Best Hence Poems
Don't worry now about past tense,
It's gone, passe'~ no longer hence.
Forget all those words left unsaid,
moments still waiting, books unread.
The future will come, enticed or not
Enjoy the days time has brought.
It's been seven years, I almost forgot-
not this day: but the distance we've climbed.
I couldn't remember my age, because it correlates
to years we've been apart.
I forgot to be apprehensive, this time it was sneaky.
It waited for the first happy holiday wishing
from some idiot to remind me.
It was Good Friday.
When God took your spirit home
and left me dying to know,
how to love him for his sacrifice
when he asked me to give up you?
How do I heal this death and rise with you in his arms?
I blasphemy, I know, but you loved him more
in sight of you that graceful place grows
pale in and foreign in mine eye.
Alas, I fail the test, I could not be as strong as you.
We knew it would not wait, but the parting was still to fast.
I sat in thought three days before your sleep and asked,
"In three days time my savior died, I wonder hence
what of my soul will rise with his?"
And sitting easter morning,
holding some idiots well wished basket,
I realised Three days passed.
He took you home and left me lost on Friday morn,
I wailed my loss through Saturdays more,
and Easter morning I felt your last hug, your kiss good bye.
I cursed my self for asking, if my soul would rise with his,
because you, my love, are my soul and all ready there
there fore I am not strong enough to give this pain up
to honor his sacrifice and transcend, I sit still lost and wonder:
I believe and I love, but I don't know how to rise
I don't now how to live again.
Faith crushed I don't think I can trust.
I am the shell of your grace trying once more
to live in the love that failed me, as I failed the gift of his sacrifice.
Cleverly
Articulated as I type these words,
Cleverly thought up, diligently said.
Hence, this is where my story begins.
As words come, I should write,
No place to go, but what is right?
Thought up in verse,
You see, I know.
But about its sentences,
We will read, but how's it going?
The poem it is with arousal begins,
My brain is stirring out on this limb.
My rhyme, you see, has it to be,
Or is it this that is a joke?
My fingers, my thoughts,
These words that I type.
I am doing my best,
Do you see as I write?
I shall write these words,
In its simple of ways.
I think my story has found its end.
Not so fast I'll try writing this again.
Edited 04/27/2023
The world isn't fair, the world isn't right,
and I can't control how I'm feeling tonight;
but I can control how I react to the pain,
how I live my life while dealing with the strain.
More than two years down the line from that verse,
the first half yet reads right - like an all too true curse.
The second, however, with each day steadily loses its hold;
as do I, on everything that I once controlled.
Sadness scars, but fades with enough time,
and oft with the healing hands of rhythm and rhyme.
Loss lives, but eventually rears its head less,
like Patches, Brandy, Grandpa, Grandma, Brandon or Jess.
These I can ultimately learn to abide,
taking them with an ever steadier stride.
Remembrance turns from taking you to your knees,
one day into fond memories, honoring such as these.
Yet anger is entirely another story,
one turning never to gain or glory.
At another time, I handled it with care,
and did better at never laying it bare.
Now, it surrounds me at every turn,
and ever more for peace I yearn.
I wake to its heavy breathing at my side,
bed down having chiefly failed to turn its tide.
Even the luxury of a hair trigger just isn't there,
for I must simply breathe, to its cruel vestments wear.
It doesn't feel like power, simply rages and drains,
leaving me, weary, to deal with the pains.
Two more years of this inability I must survive;
seems so abysmal, when for simply every day I must strive.
I'll finally know again, with twenty-two summers behind me,
what joy simply being seen as an adult can truly be.
At the mercy of anticipatory anxiety, hence...
viz hitted courtesy debilitating panic attacks
Upon waiting for vehicular repair
today November 19th, 2019 at:
CJ'S TIRE & AUTOMOTIVE SERVICES
(1405 S Township Line Rd,
Royersford, PA 19468),
yours truly, i.e. mister re: man
registered lamentable paroxysm.
All thru mein kampf inferiority complex
analogous invisible muscular heft did flex,
quaking, hijacking, agonizing...
jinxed irrevocable hex
re: heredity did initially index
courtesy Boyce and Harris,
who begat me
guaranteed, fixed, decreed...
courtesy accursed lex
lucifer mortal christened
Matthew Scott Harris – insinuated
jackknifed, kickstarted, limned,
machined, nixed, ordered... orifex
encompassing hardiest inscrutable
seminal entry point
penetrated zona pellucida, qua Rex
wrought flawed crown
faulty erroneous biological code,
within body electric mutation
fleshed out, I lament
analogous courtesy neophyte Unix
programmer, yes I hedge
to intimate biological event
upon impregnation sent
reproductive juices into action
miracle whipped processes
wielded unbeknownst advent,
whereby subsequent
cell division manifested,
albeit nine months later enfant
terrible asper:in,
this then newborn gent
lo' within zygote,
every generic ingredient
already harbored yours truly
characteristic weaknesses full extent
unbeknownst until DNA blooper rent
birthed, thence as I developed absent
pronounceable kinks vis a vis
trademark characteristics became present
evinced thru behavioral, emotional,
interpersonal, neurological aberrations
costing me (lake dude...) woebegone descent
wretchedness faux forfeiting every moment
only recent (think today)
entire existence misspent
oddly enough even compromising
ability to serve meant
two daughters, (especially eldest)
decry horrible life pent
up with rage against human machine
referring to paternal birth parent,
whose pathetic example rent
asunder psyches linked with offspring
hence, I best ought to have
joined a convent (ha).
Twas really only of late,
I realized fuller blown extent
house zing deplorable... state
absolute zero scholastic, tete a tete
opportunistic, generic, athletic...
*****sapien astride oblate
spheroid devoid of any
marketable skill doth resonate.
dominant people
pole master in position
away from the man
I presage many years hence
My poetry would be read,
To then spread some hope and cheer
Though I would long be dead.
Wish could from some secret door
Be able to see that soul,
Who would read my rhyme and verse
Laud its lyrical scroll.
Such would suffice my labour
For my runes would find their goal,
Reach portals of paradise
Having fulfilled its role.
***********
How it mocks your mind to think
a thing your faith affirms as tenet.
You tussle with the doctrinal ink:
was there an inaugural minute?
"Always existed," can that be right?
The thought swevels all your senses.
Saints with you do mull and marvel
trapped in past and present tenses.
The picture will clear on a day hence
when puzzles will be pieced complete.
They will make heaven-sent sense
as in tears we kneel at Jesus' feet.
Tense and hence
you are past
gone in the fog
that is now very dense.
There is flash of lightening
and remembrance
but it is bitter
and quite a blow hitter
and I do not hoard but freely fritter
your memories that bug like garbage and litter.
I may chase you and it may so seem
you may feel important and keen
but it is in my self defense
tense and hence
you are a group and that is vicious and crook
ensuring that you are up to no harm or machination
that may beat me to loss and anticipation
I maintain dossiers and keep watch
of those whom I found to be harmful
and ready for a rough grab and a theft snatch.
So you are classified and you know now
door is narrow and short
but it is open
escape while you can
taking a bow.
...
tense and hence.
What a shock it was about the air disaster that was MH370...
A greater shock it is that today it is already more than a year later..
The grief and sorrow of a nation in grief and bewilderment...
Those missing their loved ones are still in limbo and painful silence...
As the nation goes all out to scour the bottom of the Indian Ocean...
The long difficult search mission has been intensive and exhaustive...
Unceasingly hunting traces of the plane as the grief gradually turns pensive....
Like looking for a needle in the haystack that's the Indian Ocean ....
Let's all spare thoughts and share the endless grief of not knowing....
Say prayers of hope that a recovery will soon be coming...
For the survivors of MH370 there is nought we offer...
Merely our sincere regrets and untold sympathies as they suffer...
Rest in peace those who were in the vanished plane...
Be strong with renewed cheers for those who had hoped in vain...
Let this little piece be a kind of requiem ever so sincere....
For all the missing and the survivors of MH370 from Malaysia.
I shall go hence
back whence I sprung
to shed, disgorge, eviscerate
all that I have ever known
all that I have ever learned
all that I am
all that is me, I be.
A full hard refresh
to be what I could be
untainted, smirched
unbiased, neutered.
Hence to whence
and thence I be,
freely
impotent.
A silent song played only for me,
beyond the forest, upon tree.
A melody that entrances
my feet are lifted to many unexplained dances.
Earth mother i endulge myself in your love,
in the flower, the brook, the sand between my toes.
Sky father i entangle myself in your power,
in the wind, the sun, the scents as they cross my nose.
i run towards the silent song,
played only for me.
and i sit in the forest replaying memory.
then silece, as i take a flower
the scent calls to me
then vision, as i regain power
i go back to my place that i loathe
back to the place, my humble abode
lighting a candle i say hence twice more
Blessed be tis this night as i sleep upon the floor.
if a fine-all sigh - hence...
a science
of...
some full-loss-of-why...
philosophies size a -
'hence'...
'when a full-loss-of-phi means...
the-oughts have
ended'...
stans sand
If receiving is believing
Then
I gladly give my life to you
In that
The joy and the dream's
That
Makes' it clear
Will appear
In everything that I do
Concerning the knowledge
From above
To adorn the headgear
Of affliction
And wheel with the
Scepter of Light
With a level of forgiveness
Well beyond compare
Well beyond sight
At hence
GF
When she gave birth to you, your mom
lay resting in her bed
and wondered what you would be like
three decades up ahead.
She thought you might decide to be
a monk withdrawn from life.
You'd ponder all the mysteries
alone and far from strife.
Perhaps you'd be a bon vivant —
pursuing mirth and wine.
You'd burn through life like through a wick,
but that would be just fine.
Or you'd select a scholar's path —
a thinker deep in thought.
You'd spend your days reflecting on
what matters and does not.
Your mother would not mind if you
became the artsy type,
creating paintings, songs or yarns
and puffing on a pipe.
But then you might elect to be
political perchance.
You'd run for office and proclaim
this or another stance.
A man of science in a lab
would not have put her off.
A Nobel prize is not a goal
at which good mothers scoff.
What she could not have guessed back then
but what has since come true
is that it took you thirty years
to just emerge as... you.