Best Conceive Of Poems
I have no sorrow, for sorrow is small,
And can't be held guilty for choices made.
Reflections are scrawled on my mind's dark wall,
And will leave stains as they begin to fade.
Time passes without a sense of motion.
My lost dreams disappear with wrinkled skin.
Traveled paths contain my life's emotions.
Leads from a world not to be seen again.
Though eyes perceive what the heart desires,
Long to conceive of perfection not found.
They see the way lighted by hopeful fires.
A clearer path to stay on fateful ground.
The distance traveled, the lifetime spent.
Hurried times unraveled without lament.
date written...10/16/15
Standing straight and tall, I am happy among my next of kin,
graceful and gracious, accepting and at one with nature.
The gentle whisper of the wind is music in our midst,
A cornucopia of chirping sounds, gleeful gifts from the birds.
Do you ever wonder how I have grown at last
For it was only six weeks ago that I was not on this spot
Yet it would seem that right before your very eyes
I suddenly appeared overnight, you were surprised!
My story cannot be told without mentioning the farmer.
Day after day, year after year he never gave up on me.
A powerful testimony of perseverance and trust, and hope and faith
in The One Almighty and... the power of a dream.
Knowing the value of patience, he waited and cared for me
oh so tenderly and never gave up. I dared not ever
conceive of disappointing him, so while he gave my needs
every day, I did what I had to do... I grew.
Not above, but underneath the ground, where no one can see,
to build that inner strength, deeply rooted in my seed.
One day in the fifth year, the right time came and
I literally leaped off the ground. Miracles do abound!
I am ever giving. I give food to the hungry, a shelter
for the homeless...even a bed. I am seat and a fence.
I provide clothing and more. It is my nature to give.
From my innermost being I provide freshness in the air.
Strong and resilient, I am not cowed by storms
They give their all to topple me from where I stand,
yet I hold my ground. I may bend and sway for the wind,
but after a while I stand, straighten and do not lose my grip.
I learned to accept my weakness and be proud of my strength
An image of one who is calm, I am at peace with myself.
26 August 2015
Poor last cookie, alone on the plate
No one partook, no one ate
Not for lack of flavor, this I know
Having already sampled its sweet morsels
Only one, is it wrong to steal a bite
From someone who's tempered their appetite?
Could I conceive of anyone so flip
As to decline the temptation of chocolate chip?
Must I do a stranger a favor
And step aside so they may savor
The succulence of the final taste
Or grab it now, in greed and haste?
The debate is settled by my mother's standards
Whose inner voice insists I show good manners.
MEMORY OF NOTHING
Listen:
Drag branches comeback
Across the forest floor:
Knowledge of the rough¡
At water’s edge
I gather some things up:
“Happy Ending Story”.
We’ve the time to give the Babel Tower
A close reading.
Awful good, Tú
As Roy A. Rappaport’s
Ritual... as Communication and as State.
Our preferences might be
Toward more emphasis
On species places:
Smooth textures of dead wood
Knowledge of our hands on arms
The body-art of ********
Drinking cocoa
And tend to the faith
With a Vampire’s short stick
That smells of infinite urine
As Madonna.
History reveals itself to us
In this way:
Poetry, Tales, Essays are pamphlets
Of impossible interest
Multiplying voices-human, voices-animal
Voices-plant
Voice-life of Earth
As Dan O’Neill’s
Holiday for Cynics.
Look, little one
Courtney Love
We live this close to disaster
There is no turning back
From the tops of the trees
Which are so dense
Almost no sky is visible
Only the odor dilates the nostril
And quickens the heart
On a marijuana tortilla.
The buddhists have been tellig us
That the Self (Ego)
As we conceive of it
Is an illusion.
A good tip
Thinking about Gurney Norman’s
Jack and His Ego.
Is it?
It is that we are of a Time-Sexual
Wherein all species has been joined
To the Wo/Man
Of *****Sapiens
And Life is a single exercise of Cannibals
In constantly elevating towers
Of Bureaucracy.
Nothing in Somethingg
Something in our Nothingness.
To sit and daydream upon the farthest hill
Let my eyes wander across a meadow green
Conceive of rainbows whose colors spill
And paint the sky with a glorious sheen
Free my mind to drift like children spin
And find a child like joy to fulfill
To picture little feet as they run again
Trying to capture the light of day until
Escape to skies of sunsets and starlight
Lose myself in beauty they beseech
To fly on wings like creatures now in flight
As they glide horizons out of reach
Dream of worlds my mind will come to form
And want a life that's filled with waterfalls
Where colored wings of butterflies begin to swarm
To daydream on this hill 'till forever calls
1/16/17
contest A Lovely Little Daydream
Praying, praising, promising – powerful peace conquers every doubt or fear with this light that pours out over the spirit, easing every anxiety, reflecting all the love that brings us through fears and tears – into the joy found in His shadow. ~ by poet
Silent prayers bleed hope
Into the future, revealing the light
Promising us a way to cope
Amid the sorrow, on the darkest night
Inspirations, joy and peace
Whisper affection through the grief
Laughter will surely increase
Because He is worthy – He is relief
Creations bright, colors alive
Soaring through the moments, still
Enlightening the spirit – it will thrive
Breaking all barriers so faith will fulfill
Wonders awaken the sweet earth
Glorifying the Creator of truth and love
Reminding hearts to praise – He is worth
More than we can think or conceive of
Leave all the worry behind you, in the past
Let go of all the doubt and believe without
Ever distrusting – let the spirit’s loyalty outlast
All the suspicion, questions have been worn out
Feel the light of a new morning, sunlight praises
Stirring fires of creativity and imagination
Soothing all the anxiety with love that amazes
Quieting each reservation with joyful elation
Experience the music of God’s mirth
In the dance of leaves, the sigh of the breeze
Listen to the serenity, a heart’s new birth
His grace raining beauty – we’re on our knees
Praying – praising – pleading for His peace!
Just as the blush will always leave the rose
and leaves of fall will crumble on the ground,
the love that comes when you’re in the throes
of lust can’t last, for love must be profound!
True love is patient and forgiving too.
It’s wise and cheerful, and it’s built on trust.
There’s nothing that your true love would not do
to keep love strong; uprightness is a must.
Most people can’t conceive of love like this.
It takes hard work for such love to be sure.
The expectation of a life of bliss
is why a common love cannot endure.
The lucky few who live and know true love
are those who can expect great joy above.
It comes back to me in solemnity,
and I wistfully wish it wouldn't.
A willful case of killing it was—
a hunter doing what he shouldn't.
Father had taken me deer hunting,
thinking to make a man of a boy.
I prayed we wouldn't see a deer.
and we didn't—not one—such joy!
Daylight was dimming to dusk
when he said our hunt had ended.
We started down a rocky trail,
and at a turn—we froze, suspended.
A hunter was positioned to shoot,
crouched, rifle cradled with skill.
Target? A shiny-eyed rabbit
happily nibbling a leafy meal.
"Oh, don't," I felt to cry out,
but then a c-r-a-c-k cricked the air.
The place where the rabbit had been
was as if nothing were ever there.
"He missed," my glad heart sang;
"the rabbit's alive and is all right."
But the hunter's face was fulsome
with a beastly, loathsome blight.
As we came by the spot, I retched,
the brush was garnished with gore.
Father's silence tracked the truth;
we wouldn't go hunting any more.
How to conceive of such blood thirst—
wanton killing as an act of gladness.
I trust, however, for those so cursed
civility will supercede such madness.
Blinded by Love
Purity can not conceive of the Depth of Darkness
Hopefulness believes the lost will fine their way back
Genuineness yearns for the greater good
Integrity commands high ideals
Forthright will inspirer those with a open heart
How many times will it take....
For a Pure Heart to see.....
The Gift of Truth.....
Isn't always what it appears to be.....
Willard Mitt Romney
born into wealth and money
Can't conceive of life as the Beaver
and pushes temps as high as trench fever
"Clerihew" form for Andrea's "Seeking a Fresh Crop of Clerihews"
Can one conceive of self before his dawn
Regain for fleeting second what he was
Eternal beings wandering thought or spawn
Atomic, cosmic, light, or primate fuzz
Toward what should we direct our praise?
Infinite evolution or omniscient play
Ornate description of the seven days
Nocturnal seeds from amebic bays
While I'm reading a poem about it on the previous page
the girls come over to visit their boyfriends and dance
in high shoes and perfume. Their legs are strong and their voices high.
And the guys get high and hard thinking about what the girls are like
behind their eyes.
That says more about me than reality. And it's exactly four lines.
Ken Patchen would say his angel smells sweet and sassy.
I feel the bony fingers of mine who has been working to stay alive.
Enough small poetry. One must conceive of a project--
say a poem about a bridge--or stop writing
and instead walk over the bridge at sunset and see the city in a nuclear
war
the clocks, the Watchtower and the docks gone and no smoke.
I still exist but I'm late for my job. I'm dressed well
in honor of true love and Spring which both outlast the holocaust.
The manager cans me with the cold hard eyes of one who accepts the
rules entirely.
Goodbye to the rows of dead metal desks and goodbye
to those who can take it longer than I.
The guys downstairs do not read poetry and very little prose.
The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money does not
occupy their minds.
The sex pistils of the mountain daisy is no concern of theirs
and the man upstairs who plays the horn is less than a curiosity but makes
more noise.
When I feel like this nothing matters and this is good--
get warm with wine, turn out the lights and turn up the radio--
if only there were a woman who liked the down and out life too.
In the end someone sticks a gun in my face in the South Bronx.
How I got among the fire escapes in the sooty alley I cannot say
but it is one of my earliest memories. Perhaps it is my grandmother
holding my hand
or one of the clowns. I say Drop that goddamn gun and he blows me
away.
Amazingly, your eyes gleam freshness from heaven.
Before you were seen, you were resting in God's heart.
Clinging to mine, it cannot cease to overflow.
Drawing meaning into life's every crevice,
Each given breath you take awakens mine.
From the moment I first felt your ripples inside me,
God gave me a wink of a new beginning.
Hope filled blue painted ceilings and little drawers.
In a father's mind, his name would carry on.
Joy so grand became our parents' inheritance.
Kicks affirmed your livelihood nightly.
Laughs and tears were shared in placental connection.
Monitors suggested your precious health was well.
Nestled in my womb was the safest place for you.
Oranges and burger flavors reached new taste buds.
Prayerfully, we rested in the unknown outcome.
Queasiness came as contractions strengthened.
Rushes of adrenaline kept my birthing body vigorous.
Surrealism saturated our minds, studying each feature.
Thankfulness touched us like your new skin's warmth.
Unable to conceive of this mystery, opaque joy flowed.
Vast gifts were given, but that of you keeps on giving.
Wonders await each new stage we'll embrace.
Xerox copies of significance collect in your photo box.
Yesterdays accumulate practiced artistic expression.
Zealous praises stretch to heaven, for we are blessed.
2/15/2020
In LOVE she conceived of you.
With JOY carried you.
And with PRIDE birthed you.
In LOVE she always conceives of you.
With JOY carried within.
And with PRIDE born of who you are.
In LOVE always conceive of yourself and others.
With JOY be carried through life.
And with PRIDE in who you are
Be the true expression
Of this mother's heart.
for SAMI AL-KHALILI-contest
Heart Warmth
An omnipotent'd been ideated by militant clan,
Aeons tell how it put them through a social pace.
To set up abode or to relate races with astute plan,
God had its genesis;women-men needed it to seek solace.
As fact a woman conceives, is manifest
Man couldn't conceive of anything but God for law and lex.
Dyed-in-the-wool,they kept bending head for mending mind lest
They vex orders of war, worship and women for sex.
But missile killed gravid woman with faded hue,
Her baby survived in placenta of its mom of Gaza:
A whole race, policies, religion; yet nothing to rue,
As if all were busy computing to bring future bonanza.
No more sacred are our Temple and Church or Mosque and tomb.
Truth says:fetus Jesus'd been bestowed on Mary's womb!