"widow" poems
In time you’ll recover and absolve
push those scorned impressions aside
hammer down the jaded edges
and sing
that delightful commoners song
the one you sang so well
in what seems a lifetime ago
You really had it you know
that fiery disposition and nimble cunning
those butter chords and derelict style
we could see it -- we could all see it
it was all it took to turn the evening tide
(and rile that buck fever)
heads bashing
tongues lambasting
middle fingers high
and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen
There were no rules
when it came to your survival
no textbook rally or common bond
no structured songbird or bravado stage
you either made it, or laid it
“life by the ***** Mr. Poppy would say
a kaleidoscope of dreams
with rich colored imagery
hardened artisan seams
in a carefully woven motif
But something got lost in the needle point
something sinister and distorted took hold
the quirks and street genius
that were your lifeline
gave way to grunts
and squeals
and chilling night crawlers
the colors faded quickly
to a cold confining grey
There was no grace in the new world
no retribution or switch back
no salvation or accorded finale
only edged platforms of blackened steel
that kept you cased
in a silent vanquished cell
shivering cold with fear
night without day
all in the shadow of death
But time heals all
and the polish sneakers
and open sores are long gone
(though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain)
indeed the falconer beat the widow maker
this go around
and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again
and if it does you’ll see me
standing hand on heart
with that old verse in hand:
he ain’t tainted
or silly,
and most certainly
not forgotten…
he ain’t loony
or fixed,
or a product of his self-doing…
he’s just a straight shootin’ guy,
who had the most of it
figured out
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
In the hour of death, after this life’s whim,
When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim,
And pain has exhausted every limb—
The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.
When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim,
And the mind can only disgrace its fame,
And a man is uncertain of his own name—
The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.
When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed,
And the coffin is waiting beside the bed,
And the widow and child forsake the dead—
The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.
For even the purest delight may pall,
And power must fail, and the pride must fall,
And the love of the dearest friends grow small—
But the glory of the Lord is all in all.
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‘tis but a thing she does
The female assassin
They say that poison is her weapon… maybe on occasion
But that is a level she’s surpassing
You see, what they fail to understand is that she doesn't take lives for vengeance
‘tis but a profession
The beautiful, tantalizing female killer
Her male victim’s obsession
One minute she’s a runway model… with her devilishly sinful grin
A smile so engrossingly enticing… full, red lips that cut across her face playfully
Against her flawlessly peaceful skin
One word for that…’killer’
Forbidden pleasures… blissful sin
She’s taken out big names… maybe even one or two heads of state
To dinners she’s escorted these men… and later on left them in their deadest state
She walks through the front door, but when leaving she can scale windows
Agility is her forte… ‘Man killer’ she is
The black widow…
In a red dress
You may be reading this thinking you can never fall prey to her seductive tentacles
‘tis an argument I do not even wish to get into
I digress.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
My bad dreams won't leave me alone these thoughts keep circling my sub conscious.
They wait till I'm most vulnerable to attack I can't relax not for a second.
If I do they are there screaming at me over and over again taunting me till I'm awoken in a cold sweat with tear stained cheeks.
I can't go back its too frightening so I sit huddled trying my hardest to disappear.
Until the light shines through my widow and the screams soften slightly and I am forced to carry on till the next time I'm back in bed and the voices take over once again...
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
The elements have merged into solicitude,
Spasms of violets rise above the mud
And **** and soon the birds and ancients
Will be starting to arrive, bereaving points
South. But never mind. It is not painful to discuss
His death. I have been primed for this --
For separation -- for so long. But still his face assaults
Me; I can hear that car careen again, the crowd coagulate on
asphalt
In my sleep. And watching him, I feel my legs like snow
That let him finally let him go
As he lies draining there. And see
How even he did not get to keep that lovely body.
11.8k
Play that melody for me
And whisper in my ears
You don't know it but you saw right through me and my worst fears
The game I was playing was in your court
Frozen still from your spell, I could not hide or run anymore
And you are toxic, but it is just what I need
Because you are beautiful especially when you scream or bleed
Enticing is your magic, mesmerized and hypnotized with tricks
Pure euphoria, I cannot help but love it
Blinking fading lights in a dark room is where I get my fix
Your pain is also my pain
For it is a pleasure in me to see you crying in the rain
Through chaos and order, your eyes ask for more
But you are taken and everyone wants some of you
The most elegant witch, a black widow crawling on a floor
You are just a lost little girl seeking a home
You are the witch but all your black clothes cannot cover your empty soul
I can see all the universe through my reflection in your eyes
Green emerald with a hint a blue liberates the waterfall of tears from your cries
I will search for you again through the skies of time
Somewhere between the seas and the mountains
I can conquer all and make you mine
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC
A widow bird sate mourning for her Love
Upon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,
The freezing stream below.
There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground,
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel’s sound.
10.2k
There's a dead tree connecting the earth to my heart,
And yet it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
One silver root, and four dark leaves.
A branch is at my neck,
whispering me secrets
Gently in my left ear.
My hand arches into a black widow,
Skillfully pulling the bow,
As if it’s spinning a web
Delicately crafting
A soft musical tone.
There are vines strung elegantly from trunk to my teeth
And I'll play them for you.
The rain is the beat,
It's the same as your pulse.
My blood runs cherry with every note.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
New Orleans has its Oaks, the most beautiful in the world
The Oaks they had an occupant, little squawky squirrel
Squawky squirrel stepped out one day, cross the street he made his way
And if he hadn’t changed his mind, he’d still be here today
The widow sweet Ms. Peters, did receive a call
From a handsome gentleman, who went by the name of Paul
Ms. Peters had been interested, in Paul’s cautious advance
But decided she would wait a while, not to take a chance
Now Paul has found his one and only
Ms. Peters spends her nights quite lonely
Oh yes the case of the pretty pilot
Just seventeen in a flying machine
The weather turned black so she headed back
But her boyfriend intervened
Now close if I may - here's what I say
Trust yourself - the odds break your way
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
The sunlight winks from behind the umbrella of leaves and mangoes overhead. It tickles your cheekbones like the first, second, thirtieth good morning kiss. Your sandals are worn. A woven basket rests heavy on your hip, in your hands.
Your fingers, slender and worn by the earth, trace the contours of my face the way they search for meaning in a dictionary. Gravity. We inch closer. Have you always had a widow’s peak? Your hand finds it rightful place over my heart. I kiss you for the thirty-first time today. You taste of plantains and milk. You smell of sweat and the sun. My hand relishes in the traces of heat on your cheek.
One mango drops from your possession. Unripe, but soon to be opened up and worshipped as it is meant to be. Your fingers grasp the yellowing heart and press it against my lips. I rest against the trunk and sink my teeth into it. Liquid sunrise trickles down your wrist onto my blouse. The leaves create shadow puppets on the ground, the story of two young fools swaying in the shade of a tree.
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 6:32 AM UTC
Me
You
Together
Love
Us
Son
Together
Family
Family
Life
Forever
Completion
Time
Change
Years
Progression
Death
Widow
Goodbyes
Alone
My goodbye
Bye World
Reunited
Love
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
On a wall through the dark of the night,
thrills sent down by countless of legs creeping up and down in their dance
Daddy, is that you ? I asked a spider with long legs
Indeed a daddy longlegs spider haunted for prey
It hopped onto me, trying to guide me out, of this nightmare,
In fact a quite gentle grip of this venomless beast, a sweet embrace of this two eyed arachnid
It whispered to me " Umi, keep going, before they find you "
A shadow of the long past, forgotten in the loitering abyss of time
Serene and clear, my friend kept his dance on my head, resting was no option
A ****** devotion of the creeping darkness,
Ah, phantoms ! Spiders, gather in a dark night,
One tarantula crosses my way, with no intention to bite
The shadow I was running from was no where near, but my knights summoned around me, tapping on the ground with their eight legs in their dance
Realisation floods my mind, relentless, numbing all my senses
The black widow of hatred cast on a pure fury, with lilies of murderous intend, was me,
Running from myself was what I did all these years but not anymore
It is best to dance on these fantastic grounds with me,
Because I am the eternity of this realm of fantasy
After all, we have infinite time in our dreams
~ Umi
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
I saw you in widow's eyes.
I heard you in her cries.
I smelt you in wood and fire.
I felt you in funeral pyre.
I saw you sitting on ground.
I heard you in violin's sound.
I smelt you in burning heart.
I felt you in man sitting apart.
I saw you within lost child.
I heard you in his heart wild.
I smelt you in anxious sweat.
I felt you on his cheeks wet.
Not sure if you searched me;
Or somehow I found thee;
Much love for me in you I see.
Now you ever reside in me.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:31 AM UTC
Roselva says the only thing that doesn't change
is train tracks. She's sure of it.
The train changes, or the weeds that grow up spidery
by the side, but not the tracks.
I've watched one for three years, she says,
and it doesn't curve, doesn't break, doesn't grow.
Peter isn't sure. He saw an abandoned track
near Sabinas, Mexico, and says a track without a train
is a changed track. The metal wasn't shiny anymore.
The wood was split and some of the ties were gone.
Every Tuesday on Morales Street
butchers crack the necks of a hundred hens.
The widow in the tilted house
spices her soup with cinnamon.
Ask her what doesn't change.
Stars explode.
The rose curls up as if there is fire in the petals.
The cat who knew me is buried under the bush.
The train whistle still wails its ancient sound
but when it goes away, shrinking back
from the walls of the brain,
it takes something different with it every time.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
I started with my dress,
The white one with the black flowery design.
I added my black scarf, draping it
Casually around my head,
Trying to stop my thoughts from drifting
To what I was dressing up for.
I slipped on my sandals and then
Slipped out the door,
Not slamming it because that felt like
An ending.
I didn’t want another ending.
Walking into the church,
The temperature went up 50 degrees,
And my anxiety went up 100.
I shook hands with the extended family,
Hugged your widow,
And comforted your grandchildren.
I made it through the opening liturgy,
Your favorite hymn, and the obituary.
I even stopped my tears from falling
During your granddaughter’s touching eulogy,
When she started sobbing up there on the altar.
Afterwards, I sat through the meal,
Everything tasting like cardboard in
My mouth as the temperature kept increasing.
Near the end of the night,
When the church was clearing out,
I went back to the food,
Craving a final bite of cheesy potato casserole
Before I could finally leave this night behind.
Yet when I get there,
The tray is cleaned out,
And there is no more cheesy potato casserole.
That’s when I finally break down and sob.
I didn’t get that last bite of
Cheesy potato casserole.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
Law,
All ye termites hacking ants are you without sin?
Twisting the law to your greed thus dethroning justice
Thou that dis-virgins the law to suit your selfish taste,
Did not equity say that none is above the law?
Money-thirsty vultures seeking positions to occupy.
Law hackers depriving justice and equity of her rights
Equity and justice now lives in shame of her virginity,
Almighty termite, do not your deeds speak evil of your sins?
I weep blood for justice and equity whose daughters you *****
Is there none whose conscience still breathe or lives?
Power-driven termites making uncountable promises
Yet accomplishing none but your calculated interests.
Equity,
All ye leaders that preach peace, are you not corrupt minded?
En-slaving accounts meant for public welfare
Yet you claim to have the peoples interest in mind,
Did not the law command you to let equity and justice smile?
Parasitic predators hi-jacking the country's economy
Filthy termites proclaiming injustice upon powerless ants,
Justice hackers, do not your conscience judge your judgments?
I wish that you allow justice and equity have her way.
Law benders at whose feet equity and justice bow
Rippers of the law, at your hands justice is twisted,
Is your nature as humans so inhumane?
Little wonder the earth lives in fear of your tyranny.
Justice,
All ye slanders of the law, why not sheath your swords of corruption?
Your unchecked power has broken the wings of justice
Thereby making equity a widow without a husband,
Remember your oaths to serve with justice and equity;
Did you deceive the ants that voted you in to serve them?
Chameleons occupying seats of filtered ambitions
Woe betide your conscience for refusing to judge you,
Are you not guilty of molesting the law?
I mourn for the shameful death of equity and justice.
You that crafts the law to fit your suit of corruption
Remember a day comes when justice will laugh again,
And you being powerful cannot escape the law of Karma.
Karma,
Murderers of the law, will you also bribe karma?
I doubt if you can buy the law of karma with money.
Thou whose gluttony corrupts justice and equity,
Don't you feel guilty that you disvirgined the law?
Equity and justice now roams about in nakedness,
You that preach the law, are you true to yourself?
Heartless spiders cob-webbing the law to entangle poor ants
Did not equity bid you come to justice with clean hands?
Yet with filthy garments you condemn innocent ants;
Mind you that someday the law will rise again.
All ye scavengers of justice and hackers of the law,
Do you think you can **** the law of Karma?
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
A porcupine skin,
Stiff with bad tanning,
It must have ended somewhere.
Stuffed horned owl
Pompous
Yellow eyed;
Chuck-wills-widow on a biased twig
Sooted with dust.
Piles of old magazines,
Drawers of boy's letters
And the line of love
They must have ended somewhere.
Yesterday's Tribune is gone
Along with youth
And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach
The year of the big storm
When the hotel burned down
At Seney, Michigan.
6.6k
And when you give
Give like the widow
And when you give
Give til you giggle
And when you give
Give til you've pasted a smile
On every angel within a mile
And when you give
Keep the others guessing
Keep it between you and heaven
Cos you know that's better than
A here and now blessing
When you give
Give like the widow
Keep it on the down-low
However you live
Just give
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 6:00 PM UTC
This might not be a poem: more so a realization at most. The complaints I have throughout the day are anything but morose. Walk an hour in another man's shoes, and suddenly life has so much more I could lose. Where could I be in that first step?
I could be standing in the flip flops of a beautiful friend , taking care of four children as a new widow.
I could be in sneakers as the man selling newspapers in the desert heat day after day.
I could be in a different shoe every day, as a comedian loved by all, who could make everyone laugh, but himself.
I could be in heels in a doctors office, facing the reality of only a few months left.
But I'm not. My shoes are worn, but my heart is not. My days might be long, but my bed is warm. The jobs I work help keep our bills paid and our food plentiful.
I was going to complain today: but when I realized how beautiful today was, I had nothing to say.
Where could you be, in that first step?
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
I may as well be a widow
Clinging to a past love that is no more
The sweetest tang of heartache
For a me, as I was before
It seems like forever ago
Since I became mature
Innocence crumbled to nothing
But a beaten senseless
*****
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
And when you give
Give like the widow would
Quietly and thoughtfully
Wholeheartedly and consciously
Like you know the value of costly
The value of giving til you laughingly
Really hurt in your fund for a holiday.
And when you give
Keep your other hand wondering
If it's sufficiently
Not knowing if it was slight of handedly
Or open handedly
So you're tempted into giving more
Than you intended previously.
And when you give
Give hilariously
Generously
Be gutsy til angels agree
On the degree
To which you plunge
The depths of your karki jeans
And if in doubt
Just focus on the tree
And the costly sacrifice
He willingly made
For you and me.
Give like the widow would -
Like it's just between you and God
And then you'll be free.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
Maybe you died
Cause everyone's asking where you are
I feel bad cause
I took away their shining star
The innocent girl
Who used to pray hard
Replaced her with a devil
To play her part
I tried to channel you
In hopes that I could steer you back
But then that just reminds me
Of all the qualities you had
That I lack.
I'm not happy anymore
Just really sad
I don't wear any other colours
Except black
Cause I'm just a widow
At your funeral and you're dead
And the fact that I killed you
Leaves me with a heavy chest
And looking back I see
That I didn't treat you great
But through all of that
I still wish you stayed
And I hope you're still alive
But just took a break
Cause without you
I'm a jar of memories and hate
I miss you cause
You were the best I ever had
So dear old me
Please come back.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC
When I was thirteen, I had a running coach.
He was short, lean, and muscular.
An Italian man
with a whistle hanging around his neck,
farmer's tan, and below his black widow's peak
sat silver aviators, propped upon his shiny beak.
I ran miles and miles a day, but,
no matter how much I'd run
he never followed. He always trusted me to
stride my roads and lift my knees high
during the kick at the end of the races
against myself.
"If you want to run
you gotta drop that baggage," he'd laugh
between sips from his water bottle
as he towered over little me,
panting and red. We both stood
tall under the blazing sun.
I couldn't comprehend exactly what he meant,
I mean, I told him,
"I have ultra-light, top-of-the-line shoes,
compression shorts and athletic toes,
a hairless chest for maximum speed,
sweat running rivers down my spine,
legs that never exhaust, and,
above all, Coach,
a spirit that can move mountains." His response,
silence and a smirk.
Who was he to teach me about running?
"You're weighing yourself down boy,
you gotta drop that baggage."
It was his motto for me
every time my time would increase,
because, you see, when running,
increase is bad. Except for hills.
I can still hear his voice in my head,
"Uphill, increase exertion."
He never ran with me, he just told me to go.
He showed me the route and I did as expected,
six days a week, sometimes three miles, sometimes ten,
day after day, again and again,
shoulders hunched and me out of breath,
"runners high," they called it.
I hated running, I hated my coach,
I didn't understand why
anyone would want run to anywhere.
Not now. Now, I love it.
It has become my hobby, a specialty
for when one grows up,
your body is built for it, and your mind
has been ready to run since junior high.
It starts as a seedling, when you're barely able to walk,
and by the time your cardiovascular system
has been assaulted by packs of tobacco
and rolled marijuana, it blooms green.
That's when you realize:
Running is easy.
And coaching?
Don't even get me started on how easy that is.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 1:12 PM UTC