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Smoke Scribe Aug 2018
The Violent Storm by the Water
(Do You Trust Your Imagination)

was not unexpected
but its fury was without compare,
poet awake in semi-preparation

living by water should be a human right for all,
even a small room, overlooking, gives new meaning to

we blessed with a patio door, encased in a glass window big enough for a smallish elephant to come visit and play with children

a storm is observed up close and personal as if one was in
an IMAX 3D  theater, and the edges of existence were being redefined,
sharpened by fury, tooled by tools untouched by mortal hands

miles of bay illuminated with bass drum furious accompaniment

stand before the screen,
poets arms outstretched as a supplicant,
the light of the lightening passes through him,
yet , behind me, she still sleeps

then the entire house shakes, reverberates, as if to say:

”tremble humans, cower, you are not permitted to watch my majesty, for such it was when created heaven and earth”

bold poet window worshipping
risky answers:

“but who will know
if even a poet cannot declaim sights
no one else has seen?”

”true, true, but you must choose if poet truly,
do you trust your imagination human,
to prove that the powers of the heavens are limitless?”

write of storms unseen and nature endless miracles

”then you may call yourself
a miracle too,
a poet

violent #storm violentstorn
valencia Jan 6
i was so in love with you, that even the world could not contain the love in my heart. so one by one
i took all the stars out of my eyes
and gave them to you as if i had nothing to lose, gave them to you because i know how much you loved fire.
i put them in your skies,
told you to look, told you to touch, told you to feel the cosmos inside of you.
feel the stars i had given you.

and you shook your head and asked how on earth i called these stars, that they were not bright enough. you wanted roman stars, the ones that feed the stories of great heroes who were placed in constellations.
you could never understand the the brightest stars are already dead, you are just worshipping their reflections.
i just wanted to give you a chance.
sorry for the edits someone figured out this was about them and asked me to take it down. i’m not going too,  but i changed it a little.
Paul Hansford Nov 2016
Ganges, dawn, a luminous haze
over the water. The bathing ghats
are busy with the faithful. (But India
is inconceivable without faith.)  
The robed bathers, raising river water
to the sun, pouring it back
to mother Ganges, are they worshipping
the sun or the river?
For them God is everywhere
and everything.  Water, sun,
the river and the twinkling lamps floating on it
are part of one consciousness.

The burning ghats too (such quantities of wood
stacked ready) are beginning their day.
The funeral party approaching in respectful haste
have a job to do. They build their pile,
move the body to the wood,
start the fire. I watch, but not for long.
This moment, so intimate, so public, reminds me
I am an intruder here. The ashes
will return to Ganga unwitnessed by me.

Away from the river, the vendors of tea
do their trade among the stalls. Monkeys,
cheerfully pilfering, are chased away
half-heartedly, for they are Hanuman’s representatives,
and they, with the sacred, garbage-clearing cows,
are part of the one consciousness. In this land
all are “the faithful”, everything is God’s creation.
In this poverty is richness.
Varanasi is the Hindu holy city formerly called Benares. The "ghats" are a series of steps leading down to the river, and are divided into areas for various purposes. Hanuman is the Hindu monkey-god.
Chris Neilson Mar 2017
Racing white Audis with black leather seats
overpriced apartments and penthouse suites
the overpowering stench of ill-gotten gains
steroidal meat-heads with reduced brains

A section of society without respect
a grasp on reality at best suspect
always wrong but never to blame
flaunting wealth and lacking in shame

Worshipping at the alter of materialism
swaggering past the homeless with egotism
some are privileged sons and daughters of the rich
he's definitely a ******* and she's probably a *****

Leaving half an eaten expensive lunch
this exclusive elite are an unlovely bunch
I've never had much money so I don't miss it. This piece is aimed at those who have wealth NOT through honest hard work
Paul Marfil Aug 2018
The moment my hands come
                                      to meet in prayer

     know that I am holding
        two broken fists             held together 

                    by lola's rosary beads            
       so tight against my skin        
you will mistake them
                          for blood clots.

                                 It is difficult to pray
  inside an unfinished church:

       A welder goes about
                              joining iron

                                 the way one gathers
his ironies before prayer.

  The sound he makes becomes too
           shredded it could be the sound of

metal screaming for mercy. At the back
             a woman stretches her hand

like a five o' clock shadow. Something
           holy stands frozen in time. Say pray

for us. She lights a candle.
                      When the fire went out, she is

pressed back into the dark. The last time
                         I was asked to write

            something for the Lord, I ended up
worshipping my own silence.

                           There is a sin a knee
          could no longer carry. I am sorry.

     Forgiveness is a room
                         with a door left ajar.

                                                    You are
         inside that room.

                   I know my chances will expand
          like an earthy bough, I know

one of them will break
                at the welcome of confession.

           You are...     

Perhaps hell is for those
               who used the wrong adjectives.

                A churchman opens a window,
   pours out a summer's worth of light—

    see it fall between the pews like sand
                 between one's fingers. Here

            where there is no light, anything
that shines will feel like a judgement.

Tell me how can one hold a prayer
          the way an empty hand can hold

     so much waiting. Tell me how can one
not weep in the shadow of a gospel

and see the light where it is aimed at.
              Somewhere down here

                    there is a worn down piano
            that never doubts

         the hand that plays it.
                                  It could be me.

     Perhaps at the worst end
                            of having a choice

          is the consequence of guilt. Perhaps
this is how things should have ended: us

        raising an amen
                     ­                         to our lips.
speaking of
the greatest good,
I have been devoutly
praying for it

for everyone in
The Whole dang club

wherever it
pulls flows goes
aside under over tow

even though I know
it's kinda like asking U
to tie me to a spit
à la *******-bi

with clock hands
slow-cranking circles
orbiting until dizzy
harshing me

and I say
yes to it

because more
than any one thing
I want to spread
pearlescent wings
glinting orange
off our star

and I believe
down to the marrow
regenerating inside
my chiming bones

my path to awakening
is submitting to love,
worshipping in skin

and all these
tumultuous turns
and infernal spins

this gutting
inner work

will be worth it

as preparation for
open-heart melding
melting into mellow

bliss peach cheeks
blooming on the
wisp-kissed wind

pulling toward
ornate saintly gates
unraveling metallics
with boiling points set

at incandescent
Classy J Feb 6
Trying to figure why a ***** tried to stunt on me.
While my homie fronts on me.
Triggered lie’s blasting out like bullets into your chest, golly!
Vigor dying whilst family crying that left me locked up now in a little celly.
Why did I pour out my heart to that ***** named shelly?
**** got me melancholy, casting out poxy curses.
My proxy is dropping down which got me feeling worthless.
Growing up in projects where one survives by snatching purses and killing snitches.
While society bides their time by tying nooses.
Rigged games yet we are told to give no excuses.
So, a minority got no choice but to role with the punches.
But with darker skin colour most don’t or won’t notice the bruises.
Vile nobility just loves hunting gooses.
Stark contrast idly confides and resides Inside institutionalized nuances.
Some people can be such nuisances.
Got me feeling like tony roaming through the different cosmoses.
Lonely sinking feeling, with my hope which was once flickering but is now slowly fleeting.
Reciprocal tensions pokes through my barriers like an unwelcomed greeting.
Typical tropes of under-achieving maybe it’s time I let God start intervening?
However, I’m doubtful on whether spirituality is real or nothing more than Kris Kringle.
Jingling jester choirs who always be harping on my people.
Which makes me ponder whether or not God’s supposed love is fickle.
Or if supposed believer’s have actually ever read the bible?
Religious pharisee’s not seeing the irony of praying to their falsified idols.
With their heads so far up their own ***. That they don’t even realize that they’ve actually been worshipping the devil.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 5
letter to elana

for the poet elana bell


in a different cafe,
on a Manhattan streetscape where once, years earlier,
violence was the purview of West Side Story gangs,
ruling their internecine non-intersectionality territorial blood lines supremely

nowadays, violence replaced by the frenetic
noises of Lincoln Center theater goers,
student dancers, actors, musicians and poets joining the throng
of those who sup and run,
all hearing their own frantic
curtain calling, saying, announcing,
music dance voices words require your obeisance,
needy for a mutual worshipping reassurance fiat that:

life can be made transcendent
if even for just 90 minutes or 120 pages,
or a 3 minute poem reading

this city of millions requires billions of poems that spoon stirred  
and yet, almost always fail, to squeeze, all of the human essence that is in its ultimate source, clarifying nyc tap water,
containing the storied remnants of a hackable continuous,
single human stanza cell osmosis - a blockchain like no other

two poets sit side by side each in their own lapsed dreams,
she, a published poet of prize and rank, ^
he, a rank amateur whose only prize is his unpublished anonymity,
poetry, is his just a nightly soul cleansing,
an imported remnant of his Marrano piyyutim ancestry

one turns to the other,
in the inexplicable daily crazy miracle
of city fashionistas

in a city where stealing a parking spot, or the
forced squeezing creation of a subway seat space
where physics proves none exists,
are oft the roots of slashing and stabbings faithfully reported
on the 11 o’clock news,  
and trust and/or other encouraging words
are seldom heard and even less demonstrated,
the make-no-eye-contact of Camus’s L’Etranger anomie is the
normative, paranormal, paralysis cloak of we city separatists

“Can you watch over my electronics and stuff?”

Sure says the grayed and grizzled,
an all life long veteran of nyc,
judged to be trustworthy
based on a few seconds of being upsized and downsized,
a car wash (exterior only) perusal
despite a
“no direction home, like a compete unknown, a rolling stone,”  
this signage, yellow star permanently chest-affixed,
conveniently ignored, as it seems impossible
thieves don’t look like me,
don’t likely in their possess,
a distinguished head of gray hair (yeah, sure)

a thank you reward of (or did I imagine it) a lean-in,
a momentary head on a shoulder,
the chit chat now grows earned and earnest,
she confesses her cardinal poetry profession,
eliciting an ‘Oh Boy’ utterance from the poet
of a thousand names
and a thousand textual emendations

a fastidious nyc boundary is brief crossed for one short meal,
till the end when time sensitized IMRL intrudes and
the showtime calls out,
if not now, when? if not me, then who?

I read her poetry later in the praying supine first position of
three AM, and laugh with delight, at the contrast and no compare,
the styles clash and tho the stories told
are both writ in the aleph bet script,
there ends the Ven diagram overlap and
into the night’s coming of a Elvisian blue suede coverlet,
we both disappear, and if not for this recording,
history says, you old man confused, never happened,
just an imaginary poetry ink blot dream breaching...


another poetry book is no longer homeless,
comes to shelter upon my shelf, close to Angelou, far from Whitman,
now all the book’s nooks eyes collectively
reassessing the new old-owner, parsing his syntax,
undecided if his readership is worthy of them,
concluding that all these books are the
man’s owned roughened stones,
to be placed by human hands on the
serpentine curvature of his literary tombstone,
and until all stones fully read,
they all agree,
will they and he
be fully freed,
smoothing his legacy’s edges
Feb. 21 -March 5, 2019
another true story

Every battle of a warrior
is riddled with confused

The garment of a warrior
is rolled in blood!

When the bricks are falling
down,  a warrior builds
with hewn trees

When the sycamore are cut
down, a warrior replaces
them with cedar

In the lifting of the smoke he
burns down wickedness
and its fire with stout heart

Certain in certainty, the trees
in the wood  bow to the
warring winds in the battle of a

Warrior sings upfront in
victory and for victory,
standing determined on
the mountain of courage
and faith, dutifully
worshipping on the altar
of fearlessness and glory.

a woman throughout the centuries
who has attracted
many a man's devotion

she of charm
and enticing allure
she of a superlative

men have fallen to their knees
in exultant praise
worshipping the embodiment
of her feminine maze

and she invokes
powerful feelings
within a man's
Venus the allegory
Emeka Mokeme Aug 2018
This new song you have
dropped into my heart my mouth
will shout out to the world.
I will praise you for you
make me shine out of darkness,
different and best among the best.
Those who don't know will
marvel at what you have done,
will do and continue to do.
Remember your promise oh God
of my heart and God of my realization.
I will stand in the congregation of
your people to show forth your praise.
In worshipping you my heart will
speak of your love.
Your strength and your kingship,
and your Majesty is supreme.
Your healing power is at work here,
for your spirit the Joy of heaven
dwells among us.
Now my heart magnifies you king of glory.
My love for you knows no measure.
You called me your beloved and accepted
me as your very own.
I am overwhelmed by your love.
You chosed and picked me for this very
sacred work and I yield myself to you
for i am on your Majesty's sacred service
accompanied by numerous company of Angels.
And now I go a fishing.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
A brown, barren ploughed field
A flock of birds above
Scattered dots in a patch of blue
On the wind the monks’ voices
Echoed from past days
Worshipping at the simple chapel.

Love Mary ***
Thank you love Mary ***
Butch Decatoria Oct 2018
Hopefully not a mystery, mistaken,

Unquestionably remarkable : your presentation

Miss muse of heavy breathing monologues’

Deeper meanings, thus flesh rises hot.

If into relations

No need or want for explanation.

Greater words now simply lost;

Entrails of vaporous profundities

Respite-sleep below limbs’ entangled quivering

Some sort of worshipping screaming “god!”
Austin Sessoms Oct 2018
to think that love
could be made and
that we could make it
we two being
what we are
hopeless romantics
worshipping an ideal
we've been the
gods of all along

too long
have we settled to take
whatever came our way
too long
have we waited
in silence
hoping that
would run its course
when "destiny"
was in our hands
from the very beginning

they say
the world is ours
for the taking
but anyone
can take the world
it's a ripe piece of fruit
dangling over
the public side
of a fence
all we'd have to do
is stand on tiptoe
and wrap one hand around it
but what would we do
with the world?
take a bite
and leave it to
a swarming anthill?
the world
is not for us
to have

we are not
after all
we are
and while our
are limited
you being everything
that's mine
and I being all that's yours
we manage
to make
what others
Kemy Sep 2018
In Greek Mythology, Terpsichore “delight in dancing” was one of the nine Muses and goddess of dance and chorus. She is usually shown dancing and sometimes holding a lyre, accompanying the ballerinas’ choirs with her music

Close your eyes, relax the spaces of your mind
Delight in Dancing I give to you, practiced from the beginning of time
Terpsichore, the Greek Mythology Muse of dance and chores as I hold my lyre
Passion, lust, desire, graceful movements for the mind to inspire
Enticing the man’s **** flames of fire
No rhythm to engage, only your body, the essence of this muse, no cloth or Greek attire

The body enticement found in a wanton dance
The sum of ninety-three, the Thelema spiritual philosophy for a man to understand
Ancient dances to make the skies shed rain
Dancing in glee to escape life’s stinging pain
The muse within me guides your mind to move like the smooth flow of sand
A beautiful crusade to be shared between woman and man
Lucid, rumbustious, daring, as feet moves to the beat
As you hark unto the dance, as my lyre sets the energy of your soul free

Medicine, ceremonial, rituals, and entertainment dances to amuse
Terpsichore, the Greek Mythology Muse of sensual dances, no man could refuse
Under the silken covers time we reclaim
Two bodies seeking the carnal feast of its weakening fame
A private dance made for two lovers, my lyre discreet to be
Instilled passion under the moonlit, giving and receiving, the commencement of you and me

From the taste of my honey dripped lips
The dance of grace, elegance, seduction, the heart it eclipses
Clench me tighter and feel the alluring sway of my hips
The balance of my soft hands roaming over you, your body basking in the abyss of a wet slip
Linking my arms around your neck as we attune to this emotional dance
The lyre, my chorus backdrop, as the enticing moves heightens of this sultry romance

Allow the rhythm once inside as the elixir of love floats from you
Dip me slowly, worshipping my soul, losing your mind in the addictive moves
Body to body, feast of love found in the magnetic inviting grooves
Spinning me around, taking my mind pass the stars
Come into me as you taste Venus, dancing found under the planet Mars

I’m dizzy from the twirling thrill
Pull me closer, sinking deeper and deeper of your own free will
The rapture with the chorus of my tuneful lyre surrounding us, as time stands still
Feel the essence of my erratic heartbeat as it’s matching yours
Blissful finale of dancing bodies, sedated, perspiration seeps from pores
Breathless and content, as allowed me to take your mind for a sequestered tour  
Heart to heart
My lyre, when dancing with a love one, is a masterpiece work of art

I’ve danced in times of old with my lyre, the chorus played in sync on Mt. Olympics, to the Roman towers  
A woman’s greatest asset as she cajoles in a passionate dance, entrenched by the slow dancing power
Love comes in droves while whirling in the soft mist of a rain shower

Bedazzled under the once seductive poetic words of Horace
Terpsichore, the Greek Mythology Muse of dance heard with my lyre, and chorus
This poem is dedicated to anyone who has a love for Greek Mythology Muses, Gods or, Goddesses such as myself. I will post every now and then a Greek Mythology Muse, God, or Goddess.
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