"yoked" poems
my love
thy hair is one kingdom
the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers
thy head is a quick forest
filled with sleeping birds
thy ******* are swarms of white bees
upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring
thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song
my love
thy head is a casket
of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
with victory and with trumpets
thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness
thy lips are satraps in scarlet
in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
of silver
in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes
thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense
160.2k
Hymn to Aphrodite
by Sappho
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Immortal Aphrodite, throned in splendor!
Wile-weaving daughter of Zeus, enchantress, and beguiler!
I implore you, dread mistress, discipline me no longer
with love's anguish!
But come to me once again in kindness,
heeding my prayers as you have done before;
O, come Divine One, descend once again from
heaven's golden dominions!
Your chariot yoked to love's consecrated doves,
their multitudinous pinions aflutter,
you once came gliding from the utmost heights, to
the dark-bosomed earth.
Swiftly they came and vanished, leaving you,
O my Goddess, smiling, your face eternally beautiful,
asking me what unfathomable longing compelled me
to cry out.
Asking me what I sought in my hopeless, bewildered desire.
Asking, "Who has harmed you, why are you so alarmed,
my poor Sappho? Whom should
Persuasion summon here?"
"Though today she flees love, soon she will pursue you;
spurning love's gifts, soon she shall return them;
tomorrow she will woo you,
however unwillingly!"
Come to me now, most Holy Aphrodite!
Release me from my heavy heartache and anguish;
grant me all I request, be once again
my ally and protector!
"Hymn to Aphrodite" is the only poem by Sappho of ****** to survive in its entirety. The poem survived intact because it was quoted in full by Dionysus, a Roman orator, in his "On Literary Composition," published around 30 B.C. A number of Sappho's poems mention or are addressed to Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. It is believed that Sappho may have belonged to a cult that worshiped Aphrodite with songs and poetry. If so, "Hymn to Aphrodite" may have been composed for performance within the cult. We do know that Sappho was held in very high regard. For instance, when Sappho visited Syracuse the residents were so honored they erected a statue to commemorate the occasion! During Sappho's lifetime, coins of ****** were minted with her image. Furthermore, Sappho was called "the Tenth Muse" and the other nine were goddesses. Keywords/Tags: Sapphic, Sappho, ****** translation, ancient Greek, hymn, Aphrodite, Zeus, daughter, immortal, goddess, holy, lady, heaven, enchantress, enchantment, love potion, charm, spell, persuasion, beguiler, beguilement, mistress, discipline, ********** prayer, prayers, chariot, heaven, descent, ally, protector, lust, desire, passion, longing, *** crush, girlfriend, women, grief
Mar 22, 2020
Mar 22, 2020 at 2:51 AM UTC
PROMETHEUS (alone)
O holy Aether, and swift-winged Winds,
And River-wells, and laughter innumerous
Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all,
And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,--
Behold me a god, what I endure from gods!
Behold, with throe on throe,
How, wasted by this woe,
I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!
Behold, how fast around me
The new King of the happy ones sublime
Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me!
Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's
I cover with one groan. And where is found me
A limit to these sorrows?
And yet what word do I say? I have foreknown
Clearly all things that should be; nothing done
Comes sudden to my soul--and I must bear
What is ordained with patience, being aware
Necessity doth front the universe
With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse
Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave
In silence or in speech. Because I gave
Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul
To this compelling fate. Because I stole
The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went
Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent
Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment,
That sin I expiate in this agony,
Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky.
Ah, ah me! what a sound,
What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen
Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between,
Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound,
To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain--
Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain!
The god Zeus hateth sore,
And his gods hate again,
As many as tread on his glorified floor,
Because I loved mortals too much evermore.
Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear,
As of birds flying near!
And the air undersings
The light stroke of their wings--
And all life that approaches I wait for in fear.
5.5k
Hymn to Aphrodite
by Sappho (her only complete poem)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Immortal Aphrodite, throned in splendor!
Wile-weaving daughter of Zeus, enchantress, and beguiler!
I implore you, dread mistress, discipline me no longer
with love's anguish!
But come to me once again in kindness,
heeding my prayers as you have done before;
O, come Divine One, descend once again from heaven's
golden dominions!
Your chariot yoked to love's consecrated doves,
their multitudinous pinions aflutter,
you once came gliding from the utmost heights, to
this dark earth.
Swiftly they came and vanished, leaving you,
O my Goddess, smiling, your face eternally beautiful,
asking me what unfathomable longing compelled me
to cry out.
Asking me what I sought in my hopeless, bewildered desire.
Asking, "Who has harmed you, why are you so alarmed,
my poor Sappho? Whom should Persuasion
summon here?"
"Though today she flees love, soon she will pursue you;
spurning love's gifts, she soon shall return them;
tomorrow she will woo you,
however unwillingly!"
Come to me now, most Holy Aphrodite!
Release me from my heavy heartache and anguish;
grant me all I request, be once again
my ally and protector!
"Hymn to Aphrodite" is the only poem by Sappho of ****** to survive in its entirety. The poem survived intact because it was quoted in full by Dionysus, a Roman orator, in his "On Literary Composition," published around 30 B.C. A number of Sappho's poems mention or are addressed to Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. It is believed that Sappho may have belonged to a cult that worshiped Aphrodite with songs and poetry. If so, "Hymn to Aphrodite" may have been composed for performance within the cult. We do know that Sappho was held in very high regard. For instance, when Sappho visited Syracuse the residents were so honored they erected a statue to commemorate the occasion! During Sappho's lifetime, coins of ****** were minted with her image. Furthermore, Sappho was called "the Tenth Muse" and the other nine were goddesses. Keywords/Tags: Sapphic, Sappho, ****** translation, ancient Greek, hymn, Aphrodite, Zeus, daughter, immortal, goddess, holy, lady, heaven, enchantress, enchantment, love potion, charm, spell, persuasion, beguiler, beguilement, mistress, discipline, ********** prayer, prayers, chariot, heaven, descent, ally, protector, lust, desire, passion, longing, *** crush, girlfriend, women, grief
Mar 1, 2020
Mar 1, 2020 at 10:53 PM UTC
XXXI. TO HELIOS (20 lines)
(ll. 1-16) (34) And now, O Muse Calliope, daughter of Zeus, begin
to sing of glowing Helios whom mild-eyed Euryphaessa, the far-
shining one, bare to the Son of Earth and starry Heaven. For
Hyperion wedded glorious Euryphaessa, his own sister, who bare
him lovely children, rosy-armed Eos and rich-tressed Selene and
tireless Helios who is like the deathless gods. As he rides in
his chariot, he shines upon men and deathless gods, and
piercingly he gazes with his eyes from his golden helmet. Bright
rays beam dazzlingly from him, and his bright locks streaming
form the temples of his head gracefully enclose his far-seen
face: a rich, fine-spun garment glows upon his body and flutters
in the wind: and stallions carry him. Then, when he has stayed
his golden-yoked chariot and horses, he rests there upon the
highest point of heaven, until he marvellously drives them down
again through heaven to Ocean.
(ll. 17-19) Hail to you, lord! Freely bestow on me substance
that cheers the heart. And now that I have begun with you, I
will celebrate the race of mortal men half-divine whose deeds the
Muses have showed to mankind.
4.5k
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called
Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean
From her white altar and with goddess lip
Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine,
I could not deem thee purer than I know
Thou art indeed.
Once, when my triumphs rolled
Along old Rome and blood of roses washed
The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels,
And triumph's thunders round my legions roared,
And kings in kingly ******* golden bound
Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din
Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound
Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain-
My soul on prouder pinion rose above
The Roman shouting, to an air more clear
Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts,
Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere,
Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet
Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart,
Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up,
'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand,
As at some glory terrible and pure,-
For no man being pure, a terror dwells
Holy and awful in a sinless thing-
And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat
Above a doubt-as high above a stain.
Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad
Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke,
Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled
Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves
Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue
Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now
And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view
A stainless glory.' In that day my neck
Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke-
Man's master, Sorrow.
I know thee pure-
But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high
Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests
So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell
Can dash its lava up their swelling sides.
I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou
No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence!
My heart is hardened as a lonely crag,
Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky,
And where against its solitary crown
Eternal thunders bellow.
3.7k
Day and night vie for each other
now, but the darker is winning;
The moon mourns in her ruddy veil:
tonight, the garden's wet by tears.
Incredible, the attraction,
of carbon for carbon.
Even more, the attraction
of carbon for gold.
In the wild, they rarely bond.
But in man, inseparable.
Carbon and mammon: be not yoked,
says the jewel diamond of our race.
Who cares? The cross,
an adornment nice.
Mammon in mud? Silicon
too, says the IT guy.
Fullerenes in the sky: on this
Guy Fawkes night, sparks truly fly.
Carbon will **** for gold.
This the oldest maxim of old.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
I shall go away
To the brown hills, the quiet ones,
The vast, the mountainous, the rolling,
Sun-fired and drowsy!
My horse snuffs delicately
At the strange wind;
He settles to a swinging trot; his hoofs ***** the dust.
The road winds, straightens,
Slashes a marsh,
Shoulders out a bridge,
Then --
Again the hills.
Unchanged, innumerable,
Bowing huge, round backs;
Holding secret, immense converse:
In gusty voices,
Fruitful, fecund, toiling
Like yoked black oxen.
The clouds pass like great, slow thoughts
And vanish
In the intense blue.
My horse lopes; the saddle creaks and sways.
A thousand glittering spears of sun slant from on high.
The immensity, the spaces,
Are like the spaces
Between star and star.
The hills sleep.
If I put my hand on one,
I would feel the vast heave of its breath.
I would start away before it awakened
And shook the world from its shoulders.
A cicada's cry deepens the hot silence.
The hills open
To show a slope of poppies,
Ardent, noble, heroic,
A flare, a great flame of orange;
Giving sleepy, brittle scent
That stings the lungs.
A creeping wind slips through them like a ferret; they bow and dance,
answering Beauty's voice . . .
The horse whinnies. I dismount
And tie him to the grey worn fence.
I set myself against the javelins of grass and sun;
And climb the rounded breast,
That flows like a sea-wave.
The summit crackles with heat, there is no shelter, no hollow from
the flagellating glare.
I lie down and look at the sky, shading my eyes.
My body becomes strange, the sun takes it and changes it, it does not feel,
it is like the body of another.
The air blazes. The air is diamond.
Small noises move among the grass . . .
Blackly,
A hawk mounts, mounts in the inane
Seeking the star-road,
Seeking the end . . .
But there is no end.
Here, in this light, there is no end. . .
3.1k
To ghosts which walk about our imagination,
we have surrendered counsel, yielded consolation.
They are the souls of the might-have-been,
kindred brethren yoked to our liquid center,
who've never endured the pain of intelligence,
never walked the bed-of-coals of perception,
yet, they have wisdom nestled on ethereal neurons.
To semaphores which count a poet's unused resources,
written in the higher code of life's metaphor,
iteratively substituting words to distill a truth,
a single universal life experience upon which to dwell,
all taken from myriad axioms of cerebral ecstasy.
This is writing, confrere, and you have tasted it, as well.
We are craftsmen in the medium of language,
poets following the involuntary way.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
She said she was Ibo
And spoke with a fake accent
Wanna’s and gonna’s
Littered her speech
Not a trace of Igbo, in her exotic accent.
She smirked boldly
As I answered my phone
Greeting my friend natively
In a lavish of deep expressions
So deep, only Ndi Igbo can share.
With a ****** passport
She spoke better than most Britons
She was born in her village
Yet all she knows is “bia”
She thinks she’s cool, I think she’s lost!
The whole point of wooing her
An “mgbe-eke” from the east
Was so we could regularly, take a break
From all formalities and English
And bask in mother tongues…
I might as well be yoked
With a foreign damsel
For the whole purpose of looking within
Is defeated if your tongue is white
And we can only commune in “oyibo”
Call me tribalistic
Call me uncivilized
Call me superficial if you will
But what you call vernacular
The same is my root. I am proudly Igbo!
© Raphael Uzor
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
I am a beautiful song
Humans do not see me
But the stars besiege me
And my vision is for they.
For they see me truly,
In the night sky we play.
The humans beneath are nothing
I forget them now.
(A sign for us alone
We who see beyond
The swans we are are seeping
Into the great pond.
Past the way of milk
We've lost the bounds of silk
Woven for the lost souls
Yoked to sirens' ilk.)
We see.
We sought.
And not for nought.
We sing, we.
Oct 8, 2019
Oct 8, 2019 at 11:10 PM UTC
Static whimpered then, now
was a moment, is and will be.
But in my deeper blue, waits a
Sapphire cesspool; waste and ivory
the Isle of Man, wades and drowns
silk swollen in the silence of still water,
through Hesperian greed and the tide
of golden apples.
In wandering, the cicada and cypress
grew in a moment's swan song,
Paradise was a pyre, and it was Winter
and the modern world.
And in what days of one day
would the enchantment bring-- of
the red faces and quivering tongues?
And what would the harpie bring--
icy tendrils of Spring to cool the flame?
A wretched smile, of the witness
blackened, knelt cradling his
head in his hands.
and in that moment, I was a lost man,
a lost man,
And then the happiest on the face of the Earth:
Now, the night is shallow.
****** is a breath, Eros is breathing, I am still.
Still
caught in the net of waking dreams,
when a binary sunset births the piercing tone,
of frequency high and ears hollow:
I was on my back, floating
and Death stood waiting
at the end.
Chariot yoked, pinion on pinion,
I gritted my teeth, unfurled my wings
and wept-- the mind is vengeance
As cruelty is the Mother of love.
and Now
stands waiting,
in the memory of himself.
A war is waged each moment,
with the echo of forever:
soul for soul,
talon for talon.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 1:03 AM UTC
he found the goddess
like so many do
in a desperate fall through foundation,
clutching to the bleak rim,
praying for context.
his last moment of wholeness
was spent with an upturned face
basking in the backlit rays
of her promise
*time passes
in a rushed imitation of
magic tricks and carnival rides*
when candlelight flew
from velvetine fingers
he hid from her shadow
humbled and yoked
the neon grin of morning
found him
clutching her breath
tucked inside the hollows
sunken through every step
there was nothing left
of his body
but two glass eyes
caught forever staring
into her waxen smile
that never thought to melt
that only broke with smoke
*tell your children:
hope is a scar
the fault, mistake
obsession with beauty
will roll you in ash
(a ghost of his telling)
and empty you’ll wake*
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
I float on gin soaked nightmares
Yoked to the liquor like a babe to a bottle
Coaxed to sleep slowly, dosed on 70% proof
and with it the night's terror starts.
Gin addled, lying in sweat soaked sheets
Memories raise their heads above the parapet
These memories coaxed from their corners
Coerced by addiction.
My addiction I saw as a benediction
A positive to all the negative.
But my submission was not conviction,
it was hell and condemnation.
Now, my nightmares torment me,
like purgatory, no rest for the wicked,
the fallen, the flotsam and detritus of life.
Stricken I can only question....
What's it like to drift off quietly?
Not to wake with a scream trapped in your throat?
To count sheep instead of the faces of the long dead?
To slumber in peace, cloaked in love?
If you can answer these questions,
please let me know.
Pop a note in bottle and give it a throw.
If it washes up I'll let you know.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
No school of long experience, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men
And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,
But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt
Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades
Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof
Of green and stirring branches is alive
And musical with birds, that sing and sport
In wantonness of spirit; while below
The squirrel, with raised paws and form *****
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade
Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam
That waked them into life. Even the green trees
Partake the deep contentment; as they bend
To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy
Existence, than the winged plunderer
That ***** its sweets. The massy rocks themselves,
And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees
That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,
With all their earth upon them, twisting high,
Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,
That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee,
Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass
Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
1.6k
You've ripped open the lid of protection
You've torn down the walls of self-preservation
I'm stripped bare before You - no covering of self remains
Just when I though I had my kingdom secure
Just when I though I had perfected the act of surety
I have girded myself upon pillars of another man's vision
I lay in the vineyards of an angry man's dreams
My vineyard I have forsaken behind walls of disillusionment
Being yoked up with a man's burdens of works
I look at the walls surrounding my hopes
Vines of youth now overgrown and wild; forsaken and empty
You came with Your sickle and cut into branches of coldness and fear
You tear apart the thicket of my soul to find hope of fruitfulness
You break down the walls of separation and call me out
"Come here! Come here! Breathe again the long lost breaths of refreshing!"
How do I depart from the expectations of those I am yoked to?
How do I escape the despising of those who have created my place in this world?
How do I go? Where is the trail of those who have walked this way before?
I see You through tears of fear and shame
I see You through tears of desire and desperation
Your eyes pierce through the deception I found comfort in
Your arms reach past this world I found security in
Your voice strikes into the center of a child's heart long gone in a world I don't belong
I want only You! I need only You!
I'm ready to rebuild the old places
I'm ready for the pain of purging
Come, Lord Jesus! Come!
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 11:02 PM UTC
"I don't want to make it awkward or anything,
but I had a *** dream about us last night.
Don't get me wrong:
there was more to it than that-
we were having a long and involved conversation
about many potential meanings of Life
and the joys of pursuing One's own creative spirit
as well as some discussion
as to the seemingly cyclic nature of Time
and the absolute relativity
of Consciousness and Reality.
See, it was after that
(and perhaps some red wine)
that we yoked ourselves
in the heat of unspoken passion
and accidentally set the room aglow
with sparks of fervid insatiability
until the Moon took a cue from our dance and song
and slowly went down on the Earth
and the Sun rose over the crest
warming what icy shells
we'd so briefly and blissfully forgotten.
But alas,
for it was but a dream
and then I woke unto yet another;
but I thought
perhaps you may like to know.
I hope you slept well too."
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
On the Embarcadero, winds carry clubbers' words
to me: sound of a satyr's desperation:
*maybe she'll look at me.
Maybe even with pleasure and not repulsion*:
the silent plea of devil-may-cry men ---
all blood and lusts, more beasts than heart.
Some swing blunt cutlasses that never cleave,
sip hypnotic wine from offering hands, unknown beneath a coverlet.
Others dance into the lacuna of their lives:
decade(s) of searching, yearning,
yoked like juments, under the mortal whip:
sad boys in need of love;
infatuation;
amity;
acquaintance;
lust;
pleasure;
a look:
anything.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
I found a cloak in fluttered paper,
paper that stands still...
Two stiff ends bind, enclose my yoke,
to those stories that do reveal...
Bound and stiff, yoked, yet so whimsy,
the paper doth conceal.
Undrape the cloak to become the man,
life becomes the thrill.
Never do sit still
Never do sit still
Never do sit still
The definition of Man is not thought alone...
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 12:11 AM UTC
i.
In sheol, I lifted mine view atop me; wherein the cave was a dreary scene, fixture's and antique beam's screamed of the hopelessness in this sump.
ii.
A preternatural shimmer, bursted this chthonic picture; the demon's betwixt me and her hunched. Her brigandine of Filipino shine, yoked into mine synapse.
iii.
Mine carrion shook, into the nook's, she slipped me through sheol's crack's. The earth above, I was taken up to, seeing all, I felt a calm, from this seraphim of tribal awe.
iv.
She saidst " Brandon ive come, to giveth thee mine protection " I felt a rush of her touch; direct ressurection. I healed instantaneously, as mine soul finally found it's other half.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication/Filipino rose
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
New mantras yoked around their neck.
Songs of sorrow and embellishment.
Some with smoke filled mouths, twisting through their teeth just like their mothers warned and taught to chatter.
They gurgle and blow,
steamed tops.
Secretly afraid of the iron fist,
Fair weather anarchists.
One day domesticated, but not tonight.
Raging against the machine in the moonlight,
cocksure the sun would never rise.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
You are not what I want,
I wish you'd stop "loving" me.
How am I supposed to know Love?
She eludes me on her angel wings until
my branches can reach
what humans ignore above us.
And I can't blame her.
I wish I could hide, too.
You, with your angst and growing needs;
They aren't forefront in my mind
As I am for you
A swan at her best,
A cuckoo at her worst,
And if possible, I'd dazzle all
with my blue-green plumage.
I wish I was ready;
I can't fly just yet.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
Where is my laddie? As reason,
Time, unreasonable, runs amok,
Precious, stone frost on the rose,
And sun travels yoked with moon,
Somes, climbing into skies broke
With light and smoke and hopes,
Dashed on earthly tides quaking,
My heat waits to be aired, beaten,
My soul, thirsts for carnate touch,
In of outter reaches of openesses
My breath suffocates in rainy sun,
All this life to know is but waiting,
The flowering of my flower wanes.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
arbitrary
beyond
conception
development
eruditely
functional
governing
honing
instilling
justifications
kaleidoscopic
laelia
manifestations
negating
oafish
palpebrations
queries
reflect
summations
trouncing
ubiquitous
vagrancies
within
xenophobic
yoked
zeitgeists.
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 4:53 PM UTC
Deluge tears, the storm clouds engulfing the wide world,
none to steady the canoe on the Galilee;
This the dust-path yoked to the burden of our deed,
beaten for teaching love, up the hill of penitence:
for here we traded the Spirit for passing gain,
calumny for mercy, who showed us the mirror
bearing witness, the wind heaving in the silence
we handed him over to the lash and the crucifix,
Yet, inscrutable this love for an ungrateful world
that parts the seas, and calls to life our faith dead,
pouring down, a heavenly stream though undeserved
carrying us across in arks and covenants
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC