Thy Throne.
But if I am truly Thy Son,
If I am truly Thee,
Give me an unmistakable clue
So I may wake from this nightmare
I have built from earth, water, fire, and air.
Oh Gods on high,
Why have I done this to mySelf?
Why have I caged my mind
Only to seek what was already known?
Why have I made this Labyrinth
So nearly impossible to navigate?
How might I lift the Veil from Isis’ face
To gaze into mine own eyes
So that All is known
And All is at peace?
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 11:13 AM UTC
My old trunk is filled with
Baby shoes,
But no one knows to whom they belong,
Faded pictures,
Christmas ornaments,
Spectacles,
Watches that no longer work
Tarnished silver,
A tennis racket,
My mother's false teeth,
Embroidered napkins, I was saving for company,
And memories.
I clothe this trunk
With vestments of spider webs
And warm it with white sheets,
As one would cover furniture
of one departed.
And eventually,
The trunk is once again
Forgotten.
Life is a carnival,
Filled with amusement rides and comfort food.
But, no matter how much fun I have today,
There will only be an empty parking lot tomorrow.
That trunk is my lifeline to remember
There was a carnival.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC