Best Promethean Poems
To all the poets near and far
Alive and well or beyond the stars,
I bid you peace, I bid you rest,
I bid you all the very best.
Life and death may er’ contain
All the fruits of love and rain,
Showered down upon you all:
Promethean poets, great and small.
Long before we learned to write
But felt inside that burning light,
To share all thoughts, hopes, sadness, dreams
Propitious poets bear it all it seems.
From long ago and far away
And right up through this very day,
Countless came and left their mark
And we too, shall make a lasting spark.
Perhaps a mere morsel, a line or two
That lands upon a mind imbued,
With someone who like you or me
Finds sublimity in words like these.
Though words are not real things we touch
Like rivers, rocks, seashells and such,
But point the way back deep inside
Where memories last and love abides.
But I for one am smaller yet
Then everyone I’ve ever met,
Who picked up paper, pen or quill
And found their calling in the still
Of quiet nights and early morns
Waiting for ideas unborn,
From spirits sweet and dewdrops soft
I bid you all good thoughts aloft.
© Terrell Martin, 02/21/2025
Never in secluded pools they dwell,
I speak of ornate waterfalls,
they rise and fall majestically,
near docks, wharves and piers,
sparkle, gleam, smooth flow trickle,
eye balm whirl fantastic perk on tap,
stickybeak on podium rapids,
instigator signage when our trek seems dull,
but reflection is a gem warp cataract,
kinetic rebound ocean wave backbeat,
which in fact an upfront blissful target,
hardly ever missing opal bulls-eye,
environmental bubbles that somehow never burst,
indulge outlandish fare Promethean,
spurt on vermillion lanyards pendant sweep,
dream paint sunrise clementine tincture,
daub acrylic spree through pale moon orb,
squeeze tube lambent hue past frail mandala,
eternal sepia a light touch pristine shroud,
that loiters over urban life force ripple,
flaunt your image rich abundant fire
Ever-Upwards, I AM The Sun
I Am the Sum of One,
I Am the Total of the Light Force, Ever-So Bright
Ever So High, I Blaze in Kundalini Fire
Illuminating Ethers of Life Within
I Am Eternal, I Am Infinite
I Am Promethean, Fire Born is the motto
I wield Boons from the Astros,
Ever-Luminous, I Am Octillion Mega Hertz of pure energy
Vibing on these Holy Melodies,
Ever-Solar, I'm a Cosmo Soldier
Dropping Jewels out the Winepress, Ever-Forward
Blazing Hymns of Salvation, I Am Glorious
I Am Victorious,
One with the Stars I Illumine the Abyss
Dazzling in shades of Gold and Bliss,
Untethered, I Breach realms of Eternal Life
I Am The Sun, I Am the Sun So High
I press my hands into the ruins of you,
fingertips cut in the quiet rot of ancient wounds
that have never quite been touched.
Beneath splintered ribs,
your earth is sulfurous in suffering—
your volcanic pulse muffled under sediment,
heart-rages arrested in amber.
I carve through your marrow-deep dusks,
knuckles bloodied on the bedrock of guilt,
digging past rusted veins and forgotten altars,
until my hands unearth something
promethean and glinting—
not relic, not wreckage—
but soft golds of you,
burning like a mantra
like a last prayer.
3.8.24
4.
Each dawn, the cold steps back a pace,
In the lengthening light the cold steps back
As the lands rise fresh and free from deathlike sleep again,
To play the full young mother dressed in life itself,
Strolling through the warming, waxing sun.
Growth and generation give the lie
To the empty time, short before
Everything renewed proclaims exoneration from stasis
Breauty runs riot, freed from its long waiting
To declare its immortality again.
For he and she love grows anew
In hopes reborn spring's thaw
The heart's slow healing gathers force with the blooming
As they pull the threads of their lives back together,
Sewing them closer with trust and forgiveness,
Going on again in the thousand-odd ways
That make a single life of two.
Love trumpets again in smug triumph
Through the wakening world,
For it too is one of the old, strong forces,
The one that holds together what would fain break itself apart
To its own rack and ruin;
The ultimate surgeon,
Healing with slow steely cuts
Cauterizing the strangely sweet wells of pain
With unquenchable fire
That burns,
Promethean.
Love ennobles the soul
Exciting a tender sympathy
Truly Promethean fire
been pretty bad people
burst pipes belching putrid
burgundy petrol
being perfect bleeding puddle
Big People bringing
poverty
bleating pelicans
barges paddling
bereaving patriots
bludgeoning prosperity
beaching promises
burdening posterity
breaking premises
but progressive
bitter Promethean
broken president
believing politics
bereft policies
brokers power
bringing plundering
barons power
bigger profits
bestial power
The scent of ancient seas converts the breeze
As burst of amber dawn comes breaking through.
Gulls wend and wind the thermal streams with ease
While sunshine warms their bellies blue-grey hue.
The Sirens' sing of sailing journeys still
To serenade majestic ships with song.
And sailors swear they hear the lilting trill
Of singing voices sea-winds pass along.
The sea-waves wrap and slap the sandy shore
As urchin's scatter hoisting sea-shell homes.
A stroke of genius by the Master for
Protective borrowed shelters under domes!
Below, in fathoms deep with mystery,
Promethean creativeness still hides,
Protecting ancient secrets born of sea,
Some wrought in heaven others rot inside.
I turn to walk inside my own abode,
In awe of blessings life gives lovingly,
And pray the day I face my dying mode
I hear those Sirens' serenading me.
If you were born in city:
Their luminous enamor is inexorable;
You never capture them at night; mind empty,
And ensnared by their mysterious un-effable
That that dismal night wistful,
That that glow distance stars solace,
That that expert called complex chemically obscenful,
Because they never infrared, nor ultraviolet frequence
Oh, you older than race, and electricity,
I called you my reticent little light,
Can enemy of infrastructure be in your identity?
Suburb me in the city now, can't see you at night,
Why can't you wait for our children, children;
To know promethean nature once light dark night;
Before the travested beauty of electrical exaltation,
Where they struggle to name, and classified your might,
They name you Polyphaga,
They fame you in Coleoptera,
You radiate amongst Arthropoda,
And they added you in Elateroida.
Have You Tried My Slushie? By
Briar Rabbit
I don’t know if it brings the boys to the
yard
I’d want some time to myself
I think..
I think of angel dust
while
liberty belles call my name
cement and concrete as I leave the shrink
i am bowed down some
staring at my shoes
as I walk to my stop
I take PM dawn pills
For Purples edge,
Irony, I know
It’s bubble and burble
And bubble and grape flavor in my mouth
Chewy fat chunk of life’s worth
Like Nicki sticks to a wad
I chew it
It’s imprinted
Yummy and pink bubbles
Imprinted on the wrapper
Wrapper
Rapper
I like smoking
Smoking
Puro
Cheap menthol lights
The Inhale and the burn of the
Humo
In my nose
On the top and to the sides of my lungs
Smoking
Puro
I’ve become a Whiz Kid @ this
And I learned to become
a cowboy kid cigarette
aficionado
I watch my toes
Shoe gaze
Blow some smoke
Through my mouth and my nose
And then I breathe
I am a
Smoke Tamer
It’s purple-blue, tinged grey
Curls in form only real Wizards
Can create – Dragons, Curly cues,
and ring after ring after ring
When I’ve had my high , I pinch my cherry
Roll it between my fingers and test the
edge
Of this proto-promethean glory
Index to thumb
My butt at ease
And my feet alive
I pet a bug
Or an ambitious spider
Cupping my hands I put her back
in the bush. Apologizing
after letting her explore my fingertips
my hands, my wrist, my arm
to my elbow and then I let her know, no
gently
I cry a little inside when i do, because
she’s
curious and seeking comfort in some
shade
like I do.
Our feelings I think are
mutual
I am still..
Sticking with Fabolous
My slushie named orange and blue
Half to three quarters gone
I’m sippin it and three a party in
My pants, no ********, a wow in my
Mouth, and a brain freeze.
The brain freeze gives me a *****
Seriously.
I’m serious.
I cross my legs, lift up my hood
Arrange two rings and a cross
Pick at the crud under
My nails, maybe I should
Pull down my shades
Arrange my pant legs
Again.
Slurp my slushie.
Brain freeze and I’m turned on
again
I blush and pull down my hood
I’m still sitting at the bus shelter
I light another one,
My smoking curls,
Curling
curly-curly
curly ques..
MY smoke curls
MY smoke curls
Inca Indians cultivated potatoes
thousands of years before Christ.
Other indigenous domesticated tomatoes
and maize and they gave it to us.
Many centuries of artificial selection
by the indigenous people of the Americas
resulted in the development of corn plants
for the benefit of all mankind.
The Olmecs staple crop –
Promethean gifts given to us
in brotherly trust.
And we locked them in artificial Reservations.
I celebrate no light switched off,
I celebrate no ragged cough,
But sing, I do, the men of mind,
And I myself, who am not blind.
I sing the pride of happy wealth---
That light-foot walk of free men's health
When, with chains of tyrants cast away,
Promethean minds invent and play.
They lighten loads and brighten night,
They make the wings of length'ning flight,
They shake up songs to which we dance,
That light-foot walk may full enhance,
Then smooth our throats with meds upon
To celebrate the light switched on!
Critics Beware!
Poets are vulnerable no less than anyone,
when fallen victim to outrageous critics.
As Shelley wrote, critics' darts struck Keats,
who blindly, cruelly, mocked 'Endymion.'
Lethal no less the heady potion fame.
Some drowned, took poison, died paupers or insane.
Yet poet-baiters must themselves take warning,
wrote Heine in his 'Winter Fairy Tale.'
Eternal lines, if barbed, outdo Hell's fierce burning.
'Time shall not heal when poets wield the flail.'
Our foes, wrote Paul, are not of flesh and blood
but powers of evil inhabiting high places.
Promethean fire consumes the evil and the good,
Iniquities have many masks and faces.
Alone the Word that spares the infant's life
to wrong proves mightier than every art of strife.
curious how this old soul
marooned here on this bleak unfulfilled
island wasteland of dreary dreams unfulfilled,
desiring a change into something more static,
let's see how it moves, this Promethean forged
mystical monster, see how it wrecks halls,
shakes earth, tears limb from spurting limb
buttoned with crimson coats.
don't beat your fists against this,
this impenetrable veil,
only it's own weapon destroys it,
only it's own vice traps it,
only it's own desire enslaves it,
only it's own punishment sets it free
of this hell we've made of a generation
so separated from itself, the monster from
the mind, the body from the soul,
each is a number, there is no difference,
see the unity between both, see the infinite
reaches of the finite circumference.
break the bound of reason
imposed upon our eden,
the energy abounds freely creating
itself as god, creating all that follows it
in the universe of i and in the mind's eye
the monster can only be seen
chained to his circumference,
chained to the brain, chained to the body.
see through the layers peeled,
the soul is in every fibre,
chained arm to shoulder,
the soul is in every fibre,
chained brain to mind heaven living in hell
married, chained to itself,
the soul is in every fibre,
the moon to earth chained,
the earth to the sun chained,
the sun to the soul chained,
the soul is in every fibre.
The marooned muse floats
with waned creative craving
in the emotive stream of impeded passion,
faces the monotonous stodgy scenario
over the tedious span of time
in the bleary plateau of poet’s blasé block.
That’s when it seeks for
AI’s algorithmic rhythm of ideas and style
within the cauldron of coherent fecundity,
but is downright dismayed
by the lack of Promethean depth,
devoid of the nuance of imagination impulse.
The chord of heart’s violin doesn’t resonate
with the unique personal touch,
for the melody of lyrical longing
remains unreplicated in the artificial sonata.