Long Besieges Poems
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12/06/2020 03:41 PM.
Imagine a long and winding line
all the way to Jabip
upon the handle of small grocery cart
envision mine white knuckle grip,
as the misses commandeers
moseying up and down every single aisle,
whereby an electrocardiogram
would indicate spiky sinusoidal blip.
I experience social anxiety
and feel like screaming aloud,
particularly when series
of unfortunate events
finds your truly
within onrushing madding crowd.
Unfortunately courtesy divine comedy
one erstwhile indiscriminately
cast out obsolete player
creator endowed him
with his trademark shaky spear.
One hapless generic garden variety guy
plagued with panic attacks
accursed lifetime providence
hellacious interminable suffering
until permanent escape
quasi vacation deliverance regarding...,
when grim reaper doth
cometh and taketh me away.
Oh savior enshroud impotent mortal man
at long last terminating suffering
welcoming me into portal
I willingly surrender
and welcome release...
beckoning death be not proud.
Impossible mission to describe
how fast paced life in general
generates utter confusion
analogous to floundering trout
besieges mine mental redoubt
mental helter skelter all about
as if mine entire body electric
forced, kickstarted, subjugated...
to perform (yes folks) hokey pokey
mental gears and cogs
snapping, crackling, popping
inside tumbler like noggin
purportedly linkedin hashtagged
with schizoid personality disorder.
Onset of emotional paralysis
stops me dead in my figurative track
metaphorically wishing me to skuttle
back into hermetically sealed manhole
invisible among interleaved bract
where within mine secret cubby hole
I play knick knack paddywhack...
to idle away leisure time
as well as solve crossword puzzles
meditate (on the gift of a watermelon pickle)
while listening to natural soundtrack,
and self hypnotize courtesy biofeedback.
Have you read the note?
It speaks of the doom of the liquid element.
An inclement weather, grey, and with the fuss of a bleached lightning,
Besieges the tick of the clock.
Must have been a bland Sunday, which retreated
From the temerity of old wine,
Haunted by the lonesome refrains of exhausted hymns.
The belfry yawned loosely....
But quiet crept in like leprosy,
Hanging loops on loam-matted hair, black and fringy,
And nursing frets we held
When the wetted guitar strings would not strum....
Have you read her note?
Not the one of Mrs. Dalloway
Nor the one of Between the Acts,
But the one she cringed for —
That banal, invidious act, non-virginal,
Which haunts the church to this day.
The hearts of our once invisible heroes grow weary fighting a relentless demon.
God make it stop!
They sacrifice all with little to save souls from the consuming darkness surrounding them.
God make it stop!
How many faces of those gasping for life’s last breath will be burned into their memories?
God make it stop!
How many hands will go lifeless in theirs because of a viral monster that yet goes unanswered?
God make it stop!
How often must they gaze into already tear-soaked faces and be the bearers of even worse news?
God make it stop!
How many times will they totally collapse from exhaustion from working extra shifts and hours?
God make it stop!
How many more tears will fall behind their masks for those they could not pull back from death?
God make it stop!
They yearn for a whisper of hope to dull the ventilators symphony of despair and desperation.
God make it stop!
They search for the rainbow beyond a dark ominous cloud that now besieges all humanity.
God make it stop!
Our hands are tied, Death
Since you dawned on us this New Year . . .
Shapely bottles of champagnes have shone
And have broken to fragments with the ululation
Of firecrackers that warmed cold and dark wintry skies.
Now, aphonia sets in from unending lamentations.
Headlines, buried by the chilly bones of winter,
Are barren of good tidings.
A chionophile besieges the rim of a sedulous Yuletide
Grieving by oneiric alleys . . .
I speak of the Friedhof of haunting grimness behind
The curtains of howling winds;
Chants that frequent the disease of frightened melodies, stained
With the aged banality of youthful death;
And the purlieu of cremated souls and consolidated ashes.
Daggers are drawn to paint skulls on canvas slit by the
Whispering tongues of fire
Candles burn their tallow gently on the skin of cancer,
A stinkaroo that stinks with rage.
We do not know how else to turn the calendar.
The edges brim with hostile, burning blood,
Frozen with bits of hate and servile penetralia.
New Year hangs the singed sigil of death
On the bosom of fattened scrolls.
When you don't have desire
do you have a purpose?
Upon the edge of life
my brain reflects images
of what has been
flickering randomly
black and white than blackness
Light absorbs my being
illuminated I ascend
far from human realm
I glide onward into an ocean of
eternal space
seeing all I saw
hearing all I heard
feeling numb
sound like the waves surging the beach
Brightness chills
light engulfs
forever onward
glowing within
my eyes flame
poof
sparkling ember dying light
settle on the ledge of being
darkness besieges
without voice my mind screams
flames within my palms
hands wave round and round
darkness retreats
as light flickers
I stand alone toes clutching the edge
nothingness
alone but full
fall back furling into remnants of am
light soft comforts
Home.
God directs us toward His mission-work through His command
While He ushers us by His prudent hand…
In obeying His mandate of sovereign demand
For our commitment to stand while building lives in the promised land.
God directs us toward His mission-work through His light
While He revives us by His powerful might…
In declaring His Gospel with supplication plight
For our salvation to glow along soulwinning delight.
God directs us toward His mission-work through His favour
While He besieges us by His compassionate savour…
In sharing His love of kindness’ fervour
For our testimony to shine midst holy endeavour.
God directs us toward His mission-work through His wisdom
While He teaches us by His truthful freedom…
In learning from His Word about righteousness’ kingdom
For our Bible study to advance scriptural Christendom.
God directs us toward His mission-work through His instruction
While He guides us by His prudent action…
In fulfilling His desire for the Great Commission’s function
For our faith to produce fruits of joyful church-participation.
God directs us toward His mission-work through His fellowship
While He meets us by His friendly partnership…
In staying in His will of gracious leadership
For our worship to show gladness in faithful stewardship.
God directs us toward His mission-work through His blessing
While He satisfies us by His bountiful enforcing…
In enjoying His provisions around prayerful* fencing
For our service to support diligent giving-offering increasing.
*Acts 6:4 But we will give ourselves continually to prayer, and to the ministry of the word.
I saw in her eyes the sallowness of festered love.
My drum had beaten to the resonance of celebration,
Of the deeds of love evaluation.
Her art bemuses me, especially when spoken and
Sketched to the rhythms of assayed hollowness –
Mottled balances echo silently on withered spots,
And the words she cherishes lie way below frontiers of enchantment.
How short my éclat reigned!
And my blood congealed!
Do I lay prostrate to hypoxia?
If I could borrow a leaf from her, I trust it would be the leaf of Love.
And on the edge of skewered times, I would lend the fit of
Pyrokinesis, cauterizing the inclement weather of her deception.
There’s that culture shock which love carries.
It kills and maims, yet lays crusts of veneer on one’s
Premeditated ego, pointing skyward like the finial of
Root-pannelled structure of breathless architecture.
My heart aches to the illusion of several months borne
Through the whim of my angel.
I wake on the brim of her nose.
Her eyes are grey and distant.
Rust besieges her hair with sliced threads of extended harvests.
I level up to her art with a hamster tied to the loose
Slivers of bamboo elements – with a repast so heartlessly
Soured by the sun.
I lean beneath her iron door, long loosened by the courage
Of assembled art.
My heart bleeds.
She lied to me.
As slimy as the mucilage of the okra,
I have shed genuine light of her hidden treasure.
And on a dark, vengeful night on the corridors of April,
Saturn, spinning her icy rings, revealed much.
And her love, deep and garish, traces peregrinations of
A hunter’s search through wooded paths, rain-drenched and musty.
From the shebeen to the sacristy.
The village church bell peals to the beat of my heart – a heart so deceived.
The gloom, structured in gossamer, binds me, haunts me.
Red banners of camwood yield to the moist of invaded space,
Tenebrous, and soused with the tears of a fallen roof.
Flaking tongues of prurient monsters lick my toes in noisy flicks....
God, where have I been?
August 14 Heart for God Bible Meditations Based on Jeremiah 7-9
Key Verse – Jeremiah 7:2 Stand in the gate of the LORD's house, and proclaim there this word, and say, Hear the word of the LORD, all ye of Judah, that enter in at these gates to worship the LORD.
HEART THAT WORSHIPS THE LORD
Our heart worships the Lord through His favour
As He besieges us by His compassion’s fervour
To teach us His truth of knowledge-savour
For our faith to be strong toward holy endeavour.
Our heart worships the Lord through His wisdom
As He conquers us for His righteousness’ kingdom
To train us by His Word of prudence-freedom
For our minds to be illumined toward divine Christendom.
Our heart worships the Lord through His instruction
As He leads us by His direction’s perfection
To control us with His sovereignty-function
For our will to be surrendered toward heavenly action.
Our heart worships the Lord through His light
As He revives us by His power’s might
To use us according to His desire-delight
For our worth to be valuable toward eternal flight.
Our heart worships the Lord through His fellowship
As He welcomes us to His friendship’s relationship
To nourish us with His authority-leadership
For our effectiveness to be fruitful toward faithful stewardship.
Our heart worships the Lord through His blessing
As He provides for us by His goodness’ enforcing
To satisfy us with His supply-embracing
For our gratefulness to be constant toward worshipful praising.
Our heart worships the Lord through His presence
As He meets us with His love’s iridescence
To assure us about His promise-affluence
For our trust to be steadfast toward prayerful influence.
August 14, 2026
This generic creek king mortal mwm
(who generally river ears the bay sea gully feels ire ate
asper propensity plundering positive human qualities
tested to the max), bait
ting virtue with rapacious opprobrious
malicious lugubriousness, and hatred create
head via the violent wickedness yawping zealously
oceans of tears that in un date
every nook and cranny of society, wrenching,
whip-sawing, and hammering extirpate
ting, the delicate nuances that anthropological fate
bequeathed to *****sapiens
species and genus undermining great
ness brought forth by artistic, democratic,
and graphic accomplishments with HATE
diluting the virtuous unification treatises
agonizingly tried to insulate
basic rights, whence erosion, corrosion,
and abrasion with goliath gangrenous monstrosities of late
subtract at frightful pace, the very survival of mankind and doth mate
absolute evil that percolates into the body electric,
where bloody fiendish genies prosper upending immunity
fostering broods that deign devious strategies in Nate
to destroy any salient sliver via BuzzFeed ding fifty shades of a gray pate
outwitting tentative grasp upon survival
barely fending off lashing off faux kings who e quate
might with right, and bring out the big guns
which blitzkrieg magazines fire at greased lightening speed rate
this battle whereby competing credos, ethos,
and grand Poobah grinds by force state
mints that all most obey lest Das Capital life will not tolerate
nasty, short and brutish torture engendering wailing ululate
diminish in a vain attempt to escape the maws of madness
where the grim reaper doth patiently wait.
No news is good news how true today
dying media rotting is the truth decays
Just report the facts and let us decide
why the nastiness, meanness and lies
Never even facts just ugly speculation
grabbing headlines for ratings sensation
Ruined lives innocent hurt for their fun
can reputations be repaired when lies undone
Stopped watching national media long ago
happier without the trauma they impose
Crisis and threats pile up each moment of the day
doom and gloom besieges using fear to persuade
Nothing is good, their bias always right, all is bad
never time for gladness must remain sad and mad
toxic narratives leads to violence galore
their sick believers only want more
Don't need em, won't listen to them anymore
they are fake news with falsehoods I deplore.