"weaned" poems
He dreamed he was loved.
A love guarded fiercely, with passion.
A love that was not unconditional.
Not the blank slate love of a child
or an animal so programmed by instinct.
This love was willful and earned.
Having glimpsed an injured brilliance
beneath the flab and sweat and stench she weaned it to health.
Making it stronger, and brighter,
and more prominent with each passing day; until it erupted.
And he was transformed.
to embody that brilliance.
And she protected that embodiment.
Letting nothing call it to question.
She cared for him as he never could for himself.
She soothed and softened
and loved the deep furrow from his brow.
And her passion overwhelmed him.
And he wanted for nothing.
And when he opened his eyes
To **** and filth
with only the kiss of concrete
and the banter of horns
and obscenities
and footsteps.
******* FOOTSTEPS.
Heels pittering purposefully to mask exhausted uncertainty
Brogues, and wingtips clicking; with a cocky juvenile illusion of importance.
Boots plodding heavily under the weight of duty,
to build, and fix, and secure for the others.
And through a fog laid thick and throbbing
by poisons chased dutifully the night before;
he felt her fierce love for a fleeting moment
Guarding, and loving his shining brilliance
until it erupted from him;
With bile and blood, **** and regret
coldly rejected by his concrete companion.
And she was gone once again.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 11:04 AM UTC
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.
10.8k
distant ships sailing through the
pink crests of brain matter
brimming with cargo; the unit
of knowledge burrowed in flesh
unable to feel pain, passing the
sensation on skulled flags—beware,
remember, know that these things
can haunt you.
(know that these things may one
day heal you)
this is who you are now: yellow,
sunflowers wreathed in knotted strands
of wheat-colored hair, pill bottles
half-full, hands like rotting fly traps
curled in supplication on a
Thursday morning when the pain is
too much to bear alone.
this is who you will always be: a series
of binary sparks, a long silvery tunnel,
streetcars laden with passengers
weaned on anger & fear & love--
a construction site.
you are a work in progress.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
We are within the precincts
Of the allotted time
How we may want to spend
As time takes away a little
Every day we move
Towards the end of time
From Time to time
We are stretched
And then weaned away
Towards another journey
Different destination
It’s all about time
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 7:39 AM UTC
Eggs, eggs, toss them high in the air
Catch em, and gargle, and mash them, and swear
Eat them with shells, eat them with sauce
Eat them with bags, eat them with moss
Eggs, eggs, between sandwich bread
That's what the wise elderly miller had said
Before came the bomb and he had dropped dead
Before being poisoned by a surplus of lead
And then came a centipede, long and sanguine
And bit a small child, so recently weaned
Off the protein derived from his mother's fine eggs
So he had to start munching on his mother's fine legs
"Be warned" said the Miller, his hair all askew
While dousing his wounds with mountains of glue
A tapeworm emerged, and looked toward the sky
Feeling envy toward all the birds that could fly
But the Miller was quicker, even in old age
He smacked the worm soundly, in a manner enraged
Bruised from the damage, and covered in glue
The worm turned away from the sky that was blue
Never with pelicans would he fly with delight
Never with owls would he soar through the night
For all Darwin's cruelty, an injustice rings
Tapeworms simply have no need for wings
So he bit the old Miller, and laid ten thousand eggs
They hatched and devoured his liver and legs
And as the man writhed, waiting to die
He vomited upward, up toward the sky
The tapeworm went flying, up toward the clouds
The air felt exhilarating, the rushing wind loud
For once in his life, he soared with the birds
Then in came a swallow, and bit off a third
His body, segmented, fell in parts to the ground
Tears seeped from his eyes, his face in a frown
From the ground he gazed up into the ominous fog
Before being lapped up by an unlucky dog
The End
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 1:20 AM UTC
Here lies my dog, motionless in his kennel
unable to wag his tail as he always did.
Yesterday when I saw him, curling helpless on his mat
he still wagged his tail and from him arose
a faint tremolo of love
punctuated by gutturals of pain.
At some bleak hour of the night,
the last ember of life died down
and his supple body turned stiff and stark.
Now he lies straight and majestic in death
leaving a track record of love
far difficult to break,
- a love no vessel can hold
or equated with what we humans feel.
Speechless as I stand, memories churn within.
He came to us - too young to be weaned,
a glossy black puppy with tawny gleaming eyes.
His short, sturdy limbs, large drooping ears,
slender waist and elongated frame
well proclaimed his pedigree aloud
So full of mischief, he capered and hopped,
like a new born calf, always up on his heels.
Sniffing with moist nose, he dug and dug
as if unearthing a treasure trove
buried deep beneath the soil.
With alert vigil, he guarded our home,
barking at strangers and driving rodents away
He expected nothing in turn but love.
His loyalty as we deem was never servile.
Never was he on chains to be hauled like cattle.
He enjoyed sauntering through the courtyard
giving company as we took our evening rounds.
He gloated rubbing his body over our knee
and sat content as our stroking fingers ran all around
Licking our feet and arms,
what he conveyed in inarticulate words
could be deciphered thus -
‘I love you, love you true’
Like the bouncing ball, he often played with
our hearts made to bounce up in love
and our hands fold in benison
for a comrade who departs,
valiant in life and loyal to the core
hoping to meet him anon
on the far green meadows of bliss,
still wagging his tail, avowing a bond
too strong to be snapped or splintered.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 8:57 AM UTC
There's a crowd of pitch black unicorns at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert.
A crowd of pitch black unicorns moving their onyx hooves and horns
at the rhythm of drones dressed in electric guitars. An acoustic break follows.
The vibrations of the music and dancing cause purple flowers to grow,
purple flowers weaned on blood and sticky black tar. There's a crowd of
unicorns dancing at a Chelsea Wolfe's concert feeding on ladybirds crisps
and dragonflies sticks, that once home will play vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
The purple flowers grow into vines and try to smother the unicorns
to prevent them from listening to bloodred-dyed vinyls on mystic turntables of fire.
Meanwhile in the corner of a museum S. Teresa of Avila's statue animates by itself, walks
to the window and throwing itself crumbles into a thousand of pieces of marble.
The seventh seal has not been opened yet but the ninth the eleventh and the seventeenth
exploded already, cracked their own wax and started spreading tongues of flames
and water to decimate humanity. A woman dressed in a fifteenth century scarlet outfit
leads the pitch black unicorns to salvation creating a safe haven for them
in Manchester and another one in California. They have in the meantime gone bonkers
and started feeding on each other. Equine teeth suddenly grow carnivorous jaws.
Nothing is left in the two oasis apart from a puddle of blood and a pavement of corpses.
It's 7 a.m. Chelsea has not yet finished her concert and her music blossoms around
played by the mystic turntables of fire. That which remaineth is pitch black light
and the breath of aeons lingering here and beyond and nowhere.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
How shall I describe thee?
Oh, Venzerie.
Your eyes are like sunsets,
full of awe and mystery.
The strands of your hair
are like strings of silk and gold;
as firm as the ground,
as flowing as the river.
Your cheeks are like apples—
Well, I like apples.
Your lips are like two autumn leaves
dancing gracefully as the winds breathe.
Your teeth are like pearls washed ashore,
glistening as the sunlight bounces off.
What more shall I say?
Oh, Venzerie.
You had me with your smile
on the first day we met.
Like a moth prancing
recklessly with death;
hypnotized by the whisper
of the flame.
Like a little boy,
gazing through the window,
outside a toy store.
Like a speeding motorcycle
on an endless one-way road.
I'm smitten by the sound
of your sweet voice.
Like a weaned child sleeping
soundly in his mother's arms.
Like a seasoned boxer suddenly
out cold on the very first round.
Like a kitten placed in front of the
mirror for the very first time.
How beautiful you are!
Oh, Venzerie.
Like a calm before the storm;
an indescribable moment
of fleeting serenity.
Like an exchange of peace
inside a chapel on a good
Sunday morning.
Like a name on a coffee cup
spelled perfectly right.
Oh, Venzerie.
Your name is one-of-a-kind—
Well, I asked Google.
Like the dimples on your cheeks,
or the freckles on your face.
Like the way you laugh,
or the way you smile.
Like the way you say a word,
or the person that you are.
Everything is super!
You had me with your "Hello".
Oh, Venzerie.
My thoughts of you are many.
Surely, more than these words
that I could ever tell.
Should I make books of poetry,
surely, I'd write poems of you.
iamthe_avatar ©2017
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 6:26 AM UTC
A stilted stay, a pregnant pause,
as shadows sharpen midnight claws.
A dimming dome oppressed by night,
smiles weakly on this parasite.
It enters as a Trojan horse,
along a crawled collision course.
Its hollow husk holds silent spies,
who have no room for alibis.
This craven creature starts to nest,
in memories you'd long repressed
and darts behind your mood's eclipse,
a smirk of sadness on its lips.
From weary womb the beast begets,
its offspring weaned upon regrets.
Until it stirs with needle teeth,
to tear the tenderness beneath.
It stalks from shade, a grievance grown,
to steal the thoughts that were your own.
Its brittle bark a bare refrain,
before it leaps and snaps the chain.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
When you weaned me from the waning moon,
its milky cusps, winking welcome
moods of starry surrender, I was lost
to my reflection rearranged
roughly on the window's pane.
Don't take flight yet, you said,
*first take the light's left hand
and keep it from the misbehaving oak,
its frightening reach.*
*There are beehive-capped angels
swinging there beneath, and they're angling
to gather moony souls
together in false hope.
Their absent promise is absolute,
and absolution.*
*They'll utter their nothings,
utterly sweet, if you let them,
and lull you with their yellow tongues.
Fly away with this light you now hold
and risk the falling.*
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then,
But ****** on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the seven sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
And now good morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea discovers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to others, worlds on worlds have shown:
Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemishperes,
Without sharp North, without declining West?
Whatever dies was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.
1.5k
I was raised
On fairy tales
Romance
And promises
I was weaned
On cynicism
sarcasm and
No sincerity
I yearn for
Simplicity
Non-
Duplicity
I get a mix
And a dis-
connect
Of organs
Simplicity is
Lacking &
Our desires
Don't mesh
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
conceived to the rhythms of Woodstock
weaned on Watergate
raised on Trickle-Down Reaganomics
our adolescence taught us contempt for a government
but our education kept us too ignorant to reach past the disillusionment
aging under a system of
corruption and greed
dying penniless
unto our birthright
as the
empty generation
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 4:45 AM UTC
Because I had loved you before I was thirteen
Because I had loved you throughout my teen
You stole my virginity: you deflowered me
Surely, I have composed and quieted my soul;
Now, I am like a baby about to be weaned
Because I have loved you so much
Because love can make us do and say crazy things.
Now it’s impossible to love another.
Because I am the dark angel with heart shaped wings
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
Something great is happening for me,
regardless of the situations I see;
my Lord is working behind the scene
and I have been spiritually weaned.
Walking by faith and not by sight,
insures that I sleep well at night.
Happily I enter daily into His rest,
knowing that I’m divinely blessed.
I’m often filled with peace and joy,
when sacred Scriptures are employed;
with a heart of a believer’s trust,
I overcome the pain of being concussed
in all aspects of my humble existence.
Despite hardship, I’m going the distance.
Elevating faith with a spiritual upgrade,
I pray with confidence- having been swayed
by the absolute Truth of God’s holy Word.
With a poetic voice, my soul is spurred
to write Christian verses unto my Lord,
as His strength, from my spirit is poured.
.
.
.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Mark 9:23; Acts 16:31; Jam 2:23;
Rom 15:13; Heb 4:3; John 11:40
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2014, All rights reserved.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
You and I have danced for decades,
Stabbing me on the warpath as I giggled along,
You taught me to hate myself the most,
Way down to the vivisection of my soul;
Am I just shifting blame? Didn't I hold the knife too?
You gave it to me, I made it serrated and poisoned,
Hence why I'm venomous, uneven and stubborn,
Am I chaotic because I am or am I just unhealed?
I held your hand as you plunged it into me slow,
I thought you loved me, why else would you do it?
To be so obsessed and devoted to my destruction?
Isn't destruction just the beginning of creation?
It worries me that you don't leave, you keep the blade in,
Are you worried I'll bleed out or do you enjoy the misery?
Have I learnt to love you choiceless and mistaken?
Like the compass points north, the tall child feels comfort;
'A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort'
Was I after all designed to be harmed or do I have a choice?
I'm not alone anymore though, I have my moon now,
She'll guide me home across the dark and quiet :)
Mar 22, 2024
Mar 22, 2024 at 2:22 AM UTC
Pain , sorrow , flame , and passion said her rainbow in my ears ; like an echo from the past with no love for living here ; so I tried to light a candle for her golden woman's tears . But like the cool of a blown out candle for the thunder in my mind I watched a young girl try forever just to burn a million times , and we were leaving in the summer with no sympathy for wines ; it was violence , stones ,and hatred , love for pain was left behind .
She never stopped to think for her patterns seamed complete as her golden sun came rising and her colors met with mine , and from a simple warriors passion what shall we leave behind in a world where color is not but need , and death the woman's wine .
He couldn't stop to play or light the shadows of her mind , and like the golden light of misery she spiraled through his time , and who is to say there is more to her as she burned slowly in her dying , and fell into the gravity of her northern lights so blind , and listened to the howling wolves as she weaved for better times .
Thoughtless killing , thoughtful tool , I love you said her tune ; and yet as summer turned to fall the leaves upon her loom sang of spring's new hope again in a land of westering sun , "For in dying I will rise again to greet tomorrow's rain with no thought of bringing back your killing , no screaming from your pain ."
The ice it slowly covered me as I sank into her womb , and the myriad stars of children's dreams echoed softly from her rock ; like the endless ripples of her final chords and the broken glass of dreams , and said to me a man is never truly what he seems , but only just his moment , and how I build tomorrow's dreams .
I stood upon tomorrow's shores a witness to her schemes , and watched my mother burning , saw my father's broken dreams ; to chew upon coca leaves and watch as mother weaned . I must learn to grow old again for she died from all our pains , and yet continued weaving as her winter brought the rains ; for children must learn to live in the golden honey of her pain , with time her only company , and her rhythm father's game .
Like a child on the edge of night I stopped to sing my song of a thousand lonely burials and I must carry on , and yet I too must learn to live on the fragments of wind's sails , or try to build a better ship as her dawn comes on so pale , and the cold light of our father's eyes an icy wind in hell .
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
The Willow's Long Locks Whisper A Soft Song,
As The Cloud Children Play On A Sky So Blue,
The Morning Glories Giggle All Day Long,
As The Linnets Wings Whistled While It Flew
A Stream Sprawls Underneath The Willow,
Swans And Other Waterfowl Swim Silent,
As Catfish Prowl Underneath The Billows,
To Keep The Guppies From Being Violent
The Golden Rays Tickle The Leaves So Green,
As The Breeze Dances With Lush Blades Of Lawn,
The Mayflies Wings Glittered Above The Stream,
As A Mother Deer Weaned Her Newborn Fawn
Each And Every Sparrow Sang All Day Long,
As The Willow's Long Locks Whispered A Song
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
The came on the boat, not too long ago.
We are not the natives to this land.
They came in starvation, hearing the call of the huddled masses...
all because one man couldn't plant more than one variety of potato.
They could drink water on the boat but that doesn't stop the thirst,
an irishmen is taken to the bottle at birth, but never weaned.
An unwelcome visitor, no doubt the target of slander, they took up the courage not many would have.
Go West Young Man.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 6:04 PM UTC
Unwinding comes upon you.
Out here, your ******* mute the flatness as they rise ungathered....
Breathing for the first time
Silence.
You can't imagine South Africa
You vaguely recall your white brothers
herding your black brothers
into Desperate quarters.
Building separate but disheveled lives
According to the color of their Skin-
Beating your black sisters down
and out of their bodies
To become statistics, to become stains...
To become a dream
you are having in the desert.
Dissolving comes upon you.
Out here, your eyes feed
they fall over the the vast undisturbed evidence
Of God's womanhood, rejuvenating your actuality...
Populating yourself with your Self.
For the first time.
Silence.
And you can't imagine America.
Who can? With it's sweet liberty
And pill grim's pride
Eclipsing every mountainside with billboards
Bright and Wide-
Pointing the way to the next city
you can't find a job in, because you're too old, or too gay
Or too real...
Too bad.
That flag has fifty stars. No Light.
You partially grasp a diluted vision
of having a vision,
replete with Ideals, Shadow Governments and Human Rights but...
Slowly, all that's fading now, to become poetry
To become headlines, to become a dream-
You are having in the desert.
And out here, there are Indians
holding onto something Intangible-
Like deep purple and stray dogs.
Babies being born and weaned on Truth.
And you For the last time
Silence.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
I wonder, by my truth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved; were we not weaned till then,
But ****** on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
And now good morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room, an everywhere.
Let sead discoveries to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to others, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess our world; each hath one and is one.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 2:48 PM UTC
the world is a dangerous place for
daughters,
for sisters,
aunts,
nieces,
girlfriends.
she asks herself if she deserved to be
taken advantage of,
chased,
belittled,
grabbed,
hurt.
fear is instilled in each girl,
their rights withheld,
respect weaned,
voiced silenced
because of their anatomy.
filled with guilt at their mere existence
while rapists sleep soundly.
people say it wouldn't have happened
if you dressed more conservatively,
if you didn't lead him on,
he couldn't help himself,
it's natural,
you should be flattered you stuck up ***** I'm talking to you.
a man that goes too far is excused for being a boy,
while a girl walks to her car in the middle of the night, fearful for her own life.
a naked woman lying in the street is not asking for anything
that she doesn't speak.
why does the first "yes" mean "yes"
and the first "no" mean "persist" ?
why do you get an excuse to act how you want
but I'm not granted the same privledge every 28 days?
at what age do you tell her that she will be
violently pursued,
cursed,
assaulted,
undermined,
paid less
because the structure of her body.
Why does every girl have a heartbreaking story
that she was made to feel guilty for?
like she could have done something to change it,
when the thing that needs changing is the one that thinks "well you see the way she dressed, she brought it on herself."
I hope I don't have a daughter,
but a son instead
so I won't have to be the one to put fear in her head.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
*The retrospect of material
I value those works on machines
Mainly in co ordinance of our commons
When you hadn't recoiled towards summons
Contrary compassed promotions.
Palpating the inadaquet; a revert
Chances to brandish
Never did you, cultivating no savvy aerials
Inspiring me not with world's flow
A place I wanted to spand;
Inside still do.
On pulverant turfs did we become jovial
Only until now has zest fulfilled
so I thought.
Stupor on you revulsion, and to attorny
hearsay rumors, spur verses words
Your flight remains hurt
The retrospect of days
Spays that gained ways waned
Which I could not jurisdict
Tactful our souls
Both cordial; satted in rage
Images of ****** past age
Halyconing things to say
But still I shake when I view you
Alone behind machines
A ****** head; drenching steam
To far former and prior; like dream*
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 8:31 PM UTC
Ripe Harvest Moon,
all the weeds gone to seed,
the pups weaned
at a new home now
in the next valley.
In the waxing follows full,
in the full, the waning.
Fruit in the fallow fields.
Sweet of apple,
wealth of pumpkin,
golden corn.
How blessed are we around this fire to share it?
To howl the umbra,
Earth, the Moon,
flow the blood
round the year,
leaves to roots,
to the ground.
not a sound
The eclipse red dark,
a full month spins
waiting for the light to return,
wraithed in drum-beat heart.
Ripe Harvest Moon,
all the weeds gone to seed,
the pups weaned
at a new home now
in the next valley.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC