Long Confessor Poems
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The Imp sat atop the dresser, unmoving,
in the corner of the room, I waited, pen in hand.
No sound did he make, nor his locus improving,
as his bloodshot eyes, my attention, they demand.
In days slipped past, he spoke in lulled timbre,
for years he abated the fears that I had,
his mind so subtle, his thoughts so limber,
but through each day my questions he forbad.
I wrote each word, every syllable, every notion,
spoken dark or tender, whether thou or thine.
He laid before me his songs of emotion
and I stole each one and made them all mine.
In his voice, I claimed, all of his treasures,
without a thought he'd discover, in time.
Yet, now he speaks with words always measured,
and burning glares that scream of my crime.
Does he know I've used him to privilege my psyche?
Does he know how his rhymes have impassioned my soul?
Would he care if I offered to proffer my ego,
or pay, with my heart, this immeasurable toll.
“Living In The Dark ,“ so easy he spoke this,
while together we lived each verse, he and I.
Darkness foreboding, for he, was in bliss,
but for me pure terror as his words I decry.
He laughed at my fear and smiled with derision
as my name I placed at the end with the date.
His eye slowly narrowed as if changing his decision
but I watched as the dark made these feelings abate.
I gather before me his sonnet's solemn lines,
He allows me to name it,"Fire," seems right,
as his bitterness taunts me with each phrase he entwines
leaving visions of me in the sallow dim light.
I live in his blindness through eyes of midnight.
The coals of his vision, burning embers of fright,
but the words he has spoken I endeavor to requite
for they linger and fill me with horrendous delight.
Each syllable I have written, each turn of a phrase,
I owe to this Imp as he glares from the dresser
but silence, now, while he sits in the shadows,
how I wish again to become his confessor.
10/07/2020
An Interview with Sin
As the moon argues with clouds in winter’s tormented sky
A frail life lingers in the shadows
Waiting for deaths hello
To ride the waters of dawn
On a black majestic funeral swan.
Through frosted windows,
A whispered presence
Drifts into mortal conscience
Mirrored in dancing apparitions,
Around the candles flicker.
A voice that is familiar
Yet distant in the memory
In the Rocking chair a figure
Speaking, plumes of mist
Looking from a dark abyss
Where once there was a face,
The scratching of a Quill,
Writing, moving across a veil of grey,
Hiding the pages beneath
Words ringing in the brain
I am the collector, the scribe
Your confessor and your obituary
The keeper of the book of time
Come sit with destiny
Shall we begin?
What form shall I be?
An angel to the faithful,
Or the demon to the liar
Perhaps a treasured friend
I come in many guises
For I am the poet of life
Saints and sinners, Kings and beggars
Good and evil
All accountable in the ledger of time
The quill will sense your soul,
Though your heart will try and hide,
The truth, the person that is you.
You were given a conscience
And that will always betray you
Your page is for another to judge
Your existence a statement of your worth
The outcome, the navigator
To where your swan will fly
Fear not, for many sins lie here
The harvests of war and famine,
The indifference of man and
The corruption of the planet
All lie here.
Sin created my destiny, my prison,
I cannot go into deaths kingdom
Not until the sun turns red
And the rivers run dry
I wait for silence to shout his name
Till all that is now is gone,
Then my sentence will be done
The sins of the world belong to me
And the last page waits for my confession
And then too I can take the swan’s journey
Though I fear eternity has no happy ending for me.
We,
with the geometry and evening
balance of our midcentury hands—gently
lower the cloche over the day between us. It is a
nightly ritual, gravity-driven, habit built over time, the glass
encasement marred by scars, and etched with near misses and
necessary compromises. Wonder, so many watch television at night.
Kitchen, near day's end, is the stage for our theatrics, still. Air thick with
the leftover residue of last Tuesday's scorching argument. You, a curator of moments, gather the burnt-up bits—stashing away the evaporated passion, a vanishing act of expiration, of measured moves. The charry air becomes clear, in your reconciliation of memories, each crumb meticulously stored in the up-turned folds of your apron; emptiness of your hollow apologies leaving barely any room,
like
this
room.
I, the confessor of too many honesties, carry the weight,
of your name, in vain, in vow, and in vino. Everything spilled
forth, laid obesely bare on the altar of pragmatism. Evening air
saturated with palatable confessions, invidious revelations, each night creates constant courses filled with serving upon relentless serving of burdens of truths, neither of us wants to swallow. Archivists of these vacant instants, overfilled platters of reconciled destinies, we keep the pledges we intoned in the chapel of sincerity, their headstrong mantras resonating with the gods of practicality. In the end, the bitter-sweet dessert of marriage is plated, seasoned
with the complexities of shared history,
leaving the aftertaste of our combined lives lingering on my tongue.
A Eulogy in Memory of My Dead Love
Dear Ladies and Gentlemen! My Loved Brothers and Sisters! Respected Believers!
This day, this Saturday, is very sad in the calendar. Cold, oppressive autumn day.
We may once again witness the departure of a mortal soul. This is her last journey.
Yes. Hmm. This is her last hour in our world. You can see her last time. Yes. Here.
She was a mortal. Hmm. Please, see this beautiful blonde lady. She desires decay.
She is dead. Hmm. Yes. She is dead. Hmm. I'm the killer. I sent this lady to her death.
Yes. I am the killer. The priest. The priest. The honest lover. Hmm. I loved this woman.
This beautiful and magnetic woman was a victim of her own lifestyle. I was the witness.
Yes. I. This lady’s confessor. I know everything about her. About her nights. I loved her.
I tried to change her. Her life. But she was very demonic. I couldn’t change her. The love.
Too many men. Too many parties. Hmm. You understand me. I needed to stop her life.
I tried everything to save her life. I loved this amazing woman. But she was a real demon.
I couldn’t put her life on the right track. I tried everything to save her deteriorating soul.
Everything! Everything!! I tried everything!!!. I couldn’t save her. I prayed every night.
But nothing. I had to save her. From destruction. I had no other choice. I killed her.
I loved her
Rest in Peace
Peace to her ashes
My Love
God Bless You
Amen
Have you seen the light of Him that shines brighter then the
Aludra star of heaven's lair, and have you seen the rays that
Veer towards you when you pray, my brother have you
Ever known more peace then when you bow your head in prayer
Yoked to your heart He is your everlasting soulmate and your friend
On the wings of faith you can soar towards Him night and day
Unearth your fears and find the comfort that you need
Sacred Father, Abba, Patriarch and Archer of all that is good in you
Every action of yours is guided by His Holy subservient angels
Experience Him in your journey of love and know that you are
Noteworthy of His protection. Sister of life on earth plant a seed
The creator will water it and make it grow like a rose in the dessert
Hide it from the enemy let it prosper in His vineyard. You the
Elect who is never left in the dark, is a child of the Beloved,
Love with all your heart as he has loved you, built an alter and
Invite Him to your table dear friend, He is the candle that burns bright
Goodness and peace will follow you if you make
Him your confessor and your constant companion .
Trust in Him who created you to His image, know you are loved.
Consistency is character that spells what no one reads again
Habits other-centered distrusted, ridiculed, and yet sustained
Altar and cross accepted is what love requires, the sharp flame
Rinsing spirit of the flesh, humility's morning in earth's night
Ark of the soul, the lettered truth believed, let none disclaim
Conscience compass, and steady guide; the pure can see aright
Truth only seen by those that look for truth, men find what they seek
Envy or expectations crude will not deter what honor risks
Resurging in that simple world where alone may stand and speak.
Testify then not like the praised familiar, but in peculiar tones
Earnest dreams, that in example unworded take the stair alone
Silently upward neath the strain, to hear him sings who groans
Tested by the views of earth, but higher yet the eyes enthrone
Inspired bent of heart, that shall not be spoken for but applause
Mortified flesh then must ever carry that immitated and holy scar
Opportunities seeking to transform from shame the fallen cause
Natal to the sin nurtured life, and be spent as candle instead of star.
Ingrate this then, the self-willed fool who through that yields glory
Anchored in the truth of faith's parable in the known unknown story
Leaders of truth find their still waters in the shadows of death and war.
I
You are far from a whisper;
surviving where echoes
fall between cracks in the floor,
where the pulse of phantom tangibles
beats only in your hands, loving
no more, no less, no one.
Witch doctors finger your spine,
and ignore your soul. Run
from their sagacity, the lectures
of apposition; take ink
for internalized pain.
Your images and my next breath,
collide, disappear into memory,
leaving a concrete stain on the page.
II
You sit there, slanted
in a prayer-like pose,
divining harsh penance
for the innocent paper you hold;
as if ink were holy water
flushed through your veins,
and your pen, an instrument
of ablution for troubled days.
Silent petitions, numbered in reams,
beg to lift your mind from your knees.
III
There are times I wish
you had never picked up a pen,
never wrote words that go deeper
than the language of superficial friends
who shop the glossy pages of magazines
for caricatures to suit themselves in,
who avoid passion to save their footwear.
Those chums, who kiss the air and not your cheeks,
are ones you can live without for weeks,
and months and years.
I wish you weren't a poet, whose thoughts I h(f)ear...
THE RELUCTANT
by Mark Miller © 09/19/2014
We are the living seeming stillness willful we endure
Through vows of contempt to never surrender
Vacate questions fly by trees terse unknown
Retreat or follow the terminus term less
Momentary pains unheard retort by shallow useless
Redound prismatic dreams latter stray trust
Natures vacant way redresses selves pose in us
Pernicious waves enter ancestors unearthly graves
Today's rays show muses midriffs ghastly craves
Stealthy mending blindly tenuous mendacity
Humorous make believe entertains cryptic insanity
Friendless unbound plays acts shameful indelible
Mindless conceit surveys noiseless hostile handily
Downward deadlock hours wither over certain irritant
Moonlit nights stare down reprisal in winnower's other
Fury's insight fortify fearless worry nowhere
Repress paths repugnant reptiles past broken paths we honor
Reconcile wrath's subterfuge insults spites the confessor
Splitting subverts imaged illusions rouges gallery succession
Accosted conditions denied serfs exalt failures procession
Recover the recreant disloyal sequestrate authority
Lucifer's sepsis addressed banished brotherhood of man restarts again
Just believe you will still be here
When I will be here too.
That I will heal sufficiently,
To see you come right back to me.
I want to be with you.
Don't leave me all alone, I fear
A life without your laugh.
I want us wheeze in unison,
No end while we have just begun...
I know, I am no seer.
Nor am I healer, or confessor,
I'm just this loving kid,
That crossed your path one day,
No bigger, but smaller, lesser.
Had no idea we'd fit
Like fingers in a glove.
Please say:
"I'll be here when you return,
I'll stroke your back, I'll kiss you,
I'll be here because I yearn,
Because I love...
I love you".
Just believe you will still be here,
Because you want to be with me.
I'll smoothe the creases in your brow,
Wipe away your fear.
If only please...
Promise you will be here,
That when I wake you'll be near.
My virtual arms can hold us,
We both fit there so nicely,
Be here, for you, for me.
***
March 21, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
The poor lad was sixteen when they kidnapped him
They took him from England to Ireland but the boy did not sin.
His father was a Deacon and his grandfather was a Priest
Who would have thought this would have started
The St Patrick’s Day’s once yearly feast.
A feast back in tradition that was of bacon and beans
Not only has that changed, but the colour has from blue to green
Patrick did escape his capture; he said God told him he must.
He returned to England where he took his confessor into his trust.
He studied to be a priest and then set back off to Ireland
He was a clever man; he taught and held up in his hand…
A piece of shamrock, to us the three leafed clover
A teaching for the trinity and he won lots of them over.
Upon his death on Patrick’s day the feasting and drinking does begin
The wearing of the green and there is a little bit of sin
The pubs were closed at one time, to stop the Irish fun
But now it has spread worldwide so Happy St Patrick’s everyone.
© 06/02/2013
Contest entry for: An Irish Poem