"worships" poems
~for those who will read this and weep~
*the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience
localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!*
*the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life ***** advertisement
I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs*
*summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created
so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)*
*but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early*
got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind
these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn,
More coiled steel than living - a poised
Dark deadly eye, those delicate legs
Triggered to stirrings beyond sense - with a start, a bounce,
a stab
Overtake the instant and drag out some writhing thing.
No indolent procrastinations and no yawning states,
No sighs or head-scratchings. Nothing but bounce and stab
And a ravening second.
Is it their single-mind-sized skulls, or a trained
Body, or genius, or a nestful of brats
Gives their days this bullet and automatic
Purpose? Mozart's brain had it, and the shark's mouth
That hungers down the blood-smell even to a leak of its own
Side and devouring of itself: efficiency which
Strikes too streamlined for any doubt to pluck at it
Or obstruction deflect.
With a man it is otherwise. Heroisms on horseback,
Outstripping his desk-diary at a broad desk,
Carving at a tiny ivory ornament
For years: his act worships itself - while for him,
Though he bends to be blent in the prayer, how loud and
above what
Furious spaces of fire do the distracting devils
**** and hosannah, under what wilderness
Of black silent waters weep.
41.2k
Peace flows into me
As the tide to the pool by the shore;
It is mine forevermore,
It ebbs not back like the sea.
I am the pool of blue
That worships the vivid sky;
My hopes were heaven-high,
They are all fulfilled in you.
I am the pool of gold
When sunset burns and dies, —
You are my deepening skies,
Give me your stars to hold.
39.7k
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.
The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.
The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.
Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.
Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.
She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.
When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.
28.3k
The man of deeds who lacks the word
is simple, stupid and absurd.
He works and struggles all the day
for nothing more than mindless pay.
He loves the rich and thinks them smart
for gaining through their lack of heart.
He loves his boundaries; worships rules;
considers those who break them fools.
His mind is closed; his world is small;
he has no words to think at all.
His conversation tends to stink
because he never learned to think.
His only drive is buying more;
he's little but a Hoople *****
He does and does and that's enough,
if he can just keep buying stuff.
He never questions what he's told;
he's just a thing that's bought and sold.
And when it is his time to die;
he'll lack the words to wonder why.
- mce
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:58 AM UTC
You laid yourself a path
Of the best-laid plans
Of a future set in stone
But she interferes
When she sheds her tears
And she spends all her time
Daydreaming
If she could she would
Run your train right off the tracks
You’d be forced to shed your skin
Never looking back
She worships the moon
With a ***** silver spoon
It won’t answer her prayers
So with her flowing blonde hair
She spends her time
Daydreaming
But now she builds her shrine to you
She does all that she can do
Are you prepared to take her on
And spend your days in the sun
Daydreaming
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
god gloats upon Her stunning flesh. Upon
the rechings of Her green body among
unseen things, things obscene (Whose fingers young
the caving ages curiously con)
—but the lunge of Her hunger softly flung
over the gasping shores
leaves his smile wan,
and his blood stopped hears in the frail anon
the shovings and the lovings of Her tongue.
god Is The Sea. All terrors of his being
quake before this its hideous Work most old
Whose battening gesture prophecies a freeing
of ghostly chaos
in this dangerous night
through moaned space god worships God—
(behold!
where chaste stars writhe captured in brightening fright)
6.8k
good morning, my angel
my living lullaby
i glide across the fairest skin, you are the fairest one
of all. Good morning, my mother
my broken candle
you gave me the wax that has melted on many tablecloths
i feel I have lost you now, as I had lost you then.
Good morning, my first love
my little bridge
your mittens were warm when I needed heat
when I was so cold the tears froze onto my cheeks.
you ran me a bath a being
of divinity
we held each other in your father’s tub and laughed
at the bubbling abundance, burgeoning in overflow.
I wake to the puddle of your memory
That has grown since we last met, since I have wept
For the love I have not kept in place. Good
morning hindered lover, who worships me in forbidden light
a thousand songs have yet transpired born
from a single thought of you.
Inhibited inspiration,
camouflage constellation, I kiss you now
though I will always be
Years away from where you lie.
Good morning dear father, a forester
Braver than the lone wolf and his
solitary howl. The lesson of the arthritic toe shows you
True appreciation for the pain of existence.
You are the most loyal flame, my gratitude is overwhelming
Each time I embrace the past and the mistakes, unconscious
From the broken record
And its echo off the wall.
Good mourning to the loss of a lover, an ephemeral flame.
Good mourning to the death of a friendship, to the longing for a ****
Good mourning to the future in its casket,
That awaits a new life for me
In song.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
Hence Cupid! with your cheating toys,
Your real griefs, and painted joys,
Your pleasure which itself destroys.
Lovers like men in fevers burn and rave,
And only what will injure them do crave.
Men's weakness makes love so severe,
They give him power by their fear,
And make the shackles which they wear.
Who to another does his heart submit,
Makes his own idol, and then worships it.
Him whose heart is all his own,
Peace and liberty does crown,
He apprehends no killing frown.
He feels no raptures which are joys diseased,
And is not much transported, but still pleased.
5.5k
Blind are the eyes
That stare deep into their own reflection
Dead is the mind
That worships thoughts of its own creation
Even the angels are made for more.
Humanity is frailty we mustn't ignore.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Nor thou, Habib, nor I are glad,
when rosy limbs and sweat entwine;
But rapture drowns the sense and self,
the wine the drawer of the wine,
And Him that planted first the grape-
o podex, in thy vault there dwells
A charm to make the member mad,
And shake the marrow of the spine.
O member, in thy stubborn strength
a power avails on podex-sense
To boil the blood in breast and brain;
shudder the nreves incarnadine!
From me thou drawest pearly drink -
and in its pourings both are drunk.
The Iman drives forth the drunken man
from out the marble prayer-shrine.
Blue Mushtari strove with red Mirrikh
which should be master of the night-
But where is Mushtari, where Mirrikh
when in the sky the sun doth shine?
Now El Qahar to Hazif gives
the worship unto poets due : -
But songs are nought and Music all;
what poet music may define?
Allah's the atheist! he owns
no Allah. Sneer, thou dullard churl!
The Sufi worships not, but drinks,
being himself the all-divine.
Come, my Habib, the roses blush,
the waters gleam, the bulbul sings -
To pierce thy podex El Quahar's
urgent and and imminent design!
5.2k
We use video games
To make video gains
Until the screen goes black
And reality attacks
We lose all our progress
In the deletion process
As we level up we devolve
Around the TV we revolve
The more experience we gain
The more moments we lose
Our memories forever stained
When this is what we choose
Our life inside a hard drive
Our life becomes a hard lie
We revel in being unwise
Rage quitting life
We enjoy strife
And avoid pesky light
When we live in the dark
With consumerist plights
We are all marks
Video games balance in a zone
Between game and art
The frustration starts
When art is confused for games
And games mistook for art
People take things to heart
And spitefully spew viper venom
If this is where games send them
Then why do we play?
We have no other way
To feel accomplishment
In a society that worships competition
Video games become the second edition
Of a life filled with loss
On our pixelated cross
We are murdered millions of times
Reminiscent of the millions of lies
That make us losers in the real world
Video games become our shiny pearl
The computer displays defeat
When our lives aren't complete
Because we need someone to beat
Not realizing our lives are conquered
By frivolous topics we've pondered
Our meaningless life squandered
And hope comes in the form of new releases
While inside our faulty headset is in pieces
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 3:13 AM UTC
A bell tolls
Friends join in to walk
With me to the end of the path
Carrying on heavy shoulders,
All that last journey, and
All that was not said
And all that silences
Which will echo forever in our hearts.
Some where
Silence waits for the desert spaces
To speak up
And break our lives
Into small grains of sand
Which pours within the Hour Glass
Of our togetherness
Some where - a blast-off to distant stars
In the cloud of dust
In the drum beats of
Shiva's Tandav* dance.
Some where, Love alone
Worships the intensity of the togetherness
Or
Truthfulness of belongingness.
Or
Remains
A mute spectator to the Tandav* of emotions
Silence some time does sound
In, Our lives
And
A bell tolls forever
Calling in lost soul
Or soul mates
To be in the valley of lost flower stars.
_____________________________
Tandav is the eternal dance of Lord Shiva, a dance of destruction as well as creation...
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 10:11 AM UTC
SPRING
Spring is the king of the seasons
Ugadi is the first of the festivals
We wear new clothes
And eat delicious broths
Mother prepares the customary mango pickle
Father worships the sickle
Nature is in her full bloom
There is no room for any gloom
The cuckoo sings early in the morning
The farmer is ready for harvesting
There are new born leaves
And pleasant breezes
Every tree has a flower
There is flowing water in the river
The wind blows very softly
The birds fly very swiftly
The winter was very cold
But the spring is very beautiful to behold
Ugadi brings in new hopes
The farmer depends on yearly crops
May this new year bring in peace!
I am able to write a poetic piece
by JVL NARASIMHA RAO
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
the latest theories on the Neanderthal
is they died out due to homosexuality
& the earliest evidence of actual civil
order depicts women as priestesses &
queens & men, even kings as animals;
monsters & giants coexisting w/ teenagers
& old people in complex structures ruled
over by older priests, poets & a professional
warrior class; the king could be murdered
w/ impunity & the queen taken as consort
by the next king or murdered if she proves
too ambitious; & throughout all this, scribes
record the passage of time, the declaring of
laws, engagements in wars, rituals, persona,
comic tales & history; notable women have
a roster of their own, some written by ******
scribes party to their secret names & habits;
all known things; bathhouse elect, her scribe
observing her in the dressing mirror invents
the adventures of her reflection; a princess
never to grow old yet her father-husband is a
bearded elder; her older brother a warrior-prince
& future king; her younger brother/son is the
poet who must reveal what he knows, if only
b/c he'll burst if he has to **** his baby sister
in ritual Hieros gamos w/out telling everyone
exactly how he feels about it; but daring to speak
means being ****** burned at the stake, beheaded
& drawn & quartered, so he writes in secret
[chisels actually, so it's resemblance is mostly
related to relief sculpture
& engraving, but writing], passing
the linear tablets to the young priestess who buries
them beneath the temple floor for some future age
of mankind to discover anew & perhaps heed the
warnings of the coming chaos (the poet, a prophet
before there was such a thing); the ****** priestess
worships him w/ unrequited longing; her heart in
chaos, sharing the poet's vision; nature calls her
to her big brother like a woman loves a man & on
that day when they are to publicly mate the young
siblings are gone & are presumed eaten by the
unseen unseen like so many others before them
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
In the witching hour all is quiet except for the beating sound of two hearts entwined with passion and agony beating more angry by the minute.
Blinded eyes try to pierce through the dark abyss to find sanity in a place of cold nothingness and desolation, as the tortured mind cloudy with regret slowly fades away..
nails claw at blinded eyes longing to see the clouds part and behold, his goddess is there basking in the pale yellowing aura of the moon, as he looks longingly upon her..
skin and curves of perfection soaking up the yellowing, becoming golden upon his slightest gaze.
Knees become burning furnaces of pain and torment as he falls to kneel before her, begging with soundless words of an open mouth for release.
Paralyzed, hungrily devouring as her sightless eyes fall upon her brooding brow trailing down to the blinding stars that become her eyes under the harvest moon.
The wind blows fierce surrounding her in a halo of color plucked dead limbs, trailing off into oblivion.
She gazed upon his visage, her fierceness burning his soul in eternal torment she smirks and glides toward effortlessly slowly,
tantalizingly slow,
causing him great anguish and letting her sadistic humor known to all..
he lashed out and traps her in his iron eyes transfixed on lips so full and soft as crimson color them tricking down her body hungrily eating her perfect curves he kisses her
hard throwing themselves down a bottom less pit entangled in passion he forces her legs apart he slams into her as she drips wet in anticipation..
She moans breathlessly in extract, her ***** like velvet greedily devours his hardened **** of stone repeatedly ****** her innocence, tired bodies continuously fall exhausted.
She tried to flee, but his fires flamed inside hotly he takes her again.
His embrace hard, intense
his iron will dominating her.
Breaking her wild spirit, she gasps as he unleashes a relentless force inside her driving her to the edge of sanity and back again.
Her eyes close for the last time giving into his dominance
she embraced him.
Her wild flaming spirit shattered knowing that as he worships her it is she who is forever a slave of their passionate love,
melding bodies together,
as they fall endlessly in the abyss.
Apr 13, 2022
Apr 13, 2022 at 9:04 PM UTC
Fever-flushed children and
Broken bodies
Litter hospital halls like so much
Human refuse
….Wondering why
their need for care is treated so tepidly by a
Society which worships
Profits
Power and
Prestige
….Waiting while
they wallow in anguish as
Privacy
Paperwork and
Payment are
Debated by bureaucrats in cubicles
….Wanting to be refreshed and
restored to some measure of usefulness
….But
Free to Pursue Life on their terms in exchange for
Silence
Acceptance and
Despair
Huddling for warmth and in
Fear of discovery
they assemble in rag-tag formation
having scaled formidable fences
Seeking freedom from
Poverty and oppression
Searching for work of any sort
….No matter how
Humiliating or
Hard
….No matter the
Cost or
Conditions
Disparaged and despised they labor
in hope that their children will have a chance for success
instead of suffering a similar fate
…..But
Free to Pursue Liberty
in a land where their presence is
Ignored if not Denied
Unkempt in camouflage
One-legged and
Vacant-eyed
he rolls his rickety wheelchair along grassy median with muted effort
displaying cardboard sign
childishly scripted
in one weather-worn and gnarled hand
while clutching a decapitated jug in the other
Forgotten
Forlorn, and
Discarded veteran
Victimized far more by country than foe
….But
Free to Pursue Happiness while
Begging on street corners as
Upright citizens dispense
Unwelcome opinions or
Pocket change with equal
Self-righteousness
Life
Liberty and the
Pursuit of happiness….
Ideals that slowly incinerate on the
Altar of Capitalism
….Songs forever lost in the
Cacophony now
Played on the
Instrument of Politics
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
~
*Mother of many waters
the manner with which she ascends
is sympathetically informed
we are a running spring
from her womb
flowing along the magical line
of peaks and summits
to cascading fiery birthright
and the rain fell
and the snow settled
and the ice theologized
to remind us
the outside world still worships
her eruptive embers*
~
Aug 30, 2021
Aug 30, 2021 at 12:18 PM UTC
I want to tell you that I miss you like every friend I have ever lost.
The wind mocks me, knocking me off my feet just to try and replicate how you used to make me feel.
Every single thing reminds me of you.
The stars are not poetic, they're dead.
You said to find poetry in everything that leaves,
but you never understood why I tattooed the names of everyone who has ever taken their lives too soon on my wrists.
I yearn to be a museum,
to be every prayer you never said.
There is no religion that worships your smile, so I am an atheist.
Whispers flood my ears, telling me to stop poking holes through my skin.
To stop finding solace in pain, in the beauty that comes after it.
I want to whisper back that every rose has it's thorn,
but I really hate that song.
I sometimes wonder if all of our plans will stay intact,
if you will still come to me in the summer, when the water is half-warm
and my nerves are on fire, waiting.
I hope so.
I've never been good enough for anything except illegal things,
I want to stop relying on synthetic euphoria to keep breathing.
I want to stop but I can't.
I just want to rely on you.
You're so far away.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 10:11 AM UTC
The Israelites (/ˈɪzriəlaɪts/; Hebrew: בני ישראל Bnei Yisra'el)
were a confederation of Iron Age
Semitic-speaking tribes of the ancient Near East
inhabiting parts of Canaan during the tribal & monarchic periods;
Modern archaeology has largely discarded
the historicity of the Jewish religious narrative;
re-framing it as constituting an inspired national myth:
The Israelites & their culture according to modern
archaeological accounts,
did not overtake the region by force,
instead branching out from the indigenous [Canaanite peoples
long inhabiting the Southern Levant, Syria,
ancient Israel, and the Trans-Jordan region]
through the development of a distinct _monolatristic_—
[_Monolatry_ (Greek: μόνος (monos) = single,
and λατρεία (latreia) = worship) is the belief
in the existence of many gods but with the
consistent worship of the one deity; the term
"monolatry" was perhaps first used
by Julius Wellhausen;
Modern scholars of Israel's religion have
become much more circumspect in how
they use the Old Testament; not least
because many have concluded the Bible
is not a reliable witness to the true religion
of ancient Israel and Judah; representing
the beliefs of only a small segment of the
ancient community _centered in Jerusalem_
& devoted to the exclusive worship
of the god "Yahweh": Monolatry is
distinct from monotheism,
which asserts the existence of only one god;
and henotheism, a religious system in which
the believer worships one god w/out denying
that others may worship different gods with
equal validity]; later cementing as a monotheistic religion
centered on Yahweh, one of the Ancient Canaanite deities;
the outgrowth of Yahweh-centric beliefs
along with a number of cult practices
gradually gave rise to a distinct Israelite
ethnic group setting them apart
from the other Canaanites
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
There comes a time when tyranny of numbers,
Evaporates into tyranny of idiosyncrasies,
Especially when the ethnic tyranny tyrannizes
Voice of reason the matrix of humane inclusivity,
When the malice in the enormity of clan numbers
Worships brutality of foolishness that purtains
In the group of the over sized ethnicity
To cement the tyrannical tomfoolery.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
*The silky breeze
worships the old pine trees
and sun gently caresses
the sea ripples.*
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
The dreamer is breathless as he clutches his chest
These feelings amuck inexplicable at its best
Managing a gasp and finally drawing his air
Never thought it possible, these feelings he'd share.
It's been long since he'd last uttered the deal breaker
Expecting hate and regret, yet receiving love so tender
It softens him so, lifting him way up high
It blinded him so, fighting it he never did try.
On swift magical wings, down to him she had swooped
With kind loving hands, his time-worn body she adoringly scooped
Into her warm comforting chest, the dreamer would retreat
He finds comfort in a sound; the rhythm of her heart beat.
Chest to chest, soul to soul, their hearts beat as one
He looks up teary eyed, he looks up at his sun
She gazes upon him like she's known him forever
He stares up at her and says, "There can be no other".
Together they took flight to destinations unknown
Their love they would want, to carve immortal into stone
They had cared not for the whims of the universe
Submerged themselves deep in love's sweet murmurs.
This thing in his chest badly wants to sing
Of words so sweet, of melodies so endearing
It wants to say true words of praise
Whisper promises of an Eden-like place.
The dreamer worships his sun as he'd found his dream
Dreams of rolling meadows and night's silvery moonbeam
He whispered of feelings that he believed to be his
He presented them to her as she's the only one he sees.
I am the dreamer who never truly wants to wake
Hopeful of a life that this dream could possibly make
I still am the dreamer who believes it'll all come true
I am the silly little dreamer who's madly in love with you.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
Second step is a promise,
and you misled them
from safe haven
to slaughter.
Gods broken in fragments,
collected in plastic bags,
kept in cupboards
and drawers.
Worships in mirrors.
Praises the reflection.
You've imprisoned
thunderstorms
in your palms;
Are you the villain?
Hypocrite manipulator?
People exist to either assist you
or inconvenience you,
and your aim is to have
one class of person.
Disposable.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
It’s true what they say,
we always hurt the ones we love
and love the ones who hurt us.
We can quote Bukowski as much as we want,
but we need to realize the severity of his words.
“Find what you love and let it **** you.”
Love is a death sentence.
It is a sweet one, but in love’s very nature it is a death sentence nonetheless.
You will search the world for someone whose favorite book is The Picture of Dorian Gray
and who worships the same 1953 Hepburn film
and inhales dark coffee in the way that you do.
But you will end up settling for someone who has skimmed the back cover biography of Wilde
and who remembers when and where Audrey was born
and drinks java from a little coffee shop that you think is pretentious.
Yet there will be a time when you will find someone that you can’t live without
and you will be shell-shocked when you see that they can breathe air through their lungs
and eat the spicy food that you don’t like
and sleep with the window cracked just a little bit
all without you.
You will hate yourself more than anyone for letting yourself need someone as much as you need that one person,
who doesn’t even know that when you say you only take two sugars in your coffee,
you actually mean four, sometimes five.
You will ignore their pleas and roll your eyes at their petty compromises.
You will make them miserable because you love them more than they love you.
And they will stick around because they feel guilty for that very reason.
You will salt their wounds and ice their veins.
They will leave you on the side of the road and try their best to hate you.
You will both recognize that it is a valiant yet fruitless effort.
The line between hate and love is so slight that a feeling can change like a compass.
Love is hate and hate is love.
So you will grow to tolerate their lack of literary prowess
and enlighten them on what you actually mean when you say two sugars.
Most times everything will feel off and never quite the way you had expected,
and you’ll always wonder if you have ever really been happy,
and if this is actually how love feels.
When this happens, you must remind yourself that love is a complicated emotion.
It is in the tide of the sea
and the phases of the moon
and sometimes found in a frightening trek down Memory Lane.
You can find it in the face of every person that you have ever met
and sometimes it does not grace those pretty faces for very long at all.
The most truthful and sad part of it all is that it will eventually **** you.
But it is a death sentence at it’s finest.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC