Close to this sleeping root, in its flesh of ancient earth,
something struggles silently to become light again, to be born anew from shadow.
And we remain, with our thoughts hanging like a rope torn from the sky,
wondering whether to overlook its gentleness, sweet and annihilating.
A tumbling of black waters follows, over the forehead of my memory,
a shaken clarity, like a lightning bolt that lies, falsifies, and forgets.
Then I barely recognize the electric grace of the men from long ago,
whom I had seen carrying their rusted shirts through the swamp that scorched them,
planting themselves in the ground with arms outstretched like a cross, a condor on each shoulder,
men who wanted to die beautifully, shattering their bones like ancient bells,
their eyes extinguished like burnt amber, silent as icons forgotten by prayer —
and I feel them smoldering within me, like a root that refuses to sleep.
And I walk out into this magical, phosphorescent rain, mystical and cold,
to untie the rope that binds me across centuries and dreams,
to roll myself back into the root from which all that I am has struggled to become again.
I Am That I Am
The architecture of the flesh
may fail,
The skin unstitched, a frayed
and fragile veil,
Where silver staples close the
crimson seam,
And hold the borders of a
fractured dream.
We sit within the sterile, quiet
room,
Where shadows stretch and
heavy doubts loom,
Measuring life in sips of clear-lit
glass,
Waiting for the wilderness to
pass.
Yet in this crucible of ache and
bone,
A sovereign sanctuary is made
known.
I am the anchor in the shifting
deep,
The vigil kept while weary
angels sleep.
I am the breath that steadies
through the dark,
The sudden, iridescent, blinding
spark,
That turns a ruin to a holy space,
And paints a window on a
broken face.
No longer tethered to the grief
we hold,
Nor to the phantom weight of
old despair,
I am the vastness where the
storm dissolves,
The axis where the wheeling
world revolves.
Unmade by time, untouched by
mortal scar,
I am the light, the lantern, and
the star-
The timeless current flowing
deep within,
Where endings fade, and all true
things begin.
The scalpel left a jagged split,
And heavy silver staples but
To bind the edges of the skin,
And lock the sudden ache
within.
Yet through that raw and ruined
seam,
The scar became a pane of
glass,
A rusted lantern in the dark,
The wound took fire from the
spark,
Transforming what was torn and
blind,
Into lens to look behind.
Gazing up, with head spinning
Blown through, euphoric
Brings what to the mind again
As does 'ring a bell'?
Whilst through each sensation, awe's
Feeling, that's divine
True self to true home responds
Needless for to tell.
Your ribs exploded.
Your lungs burst out.
Filled with the Venom.
Your childhood and trauma caused.
Yet.
I gently took your heart.
Then I ripped the skin off.
My throat, My thighs, My chest.
Your favorite parts of me.
To replace.
The nasty.
Horid.
Putrid.
Rotten flesh.
That filled your body for over a decade.
No questions asked.
When I ripped out my heart strings.
To attach to yours.
And you looked at me with disdain.
I continued to pull and tug at myself.
Even when i bled all over your floors.
And cried out in pain.
You watched.
You didn't answer.
You pointed at your scars.
You sighed.
You watched tears roll down my cheek.
We loathed eachother.
Then you ran to someone else.
Who had toxic waste and blood.
Dripping off their fangs.
And you gave them.
My healed flesh.
Ripped right off your body.
You looked back.
Only to see if I would be gullible enough.
To let you come back.
If you need more newely broken parts
Or
You needed to be healed
From her rotten ways.
Then your rotten flesh slowly became.
mine.
The jewelry box
I kept for safe keeping
Has become the land
My flesh keeps reaping
The store around the corner
I travel each morning
Makes my breath of life
A lot less boring
There sits my buddies
Around a table of carded hands
Money is just wadded paper
With the pull that understands
My darling pushes my buttons
Even when she knows what's comin'
The shame and guilt gives presents
Buying time to keep her guessin'
There's a pleasure in little things
But the secrets must not speak
Lest the bedroom of energy
Makes the boards start to creak
Snacks in the morning
At noon, and after dinner time
Who cares about a body
When habits tickle my mind
...to stagnation
Written by Trudy Schrader on 06-23-2026
The distinguished guests
raised their crystal goblets
toast the host's lavish,
midnight banquet.
A sudden, violent chill swept
the parlor as the grandfather
clock shrieked thirteen times.
The exquisite roast on the
tarnished platters abruptly
mutated into writhing,
maggot- infested human
limbs.
Horrified screams died in
their throats as the dining
room doors slammed shut
and vanished into the drywall.
They turned to flee, only to
realize they were chewing on
their own severed tongues.
You’ll never believe this,
But truth you are owed –
This morning I noticed
A fork in the road.
Well, technically, just
The top half of a fork,
Yet still a strange sight
On a street in New York.
‘Twas made of white plastic,
Quite easy to break it.
Since I couldn’t use it,
I chose not to take it.
I will never be the girl your heart cries for.
I will never be enough for a soul that wants more
than what I can offer.
My beauty can’t be seen, only felt
by hearts that look with emotional eyes.
But you are at an age where “beautiful”
is still built on the approval of others.
I am at an age where I’ve stopped looking for acceptance.
Sometimes what we’re looking for is beyond
what the naked eye can see.
And just maybe, we are looking for two different things:
what the eyes can see, and what the heart can touch.
At your youthful age, beauty means more to you.
At my age, maturity smiles at wisdom
and acknowledges the innocence of your youth.
When you grow old, you need more
than wrinkled skin. You need what’s beneath the flesh -
a beating heart that loves you till death parts you.
So I will go my way and wish you well,
hoping you find what you’re searching for.
461.
Prayer Against Flesh
Oh Father God, deliver us from flesh
May we be always spiritually fresh
Oh Lord Jesus, save us who are like Rahab
Grant us purity and a decent job
Oh Holy Spirit, rescue us from prostitution
Be our guardian against fornication
This we ask in our Almighty God. Amen.
-12/21/2015
(Dumarao)
*Gideons Prayer Poems Against Life's Problems
This morning, love, the sky’s opaque
You are the spirit, you can see
Though spirit term seems rather vague
It emphasizes mystery
Relies on my imagination
A bit too much, as if implied
My faith in the divine ascension
But the first thing that comes to mind
Why it’s impossible to meet
Our Lord again, how could he be
Not recognized on crowded street
If he’d come down his folk to see
I guess that Jesus was repeated
In some of those who tried to care
And so the devil was defeated
In a fixed match for devil’s share
I don’t want to display a doubt
It always finds a way to show
Without flesh life makes no sound
In any kind of form we know
It’s all our fantasy and joy
Of the imagined world that is
Supposed to be a great deploy
To serve reality we miss.
Amazon is my night penetrating
alert I sprung from branch tight
it is buck nutritious blood
observation stark from green-blue irises
beauty meets danger not looking away
lithe tongue saliva intestine surrender
Muscles sinewy, handsome black the Sky
claws ripping buck’s bones snap cracks
mitochondria leaps from atoms, stars dance
to splash spine fluid about sand wet soft
mirroring clear a rebirthing act
nature ascertains when to numb nerves to claws
no eluding life when hunger mud stalks
Iridescence watches flesh rip longing lick
buck relinquishing spirit ~ cannot groan
black fur transmuting flesh disappearing
leather into charcoal night appearing
her thickening her for next week’s killing
time folding ouroboros
Panther curls, tailing
_____________________________
[ Poet’s Note in Comments Section ]
Particles of sweat, creeping into the
panoramic canvas...
Your body is like a flower vase, crowded
with freshly bloomed flowers of the
arbour of love,
I asked you wherefrom you have brought them...
Silent you were.
Thereupon your fingers were fidgety,
sauntering through my bare back,
A tingling sensation, a mild line of
blood, or I might have been wrong,
for your pale neck was intact when
a uniform oval sign of love was dug there,
by my trembling teeth, undisturbed, unperturbed
by the external disturbances.
Just like Ulysses was searching for his
destination, my hands, in pursuit of your
pleasure hotspot,
around and around would roam aimlessly.
Let us live through the moments, for the
freshly bloomed flowers would be wrinkled again
until they are rejuvenated
by my spurt of love
Sarban Bhattacharya
So keen to get a pound of human flesh, Shylock,*
Was jubilating, wearing his long beard and frock,
But young Portia, garbed in lawyer`s dress, with mind bright,
In court, solved the case against Shylock, outright.
*One of the principal characters in "The Merchant of Venice" by William Shakespeare
Flesh dimples
Flesh wrinkles
Flesh is the total knowledge of our existence
Flesh, bones, which I leave in my trail
Flesh prays for souls on holy grails
Flesh is the prison of our eternal being
Is there a Maker that operates our muscles and bones
Is there an after where I go home?
My eyes hold life beneath them
Or is life a lonely road traveled by few?
Do I pray for a truck stop or am I passed out and through?
I long for an understanding beyond flesh
We experienced damnation and heartbreak
He experienced more joy than we can take
How do I go out in this finite life without being afraid
We experience so much that could leave us numb
The clock is ticking and I want to run
When will my flesh part from my being
My fear keeps me under spell
A wizard of the highest order has made me unwell
I demand and exit that grants me true understanding
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