Long Metaphor Poems. These are the most popular long Metaphor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Metaphor poems by poem length and keyword.
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It is a terrible thing
To be so open: it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.
Sylvia Plath, Three Women, 1962
Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque,
an incongruity, a clever imbalance
that spins collections her hounds facilitate.
Failures and fractures she bravely lanced
with noncompliance. Reader, rebuff collars
labeled as forewords, smug introductions,
for Plath’s voice is tenfold more a scholar
than those receiving undue benedictions.
Lofty beggars seek to bookend her words
and that empty space she instinctively refills
with her universe, a mayhem that girds,
unapologetic. Mirror images spill
over margins, searching for identity,
negating preamble, snubbing apathy.
Negating preamble, snubbing apathy
with language that flickers, catches, combusts,
her volumes of wicks, her lit soliloquies,
glint behind the stained-glass of trust.
There are those who are not really here,
they wander fault lines then crisscross chasms,
lost pilgrims who easily commandeer
unwary emotions. Some hearts just spasm,
pulled by their own nature, their delicacy,
for poetry is a weakness; poets die
between verses. Odes can become elegies.
The thin-skinned hear a snared rabbit cry,
and pray for the moonflower, always closing,
while cursing that page, unmoved and dozing.
While cursing that page, unmoved and dozing,
she corners rigid guides, keeps fingers poised,
synchronicity goes, the flow of typing
disappears, mislaid, that perfect noise
of a carriage return, a sound exclamation.
Joy is inspiration making its way home,
her Olivetti forages like a raven,
gifting found nouns, verbs that glare like chrome,
but love still flits, turns from hoarse requests,
and she longs for more than any man can give
for what snags worn ribbons will not rest,
it emits a strong beat, throbs as it loves.
Bless the bitter of life, all wisdom owing,
curse the open heart, its shadows showing.
Curse the open heart, its shadows showing,
for worldly delights take full advantage
of the wounded, their brokenness growing.
Everyday beauty wrings arteries, dredges
chambers with barbs, a prompt disobedient.
Fact, there’s no folder large enough to hold
elation’s girth, no ink conveniently
on hand to black out depression. So, scold
the yew, its roots and branches reaching,
then poke at petals for being complacent,
when all the while a candle is preaching
of give and take, surrender, luminance,
So, carefully archive apprehension,
revealing blue veins to tender lesions.
Revealing blue veins to tender lesions
requires much more than a room of one's own,
hours do dissolve, days lack cohesion
when milk sours and tantrums are thrown.
Solitude is in short supply, loneliness,
however, is overstocked; her mind tugs
at busy hands for attention, such darkness
contrasts to jammy smiles and sleepy hugs.
Elusive titles whimper each morning,
and short stanzas steep, so desperately,
all the while a manuscript is scorning
her swipes at dry crumbs, cold pots of tea.
A life sheds its months, gallows take delight
as sundials atrophy in the arms of night.
As sundials atrophy in the arms of night.
the moon blanches tidepools, suckles sand,
even the face of the clock is pulled too tight
and the new calendar can not understand
that writing is sex, is fresh bread, is air,
that time is a brute, quick fisted, rough,
that weeks come and go without a care
that a marriage vow is never enough
to mend adoration, repossess bliss.
Words make better lovers, rarely stray,
upon her lips, the impression of a kiss
feels as cold as sheets then melts away.
Paper sops afterbirth, accepts her all:
fossil and seed, shackles and free falls.
Fossil and seed, shackles and free falls,
unlocking visions, defying any cage,
art resists validity, upsets stone walls
to scale the scarlet heights of a rampage,
to breach the barricades to euphoria.
She excavates id, bares teeth at ego,
plays the parts of illusion and phobia
then infuses rhyme with soft indigo.
Colossus begins to shrivel as Ariel
unmans him, riding hard upon metaphors,
and will remain strong, constant, ethereal.
but curtailed are epics that still implore
like the cusp of dream long after you wake
Sylvia, ever lucent, ever opaque.
* For Craig Cornish, whose contest inspired this piece. Thank you, Daddy-O.
About this poem
This is my first crown of sonnets. It took over 25 hours to write, a full week of me-time!
These are modern sonnets and the syllable count is extremely loose, intentionally, as it would seem odd to keep things too tight when writing of Sylvia. If anything, I regret not being even looser, altering syllable counts DRAMATICALLY. Also, I used a great deal of slant rhyme for the same reason.
I really wanted to capture Sylvia Plath with this poem, and it was a real struggle. Her language is so precise, and I wanted to do her justice. I had wanted to feel, upon its completion, that Sylvia would have said, "Well, it isn't quite horrible. Not bad for a novice. And there are parts of me there, but only the smallest bits." I do not feel I did this. I feel like I didn't even TOUCH her mastery of language. But, it is good enough for now.. one day, who knows?
Oh, Sylvia's typewriter was a Olivetti Lettera 22. It was portable!
Pardon any absent adulation, bequeathed capitulation, devoted dedication, indiscretion, blabbering peroration, improper salutation or any unintended vexation if this unknown earthling sent a nearly identical message. He over-looked a small number of errors and hoped that this version accepted as the most satisfactory to me.
Oh please for the sake (and sock e) of brethren deemed friendly, i beseech ye with genuine humility to desist launching nuclear missiles!
This American bloke put his lock, stock and barrel of gunmetal faith in mister Dennis Rodman to serve as a figurative lightning rod against any aggressive actions that would set in motion the end of civilization.
Not only would the majority of homo sapiens (yes, some clusters of earth-linked yahoos might still remain a live) suffer a nasty, short and brutish death, but also other flora and fauna could be equally annihilated!
Understandable, those grievances against sanctions against the populace of north Koreans (who most likely experience unfair hardship) fuels resentment against the hegemony of western powers. Many of these societies authoritatively brandish their devout pledge for concurrence with democratic principles.
Any endemic protestations declaiming objection to the American way affect an immediate alarm. Imposition of so called "puppet" regimes get forcibly installed sans those countries leaders who run counter to capitalistic productivity.
This one anonymous citizen of those fifty states also takes umbrage how the might of american to predominate and demand that other nations follow suit solely based on what agrees with those like minded in power sans the brotherhood/sisterhood of vast swaths of the global population.
No great expectations (by dickens) to affect passionate sentiments per those peoples somewhat hermetically sealed off and separated (viz - by the demilitarized zone) from the billions of other human beings.
Thy sole missive from one older mwm dreads the catastrophic chain reaction of events once atomic warfare triggered by the disgruntlement over some differences in outlook could possibly resolved via "active listening" and access to exchange a word of reconciliation.
As one flawed chap prone to his own bouts of anger, he attests that more positive pleasing results can prevails with the treat of world war three diffused in a manner that plays less havoc once unleashing of weapons of mass destruction occurs!
This notion came to me while tending to a basic bodily urge, thus intent to share my poem whence sitting
Upon the porcelain goddess,
A most brilliant idea in me mind did lit
This sole seasoned bugs bunny car tune character son of kit
Soon after on the road his imagination
Fired up with gaseous fleeting thought that softly hit
Attempting with futility to net ideas in me mind that flit
I yam a poet favoring words that rhyme a bit!
Iambic pentameter strands crochet themselves
Magically into verse
Interleaving like boughs of an arbor
Shielding this solitary soul
From shafts of sunlight that doth dapple
The canopy affecting shadows to disperse
Ebbing and flowing in tandem & sync
With circadian metronome this troll
Transformed by serenade from Mother Nature
With hand doth scythe lent curse
Congregating amongst a distinguished flora and faun
The latter sending tendrils
Poised on the brink of some philosophical revelation
Delicate as hocked china
Which capricious metaphorical musings
Resurrected from propriety
Devoid of any vicious evocations nor premonitions
While ensconced in eyesight of my adobe
Dwelling away from mass of society
Return of this native son harbors thoughts
Against madding crowd that cease to dwindle
To less than the effect of a mosquito needling proboscis
In the nape o me neck
As this contemplative human being feels
Leaves of grass each like a spindle
Completing a colorful pastoral palette
Of utmost verdant splendor upon flotsam speck
Allowing wisps of euphoria
To warm thine psyche easing books set afire to kindle
Under the azure vault
The entire warp and woof of one mortal male as he does lie
Where arises finding incriminating fault
Beneath the celestial sphere transfixed where mysteries catapult
As those simians who preceded him
Millenniums before similarly inebriated
From wondrous panoply of one star
That comprises a near infinite candelabra
Guiding the mind to posit the universe
This mission must come to a HALT!
From - one whom u kin newt re:fuse
No claim to be Walt Whitman only venturing forth
That all of mankind we lose
In the event of such apocalyptic once the fuse
Lit to launch missiles meant to zero in and cruise
Upon the masses a severe planet earth detonations
Inflicting concussions more fatal
Than the most lethal booze.
A Cardinal darts past, and I cannot quite discern if it chirps out of nervousness
towards the impending storm.
If so, the twittering of cell phones sound far more nerve-wracking --
portable typewriters encased in the soul-less facade of laissez faire;
of keeping track, of minding the flocks.
Yes, everyone is a poet these days, tapping away on miniature, plastic typewriters,
typing away the next narrative filled with prose pretending to be free verse.
Whether the majority is truly poetic or not, Frankenstorm surely is poetic;
named after Mary Shelley's, Frankenstein.
The poetic justice of it all amongst a tragedy of broken necks and drownings,
for the Shelleys were the epitome of Romanticism --
not of ritualistic bouquets bought from the florist who sells porn on the sly,
or of waxy chocolate made by children in clandestine factories built from the bricks
of Mao's dreams of anthills and selling short the power stemming from another poet
turned arms dealer.
No, the romance for life itself; to become poetry as poetry turns into us.
To find mystery in everyday moments; to distil this mystery, offer it to the reader,
so that the reader becomes drunken, swooning in a stupor towards worlds
that are 1,000,000 light years away.
Frankenstorm, the Haunting of Shelleys, lashes out at the dead poetry of today;
at the empty, listlessly inane, lazy poetry of today.
The brightest stars are falling into a void, turning away from the very essence
they so wish to express....only because they want to be unique, to be original,
to carve their own niche into the Jack O' Lanterns of a Hallowe'en quickly turning into cheap, dollar store decorations.
They still have hope. They still have hope, even if many further detach themselves
from their emotions with another dose of prescription pills meant to pacify;
meant to reign in the emotional beasts of imagination, until only zombies preserved in formaldehyde, remain.
I can literally feel the Haunting of Shelleys ask wot has become of us.
It used to be about work ethic and soul - one had to kick, tear, bite, simply to publish
a pamphlet that might be read by 10 people.
Nowadays, everyone is a supposed poet. A few clicks, 'submit', and people from all
over the world can read cotton-candy couplets, or a free verse rendition of another grocery list.
But we must embolster this with:
"They are only beginning; they need to express themselves;
they just don't care."
I don't want to be told about the pain, the tragedy, the beauty, the love.
I want to be shown.
I want to feel it.
I want to feel it squeeze my gray matter into a bitter-sweet drink;
I want to feel it go down.
I want to feel it warm up my heart, grip my stomach until the bottom falls out
and I am left careening down a shaft in an elevator with a broken pulley and rusted-through brakes, and just when I think the end has come, the elevator bursts through
a bottom which is actually the ceiling of a world now turned upside-down --
and by the time I right myself, have read the last line, there is still a remaining mysterious periphery of the cats that reside in the corner of my eyes;
purring, waiting until I come back to re-read that particular poem,
for it is so tantalizing, I want to come back to it over and over again
for the remainder of my years.
Storms will always come and go,
but I sensed the metaphorical message of the Frankenstorm very strongly.
Yet this doesn't mean that I will turn the message into fruition.
But I will certainly attempt to do so.
Within my delirium, I will continue to try distilling the intangible
into a drunken tangibility; even for the sake of simply trying.
And as I ponder, as I witness the present decay of humanity,
witness the state of today's poetry, I can only wonder how many more
Hauntings of Shelleys are possibly already brewing.
October 31st, 2012
My thoughts go out to those caught in the path of Frankenstorm 2012.
Such events move me very deeply.
*I have already posted this prose in a blog, because at the time,
the character-count exceeded the limit of poem posts.
Metaphor of outrage, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : Metafora del desafuero
( In celebration of a birthday)
for Andrés Amoros
Having been outside of you, yourself, dizzying voyage
the quiet, beggar
of your conscience, hermit
in the desert of your inaction, believing
only in the cactus/thistle, in the excessive stone,
without a hole from which to drink, without food, without bread,
miserable and without grove
like a boat struck by tempest
but a tempest not particularly disruptive, without the grandeur
of this sum of experience
in a sea, now, later, monotonous, without end, monochromic,
with greying water,
or, better still, without it, sailing on it in its non-colour,
sailing in the not-water, with continuity in the never-monotony,
or in the midst of ruins after an earth-quake
that leaves everthing low,
rather in a place where there was no house nor where they put up
neither was the floor split open, nor were there cracks,
there, exiled, without the remembrance of a lost country,
dumb, without the notion of a language ido*
all the shine shorn off, all persuation, all complaint,
irremediably left alone, but without solitude,
yet you hadn’t any memory of any earlier companionship,
there, where no form of evocation could touch you,
even if to accomplish this, you had to be precise with the previous
there, there you were with your back to your own being,
without seeing, without seeing yourself,
even if sometimes the opposite took place and you began to think with
who knows if for his (sic) condition, that is, principally,
which happened, during this period, to occupy
the totality of your attentions and which grew (perceived then as of
a short distance) with it,
your enormous knee, your extraordinary foot, your great foot,
stepping on the treeless plain with resonance,
in a clatter like the rattle of a tambourine,
your gigantic foot,
your treacherous leg, rotund, which grew longer, alone and
autonomous, to a point where nobody could ever reach it,
and after that, but only afterwards,
your entire body made up of indeterminate materal, of noise, such
that your skeleton without peer,
your terrible skeleton, advancing with great strides
towards no one, towards nothing,
everything of a sudden began to diminish in size and returned little
by little to its initial state,
and every part of your body began, by slow degrees – yes, this – to
absent itself :
first the flesh and the skin disappeared, and then your erect sex :
impenitent, the object of ridicule,
even if the nails continued with indifference to grow,
attentive exclusively to its pre-occupation with its strange sense
of avariciousness in an effort to acquire much more :
the hair, the beard, without paying any attention to how
parsimoniously it proceeded,
but, following which, that in itself, subjected to such a state of
enrapture, obliterated itself, and arrived punctually on the
generalization of the scrupulous duty to obedience,
which is to disengage itself, in all precision, without any exception
whatsoever, nor leaving even an iota of dust on the polished
surface of the piece of furniture,
the chaos of not being seen, the scandal of invisibility, of confusion,
there, on the obverse side of truth, on the other side of lying
on the frontier which it was deemed not worthy of being demarcated,
this area without topography where truth and lies appeared
as the self-same answer to the question that you didn’t pose.
Oh ! Beggar of your conscience ! Oh ! Scrutinisor !
Oh ! finicky Explorer !
Oh ! Celebrator of the unfortunate !
* Ido, cf. Idus, meaning the « Ides » of March, etc., in English. I don’t quite know. Could the poet be so kind as to enlighten us ?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Wobbly I stood and wobbly I remain -
The sole of my Soul untested and untried
Not trusting the firmament on which its stability stands.
So I must reach.
For a kind hand, a rock to assuage my rocky start.
Euphoria washes over me and I am utterly awed by this new and strange vision.
So that's a knee? And that a thigh?
And those are what?
What manner of visage is this?
This is not in my owner's manual -
Maybe I should call Tech Support.
I'm missing some parts I see in my minds mirror.
Do I cut or copy or paste?
Maybe I should just undo.
But, no, I have found the fork in the road and must take it
For better or worse, in richer and in poorer.
The intrigue of this countenance seduces me
And awe engages my every moment of discovery.
I must succumb to this rapture whatever my fate.
Be it ecstasy or defeat I will follow this sweetness or acridity to its end.
A flash of recognition burgeons briefly in my mind's eye.
Deja vu, maybe - but what the hell is a deja vu?
I have not been in this place before.
There is no trace of memory to beget such a sight
And who are these whose steps seem so similar?
A hand like mine and a foot straining as so
And a breath seems to be a mutuality unknown before.
I am behooven and beholden to acknowledge this other thing.
I cannot ignore so divine a connection.
But what is a divine?
What I cannot sense I am averse to imagiine
Lest my awe but supplanted by a terror.
A terror that could destroy "us" both
And who are these "us"?
I don't remember such a concept.
It must have been mentioned in the Prologue I neglected to read.
The Awesomeness of the first touch and the grasp of two hands are beyond all metaphors.
And what is this "two", pray-tell?
Again a new and strange and exciting experience -
The wonder that I feel begets a sanctity beyond any measure.
In this palm-womb I place my serenity and my security
I am past the point of no return
There is no more amnion
And water is thicker than blood now.
My sustenance must come from somewhere, or something or someone else.
And what is an "else"?
I'm confused - why am I getting no help here?
Oh, of course - the hand.
My Power depends on the benevolence of this "other hand"
And what is a Power?
Another secret withheld
Left for me to define and, hence, acquire?
Who is dominant in this partnership?
Whose will will hold sway in time of danger
A what is a "will"?
Oh, I remember now - something having to do with this "power" I quake at.
My imagination runs rampant
With such a thing as a will -
From whence it comes is suspect and
What shall I do with it binds me in the strongest of fetters.
To break the bonds, to break the bonds - that is the question
And I am again beset with the sensation of this other hand - this bindless bond.
The way to break these bonds,
My raison d'etre
The modus operandum of my purpose,
However gauche,trite,quotidian,cliche-ish and common-place it may be,i
Is to love unconditionally.
To revere, venerate and forever worship this, no MY mutuality,This soulful symbiosis.
This is a god of my construction,
A divine gift.
And what is a "divine gift"
Tune in next week - the denouement is just around the corner.
And, oh, the step, the step , the step - i almost forgot.
One day when I am old I will remember this moment.
And my heart will ache for the breach that time has rent.
And my heart will ache for the breach that time has rent.
G Tiberius Thomas
Tristesses de la lune
Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresse
Avant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,
Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
Qui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.
Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,
Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,
Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.
— Charles Pierre Baudelaire
The Sorrow of the Moon
Tonight the moon, by languorous memories obsessed,
lies pensive and awake: a sleepless beauty
amid the tossed and multitudinous cushions of her bed,
caressing with an abstracted hand, the curve of her breast.
Surrendered to her deep sadness as to a lover,
for hours she lolls in the bright luxurious disarray of the sky —
haggard, entranced — and watches the small clouds float by
uncurling indolently in the blue air, like flowers.
When now and then upon this planet she lets fall,
out of her idleness and sorrow, a secret tear,
some poet — an enemy of slumber, musing apart —
catches in his cupped hands the unearthly tribute
all fiery and iridescent like an opal's sphere,
and hides it from the sun for ever in his heart.
— Translated by George Dillon
The Sorrow of the Moon
This evening, the moon dreams with more laziness
as well as beauty, on a multitude of cushions,
and with an absent-minded, light hand,
caresses the curve of her breast.
On the satiny backs of slippery clouds,
dying, she devotes herself to a lost lover's lament,
strolls her second-sight across visions of white
which blossom-up into the azure night.
When sometimes on this globe, in her idle sorrow,
she lets fall a secret tear,
a pious poet -- an enemy of sleep --
catches in the hollow of his hands, this pale tear,
in images made as iridescent as an opal's fragment,
and far from the eyes of the sun, hides it in his heart.
— Translated by Chris D. Aechtner
*So here in the last translation, a more literal translation from French to English,
the original rhyme scheme in French, is lost.
One can easily see how much personal bias the translators added into their translations. In the first example, I find that Dillon did very well with re-creating the atmosphere and tone, but took too much license when injecting an English rhyme scheme.
Not only did George Dillon add extra words to create an English rhyme scheme
within the translation, but he also added premises that are not in Baudelaire's
original poem, or are merely implied as a possible interpretation of the metaphors.
I get it when I want it
it is always on tap
it can be a rap
or maybe a trap
to suck you to
yet it was the
my job not
missing a fact
as it is
to all lies
in wait to
for media studies
of any ilk are
dislked by those
masters of spin
as one tv hack
said of Saville's
victims they are
everyday ordinary people
so inferior to her and him
so do not panic block
your ears close your eyes
today's news is yesterday's
fish and chip newspaper
literally or metaphorically
yet nuggets of truth are
found if not now just lift
yours eyes from paper
or from app by looking
at people or look on
this winter's day
and smile since
spring will come
Hello old friend,
I see we meet again.
It’s hard to purge the hate
And binge the beauty—
I’ve worn these metaphorical
And trekked the span of a
So you can’t escape the truth.
Grinding fears may gnash you,
Haunting demons may trap
But I will never harm.
Look in my eyes to see the
That you’ve let go to your arm;
Now that you’re here,
Let’s have a talk.
She was God’s gift to man,
Women too you might say.
When she looked to the night,
It would always part it’s way
So she could walk in the grace
Her beauty breaks all simile,
And no metaphor could
Let me show you her with
For she would resonate in the
Shining bright like the moon.
Opaque whiteness cascaded
Ripples of the human genome.
She was an angel.
I watched her every day
With some brutish envy;
She, to me, was confidence
A bright beacon of wonder
Or a whimsical whimsy.
She would walk with perfection
Riddled into every step taken.
And even though it was
She would walk with me.
We became the blood of life,
The elixir of friendship.
I couldn’t breathe without
Without hoping she was alive.
Because when you love a friend
Like I loved her,
You would die to see them live.
Yet something changed in her,
It grew dark like a possessed
Poisoning her heart with
The disease took her soul first,
Before coming to claim her
A body that never needed to be
Have you ever watched a friend
She became so lost;
A ship on stormy waters.
Oh, how I tried to show her to
A translucent lighthouse with
Her soul was bleached from her
Her bones like dust beneath the
The story shined on the body
No longer belonged to her,
And a critic with gross morality,
I was forced to read.
I saw ignorance and bliss,
Pain and compassion,
Hope and destruction,
Truth and repulsion.
I couldn’t believe that she was
dead and gone,
Words from a wordless song.
I was left in the darkest hour,
Holding her empty and cold
While the world watched and
They always judged and never
Never bothered to look her in
When they were the only
reason she had to die.
My angel had fallen,
Like rain or like snow.
She was magical,
But she had to let go.
I think she might say it was
But you be the judge now my
Should you continue on the
You may meet the same end.
Angels fly and fall,
May the truth give you wings.
Guilty party Alcohol companies
and those responsible for that product being targeted
to the youth
put my name
in your will
I don't care if you make it a metaphor for a prayer
in the amounts that you leave me
and the message you leave me
with the way you care to swallow your footsteps
you've left behind
and those who advertise for them
put my name in your will
find it for a way
make it an amends
to the past present and future
I will find a way with your amounts given to me
to swallow you down
to choke you out
from beyond the grave
all those who think
I don't have a black file
and i'm just some ghetto wizard
and maybe a gullible god
put my name in your will
pay off your debt
how you have tarnished
tainted mankind's image
All those building weapons of mass destruction
welcome to Gabrielles dance
joining those greedy people going to hell
And this is also for those with the power to send people to war
wether you crawled for me or not
put my name in your will
find a message for me to carry out
with your money
to choke you out
to tear you out of reality
with your money
you will leave me a better way
This is the list
This is my tithe, pay it well
don't think i don't have a list
and be ready to buy yourself a few more cycles under the stars
Light in the darkness
may hunt you down
poisoning the well
you don't see the righteous wolf in sheep's clothing
nailing martyrs to the past
i have the list
you pay the tithe
and we'll see your historical wills!
Let's not leave out
those making drug abuse seem good
put my name
in your will
and a metaphor for a prayer
to tear your shadow into holes
all you thugs and druglords
who think theyve escaped the lists
thats my biggest trick
put my name in your will
pay my tithe
swallow this omen
to set the future right
put my name in your will
I might claim some of your hard earned dreams
you've stolen from the innocent
of radiostations and entertainment
I might claim a method to the madness
I just might one day be the name used
when someone is stalking you
You whisper my name
you say my name
put my name in your will
make your amends in your death
you threw everything
and everybody away in your life
one way or another
someone gets the last laugh
wether your soul gets revenge
or you question mine
You are a name a number
a disguise configured
found and discovered on satelite
and I'm ready to pull the rug under your feet
I'm about to pull the wool off the wolf
“I’m the unknown gardener my name is mentioned in the bible, but no one need honor me.
Just a pauper, I was in the garden that day, but my only contribution to grace works was filthy
Hearing a rumbling it seemed from deep inside the ground, I looked toward a tomb which had a
huge stone place over it’s mouth. As I looked I saw a steady lighting flashing, so bright it
dimmed my sight, emitting from the tomb around the rock’s edges.
The lighting stopped as suddenly as it had began, as once more I heard a scrubbing noise and
saw two celestial beings in shining apparel, as they rolled the huge stone away from the mouth
of the sepulcher. I was amazed, made weak in the knees, my countenance was overcome.
One of the celestial being said, “Fear not I am Michael, the archangel, I came to attend the
Master. This day thou also hath somewhat to offer unto him.” I wondered, amazed within myself
as I pondered in my feeble mind, ‘What on earth could a meager pauper have of worth to
A beautiful being stepped forth from the tomb, such the like I have never before seen or after!
When he spoke his voice was as the sound of many waters, such as a gently rushing water
fall. He said, “Behold I am the first, and the last, I was alive and was dead, and now I am alive
for evermore. It is finished!”…The two angels, I saw no more.
“Thy name is called Ishmael, born after the flesh, I have heard thy afflictions. This day it
behooves thee to be a signet necessity of my Father’s will, representing all of mankind,
for their righteousness of concepts be as fifty rags. Give unto me thy clothes and I will
cleans them for thy are metaphoric of the fleshly unrighteousness of all humankind.”
I gave him my clothes and I understood not, but I felt amazingly clean. He clothed
himself with my clothes and said, “Remember this day, for flesh will prophesy this truth in the
last days. In an inspirational writing that I will give thee utterance to write. You will entitle
it, ‘The Unknown Gardener’ then you will understand the signet!”
With this, He vanished from my presence. This same day has became know as Easter morning, the day of resurrection.
And the fleshly concepts of sin as the casting off of filthy rags! My natural senses returned and I arose from the vision.
I was astonished for seven days. At the end of which I wrote the understanding of the vision. This is what Easter means to me!
For and in Honor of Gwendolen Rix
And Contest: What Easter Means to me!