"weddings" poems
The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve.
On their blotter of fog the trees
Seem a botanical drawing --
Memories growing, ring on ring,
A series of weddings.
Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery,
Truer than women,
They seed so effortlessly!
Tasting the winds, that are footless,
Waist-deep in history --
Full of wings, otherworldliness.
In this, they are Ledas.
O mother of leaves and sweetness
Who are these pietàs?
The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but chasing nothing.
36.1k
THE FLOWERS
What I told
you about the
flowers
no one probably
won't tell you.
Is it not
about their fragrance
and how amazing
it is that
they share their
life with you.
They hang around
your garden and
patiently wait on
you with their
perfume of love.
To make you
happy with the
fragrance of their
healing presence,
they share their
fragrance and working
tirelessly in gladness
they gracefully grace
your life with grace.
They lay down
at our feet
always ready to
bring pleasure
to our leisure.
To please you
they share lavishly
and are generous
about it.
They bring pleasure
back into our
homes by spreading
their fragrance.
Even when bruised
they give out
their best fragrance
out of love
to soothe and bring
succour to our
tired mind.
They also help
decorate our world
with their beautiful
flowers to make
our lives lovely.
How can we
not appreciate
their presence
in our homes,
garden and environment.
They are divinely
precious beautiful treasure
with an alluring
power to help us heal.
Little beautiful gifts
from heaven with
such an unforgettable
sublime and divine fragrance.
Spreading their love
they reach out
to us even
from miles away
adorning our weddings
and other events
with their fragrance
and presence and
speaking to us
in the language
only the heart
can understand.
Nature gave us
fragrance in flowers
so lovely and
endearing that no
one can resist
their friendship.
To walk with
them is unbelievably sweet.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rinks
at ****** ******
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
falling through the sky
firing squads
that's the best
thinking of India
looking at popcorn stands
watching the bull get the matador
that's the best
boxed lightbulbs
an old dog scratching
peanuts in a celluloid bag
that's the best
spraying roaches
a clean pair of stockings
natural guts defeating natural talent
that's the best
in front of firing squads
throwing crusts to seagulls
slicing tomatoes
that's the best
rugs with cigarette burns
cracks in sidewalks
waitresses still sane
that's the best
my hands dead
my heart dead
silence
adagio of rocks
the world ablaze
that's the best
for me.
13.8k
Do the flowers mourn when one is picked?
I know that question is kinda morbid and sick.
But I’ve always wondered if they somehow know,
Like for weddings and birthdays that it’s their time to go?
Do they feel sorry for lovestruck dames,
That pull off petals whilst saying their crushes’ names,
That pulled the last petal on “He loves me not”?
Do they feel bad that she’s distraught?
Do they compete on who’s the prettiest?
Each person has an opinion of which flower is the best,
Of their looks are they actually aware,
Do flowers even care?
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 3:01 PM UTC
I am Christian. I believe in the
Trinity of the Holy God, The Son, and The Spirit,
I believe that Jesus is the Son of God and the savior of mankind
I own more than three Bibles
I teach Sunday School every week and
I pray every night.
I am Christian,
And as such I
Hate queer....
Phobia. I can not stand intolerance
And I cry at hatred,
Blood running in the streets,
Fear running in veins,
Running away from the truth.
I am Christian, yet
There are bloodstains in my Bible
And the prayers on my lips
Are for forgiveness for who I am.
The entire story of ***** is
Crossed out, blacked out angrily
In the dead of night
In all 4 versions,
Leviticus is blurred,
Wrinkled with my tears,
Soaked with my pain.
I am Christian
And I am not homophobic.
I know my church won't recognize
Non cis-het marriages,
Leaving entire worlds of rainbows in the dark
The higher-ups insist
Weddings are white, shiny, husband-and-wife, happily-ever-after affairs
That shove me and my friends, my family, my lovers,
Into closets of heavenly wrath and
Fire and brimstone sermons,
Locked into personal hells of shame
And confusion.
I am Christian
And I am not straight.
My God doesn't hate me for who I love,
He loves me because I try not to hate.
So to the homophobic Christians, I ask:
Who is your God?
Who is your God that supposedly condemns people He has created in his own image?
Your rainbow picket signs are nothing but a cruel mockery of a covenant
Not truly shared by you.
Your tongues are no better than the viper's who called Adam and Eve to sin,
You are the vipers of my world.
Do you think you avoid judgement
When trans teens are killed
By the bullets you spit with your words?
Who is your God,
That tells you to picket the funerals
Of those you hate?
Who is your God,
That refuses to let you open your heart to differentness?
I am Christian,
And I don't need your permission to
Love my God.
Take my scars and tear-stained Bibles,
Listen to my fervent prayers,
Watch my lips tremble when
I listen to my pastor.
I don't need your permission
To love who I want,
In fact I don't want it.
Take my midnight screaming and fear of coming out,
Listen to my frantic pleading for a hand to hold,
Watch my eyes linger on her chest.
I am Christian.
My God doesn't hate me for who I love,
He hates you who refuse to love
While you carry His name, if
Not his blessing.
So I ask again
Who is your God?
Because mine loves all of me,
All 5'6" of queer pride.
Who is your God?
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
Every couple 'a years or so
Our family reunites
It takes a couple 'a years or so
To recover from the fights
A family like our'n
Doesn't party like most do
Ours gets a little out of hand
That's why we have so few
It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball
There's daisy dukes and forty Lukes
They're racing trucks and burning rubber
There's jugs of moonshine everywhere
And at least a hundred bubbas
There's a smoker fired for the food
the size of two large trucks
It hold 4 cows, and fourteen pigs
And at least a hundred ducks
It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball
There's pickled this and pickled that
And things you just can't swallow
That used to live down in the swamp
Way back there in the hollow
There's at least ten shotgun weddings there
And the groom might be rail roaded
But, the wedding isn't legal
If the shotgun isn't loaded
It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball
There's greased up pigs and muddy runts
And at least ten bobby sues
and when they all get greased up
You can't tell which is who
There's horseshoe pits for tossing shoes
And games of every sort
Most of them aren't legal
And would get you into court
It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball
But, it's the way we like it
Drinking shine and acting out
Tossing things that aren't tied down
And wrassling about
There's music there of just one kind
It's country and that matters
Any other sort of sound
Sets the crowd off like mad hatters
It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball
There's always someone who's so drunk
And it's normally the preacher
Last year we married him off
To the back up first grade teacher
There's Chevy trucks of every kind
And one covered in sod
Mary Lou showed her tattoo
"Jeff Foxworthy is my God"
It's the best time of the year for us
And it's sad when it must end
but, you gotta haul your *** away
When the cops come round that bend
It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
Seduced by clichés of love,
We signed on for wedding doves,
Being at those wedding receptions,
All clichés of norms' conventions,
Having a cream puff wedding day,
An expensive way of getting laid,
All clichés for the bridal industry,
Trite cant, and hypocrisy,
BUT--the appliances outlived everyone!!
Wedding gifts when once were young,
On film noir weddings I ponder on,
As these golden years I wander from,
All that phony hypocrisy,
Cliches and norms of society,
D.I.V.O.R.C.E.
(Who didn't hate going to the in-laws for tea?)
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
I am thankful for the mountains
I am thankful for the music that comes from the mountains
I am thankful for every fire that is lit by nothing more than the embers of a fire that raged before it
Only these fires can truly comprehend what it is like to suffer and be born again
I am thankful for the knowledge that every human being has in them a true spark
Only some don't care or are too busy
Or let their dreams be squashed or didn't have the fuel to burn in the first place
I am thankful for the holy beat poets
Kerouac and Ginsberg
I am thankful for the poet saints
Rimbaud and Lorca
And I am thankful for my saints of folk music
Bob Dylan and Woody Guthrie shaped me long before any of this
But all in all I am thankful for the holy ghost of Carl Sandburg
Without him I would not be writing this poem or any
I am thankful that these poems allow me to say what I need to
I don't expect my words to be recited at weddings or funerals
But I don't mind because both atmospheres depress me just the same
I am thankful for every trail I have walked
I am thankful for every breath of Rocky or Appalachian air ever to enter my tragic lungs
I am thankful for the bonfires I have lit
I am thankful for the sticks that snap in my hands and leave scrapes that bleed only enough to remind me that I'm alive
I do not need such reminders but it's always a nice thing to have
I am thankful for every lost love
Whether I disappointed them or ****** them off is no matter
All that matters is that there is humility
I am thankful for the fact that these lost loves are leading
Completely happy lives with or without me
Knowing someone's happiness is dependent on me is a responsibility I cannot bear
I am thankful for this typewriter
It was my grandfather's when he was my age
He passed away two years ago on the week of Thanksgiving
He was born that week too
And it isn't pilgrims or stuffing that help me to feel thankful
It's the people like him
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
Doves Flying,
Crying,
Dying,
In City Smog,
White Feathers Stained From Human Garbage,
Stained From Society's Words,
White Angels Turned Into Common Rock Doves,
Tears Rolling Down Their Cheeks,
Because They Know They're Lossing Themselves,
Doves Crying,
On The Statue Of Liberty,
Because They Know Freedom Isn't Free,
And They Know,
No One Is Truly Accepted,
Humans Ruthless,
Society Clueless,
Doves Released At Weddings Cry,
Because They Understand That,
The Bride And The Groom Will Both Be,
Heartbroken,
Doves Cry In The Streets,
And In The Sky's,
Wondering Why,
The World Took A Turn For The Worst
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 8:54 AM UTC
Just in the pubs and clubs
******* our own gear around
Seemingly, always upstairs
For weddings and birthday parties
Sorting out miles of wires
Well-worked practise
But when those amps were turned on
With an audible amplified thud
As switches are flicked
And their lights gaze like tiny red eyes
That's when I am ready
First number and the drums and bass
Connect to create new heartbeats
And now I'm into it
Not the man in the mill anymore
I'm the frontman for the band
And the music soars through me
As the night goes on and grows
The crowd has grown and is dancing
Gaining energy from the music
And feeding it back to us in turn
Now THIS is being alive
And so it was
By Phil Roberts
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
A princess made of bubbles.
Flowers open to reveal
a world
where the ants congregate.
Light drips and pours
little rivers through trees that grow pockets, holding dust
that makes you sneeze sparkle streaks.
Watch out for the grass that looks too green.
It'll tickle your little feet.
The purple fields are much nicer.
As soft as the lime green grizzly who lives in the cave
made of quartz.
Lay down.
Listen to the song of
Kistin.
The king, the leader.
The buffalo who keeps the peace
and keeps it all in the pretend.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC
Doctor Ponsonby’s Patented Empowering Electrical Rosary
*This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace,
And heeld after the newe world the space.*
Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales
How out of date are simple wooden beads
An upgrade is what the Rosary needs!
Something to give your meditations spice
Connected to your electronic device
Beamed back and forth to The Cloud, you see
With mega-mega gigs of memory
Doctor Ponsonby’s Patented Empowering
Electrical Rosary is just the thing!
The Ave Maria is so out of date
It’s Ave ME now, ‘cause we’re all so great!
Make your prayers less about God, more about you
Signal yourself through sacred Tooth of Blue
A camera hidden in the crucifix
Enables you to take your selfie-flicks
The Pater beads count each joggery mile
Or kilometres if those are your style
The Ave beads are recycled with care
To save the forests, the rivers, and air
Designed in Germany, made in China
High-definition beads; there’s nothing finer
Buy the first (as advertised on tv)
And we’ll send you a second all for free
Remember: for weddings, funerals, and daily devotions
Let RAM and ROM go through all the motions
Doctor Ponsonby’s Patented Empowering
Electrical Rosary – O make it sing!
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 7:24 AM UTC
Where's the ventriloquist
throwing voices around
like whistling stray dogs
the voice and the vision
a crystal *****
whispering
with mud in the mouth
the ***** doesn't lie
a yammering vantwilaquist
who's voice springs from a blood cream corridor
with electric lips and rainbow flesh
a lost beast dazzled in endless wander lust
in search of a scarlet women
surrounded only
by aspiring virgins
sworn to be true
by desolations caress
in black ash weddings
with white frilly dresses
weeping for delicate cruelties
they will never know
his father a falling star
his soul
an undulating cobalt shrine
to her
who he can not find
a catalog of discrepancies
a noxious experiment
with a wandering eye
lust ******
embattled between reason and passion
is that look your giving me
shorthand psychic humiliation
for my vile indiscretions I'm trembling to visit upon you
I'm wearing my face like window dressing
hiding the obscenity of my true will behind a curled lip
eyes down cast
hoping to use you like a vacant room
to smear the walls and floors
with your flesh like ************ glitter
too bad
i'm outnumbered by good people
there are sky-fulls of them
agitated with moral concerns
ruining my life with logic
those scoundrels
got pedigree
ideologies
religion
folded ears and moving lips
all monkeys see and monkeys do
who are they
and
were
is
their
ventriloquist
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:41 PM UTC
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
5.3k
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.
When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.
When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!
When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.
Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
4.9k
In my own space
In my own time
I turn the Wifi on and suddenly...
The world bursts into my face
Fashion! Weddings! Crime!
Could you not?
The door opens and suddenly...
"Do you like my new pants?
What are you doing?
Can I watch you?"
*Could you ******* not?*
My phone vibrates violently
Message after message
"Y r U ignring me"
"Answr me"
"wanna chat?"
Could you just not?
Vibrate
Vibrate
Vibrate
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv
Harass me why don't you
Un-friend me while you're at it
Block me for all I care
Just please,
**COULD YOU ******* NOT!**
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
An Open Letter to Really Important People
The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness
We post this serious looking document
Bloated with long vocabulary words
Sodden with weak dependent clauses
Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go
To the GossipNet all serious like
And everyone has to pay attention to us
Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know -
You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name
Signatories:
Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie.
Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be
Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED
Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico
Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X
(Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
You remember when we planned out imaginary weddings? We picked out the dress and the location.
We were so dumb.
You remember when we walked the river in middle of the night?
It was freezing and nearly winter and we put our feet in anyway.
We were so dumb.
You remember when we ate cold Mac n cheese in your parents living room drinking till we couldn't think?
We laughed till we cried.., then we couldn't stop crying over each other.
We were so dumb.
You remember the 4 times we have tried, the endless, sleeveless nights?
The morning of regrets and the nights of pain? The day you left and moved away? The day I fell head over heels? The day you fell out of love...
We are so dumb.
I am so dumb.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
A seventies child
Born in Wales, one of the four
Countries of The UK.
I remember brown as the colour
of the day.
Fabric embossed wallpaper
all the neighbours names, who married who,
who was carrying on, the alcoholic, the beaten wives,
Even, get this the peadophiles (or kiddy fiddlers as was known)
Dai the milk, Mair the bread, the shop of infinite items.
Rugby practice for dad, baking for mam
(Cake and babies) gossip over the garden hedge
Fish on a Friday a Sunday roast, hot sweet tea.
Bubble and squeak, post delivered before you
left for school. Mist on the mountain, dew on the grass.
Welsh valley life, sounds idyllic
but scratch the surface and a darker colour
than brown emerges. Petty squablings leading to
familial feuds, the Williamses don't get on with
the Joneses, and as for the Pritchards, less said the better.
School, local, no not for me. I was sent to a Welsh
School, taught and learnt the language denied to my
Parents by English politics. Cat amongst the pigeons there.
Did I think I was special? Ideas above her station. That's what
the neighbours say.
Well, you all had the option.
Dr Forbes FRCS
Delivered babies buried men and women
Loved by all, especially his lollipop sweets.
I wasn't a child to get ***** or rip wrapping paper
off of gifts, I liked to go under the stairs (like Harry Potter)
and read. I left the dirt for my sister born 4 years later.
Then in 1982 came my brother, tidy my mother describes it.
'74,'78,'82 poor dad to have to wait I say!
More pubs than chapels, more walking than driving
more rain than sun, more music than ever was sung.
The '80's came, and we had strikes, no electric, candles
toast made with a toasting fork over the fire.
No mines, no steel, no jobs.
Picket lines, dole queues, women in work
latchkey kids, Thatcherism, ******* times.
Falklands war, IRA bombs, Royal weddings
Tory rule
But, the fire in the dragon never went out
and Tom Jones still sings his heart out.
Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gân, deffrwch
nawr, dyma'ch tro.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
~
*Weddings and honeycombs.
Why do they give us the hives?
The keeper knows.
There's a buzz in the air.
It belongs to
the rudimentary happinesses:
The minor miracle of father's smile,
a morning breath of honey,
painting toy lips with
blood from mother's finger.
Deathless protagonists,
Mom and Dad,
our propolis.
They love us from afar.
They love us with what they are.
There's a buzz in the air.
There must bee!
They can't help loving
us little monsters,
who sting
and then say goodbye,
sting and say goodbye.
A linn begins to form
in the corner of their eye,
as wheat fields sway in the wind.
The innocent
and the beautiful
have no enemy, but time.*
~
Mar 3, 2022
Mar 3, 2022 at 9:46 PM UTC
One's grand flights, one's Sunday baths,
One's tootings at the weddings of the soul
Occur as they occur. So bluish clouds
Occurred above the empty house and the leaves
Of the rhododendrons rattled their gold,
As if someone lived there. Such floods of white
Came bursting from the clouds. So the wind
Threw its contorted strength around the sky.
Could you have said the bluejay suddenly
Would swoop to earth? It is a wheel, the rays
Around the sun. The wheel survives the myths.
The fire eye in the clouds survives the gods.
To think of a dove with an eye of grenadine
And pines that are comets, so it occurs,
And a little island full of geese and stars:
It may be that the ignorant man, alone,
Has any chance to mate his life with life
That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life
That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
3.5k
*Our earth has turned
Our lives are torn
We are able to see light no more
If only for a second we shine bright
We are reminded of our destiny
That of which is death
We strive to survive
We strive to stay alive
Being surrounded with demons of flesh and bone
Demons who are torn
Tattered
Look defeated but are actually reborn
Reborn through blistering scorn they rise
Their numbers are growing
We do nothing for god is showing
Showing his hatred for our kind
Showing his secret and sacred mind
We scream
We cry
For he gives no sympathy
We scream
We die
For he gives no sympathy
They feast off our loved one's limb by limb
We hear their screams as he dies
As she dies
No goodbyes
Just demise
Torn eyes
Black skies
Reaching at us from above tearing our hope from our chest
Our dreams as we rest
Our lives as we suppress
Suppress who we once were
For that is no more
Only for so long can we hide our screams
We will be found
We will be desecrated
Piece by piece
Our mothers torn and brothers death through scorn
Our wives see blood and flesh before being reborn
Now one of them they fight it but only postpone
Postpone the inevitable
The inevitability of turning
Turning from who you once were to a demon
Your birthdays
Weddings
Memories become waist
As you see through the devils eyes you hunt to feast
Inoperational your emotions become
Through the eyes of evil you become ****
No way out
Our end has begun
Our god has given up
On our petty existence we call success
Given up on the killing
The thievery
The ****
The pedophiles
This is why we die
This is why black takes our sky
Why evil is now his ally
Why we are ripped apart before we depart into hell
We become the hatred we once rebelled
The hatred we once repelled
Your children ask you why
Ask you why we have to die
You look into their eyes knowing they will once too be deleted
Deleted from existence
The tattered flesh and blood is insistence
Insistence of his wrath
While we beg to his knees
He returns to his kin with this disease
This plague
This is why we hide
The conquering he takes with pride
Vague emotions to hell we ride*
***This rapture has become our end
This rapture has become our end***
-Joseph B Schneider
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
Tonight is a cluster of
Recognitions, remembrances
Mostly reminiscence
Which sift in the breeze
Gusting beneath the temporary
Tarpaulin tent
Backs are slapped
Arms embraced
Smiles predominate
As shiny faces and gleaming foreheads
Illuminated by flashing cameras
Twinkle like fireflies displaying
In a muggy June meadow
Photos pulled from stained
Billfolds move from hand to hand
Displaying glossies of babies, graduations
Weddings and “The big catch”
Relatives, friends and officials
Find their place on folded metal chairs
For a wedding ceremony
Tonight has become a gathering
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC