Long Sheathing Poems
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Statuesque breaths of blossoming beauty bearing thorns.
Flowing fullness of fragrant flowery affairs sheathing weeds.
Without human intervention, such is the truth of nature, such are the facts of life.
According to the scriptures, angels are not earthbound lest they are tasked by Heaven's will.
I, like my family, had fine points and faults, I did good and I did bad, and I did my best to right my wrongs and correct my mistakes like my family did when they were earthbound.
I have painted the truth and not tainted it with flowery falsifications.
My family and I were never angels on earth because we were never tasked for Heaven's sake.
I am earthbound and therefore taxed by my will which is my thorns and weeds, albeit, I am constant in prayer, to flower and bloom in hope and faith.
So my family were never angels then, but now--
no longer earthbound--my entire family are all angels,
... except me.
I am still earthbound, amidst my thorns and weeds, and my flowers and blossoms.
By Heaven's will, I am still grounded (bears somewhat to my parents once termed)
I will continue to shine in the Light of Truth,
Signed the blessed sinner, Amen.
I closed my eyes for just a few moments to take a nap.
I was dreaming about my purrty lil' feline friend, Rose.
My sleep was disturbed by a gentle tap tap tap tap tap.
What are these flighty little things landing on my nose?
I was dreaming about my purrty lil' feline friend, Rose.
She's beautiful when she flutters her flirty green eyes.
What are these flighty little things landing on my nose?
I wish Rose was here with me to see the blue butterflies.
She's beautiful when she flutters her flirty green eyes.
Playful are these creatures I am teasing with my paws.
I wish Rose was here with me to see the blue butterflies.
We'd be very careful with them by sheathing our claws.
Playful are these creatures I am teasing with my paws.
I wish Rose and I could fly around in circles like they do.
We'd be very careful with them by sheathing our claws.
If I dream I have blue wings, my dream might come true.
I wish Rose and I could fly around in circles like they do.
My sleep was disturbed by a gentle tap tap tap tap tap.
If I dream I have blue wings, my dream might come true.
I closed my eyes for just a few moments to take a nap.
^. .^ ^. .^ ^. .^ ^. .^ ^. .^
2.18.16 Kitten and Butterflies Contest
The snake coils in the sun,
spectacles sheathing her eyes,
trunk warming against the earth.
They say she feels nothing,
only the hiss of hunger,
the strike of instinct.
But watch—
how she lingers where the light is softest,
how she curves herself into the shape of what she trusts,
how she returns, again, to nest in the mesquite.
The crow does not speak in ways we understand,
only leaves the glint of something small,
a silver coin at your feet.
He waits on the wire,
head tilted,
as if listening for an answer most cannot hear.
The oak does not hold,
but their roots tangle deep with another’s,
sharing water in the dark—
sharing nerves—
sharing networks.
Even the river does not let the stone go—
not yet.
Perhaps Love is beyond what we define it—
something older, quieter…the
macrocosmic marrow of all things—
a pull, a return, a reaching toward.
Age 10 slough. Age twenty slough.
Age thirty slough.
Age forty and fifty slough
and so on.
Age sixty was a mighty shedding,
the polished scales
rattling in the very teeth of death.
Wriggling skins, some actual skins,
much metaphorical molt,
ephemeral epithelial layers of self.
Shadow buzzards;
those gormandizing birds
that exfoliate entropy,
they that aid the slip-sliding away
of all pivotal and transitional days,
they now sing my late peeling songs.
Enough. Basta!
This year my skin is stuck to word-bones
and only a starving raptor
could peck away this pelt and sheathing,
and not yet
not while I still have skin in the game.
I was a musketeer
Fighting to save a dying land
Soldier with a heart
Hate never disappeared
As greed and waste were in command
Tearing it apart
Armed with a sword of words
Choosing my battles, carefully
Fighting against the odds
Futility's absurd
Sheathing my sword only to flee
Left it up to God
I became a wanderer
Searching for peace, looking here and there
If only peace of mind
A lifelong ponderer
Not understanding lack of care
The world is so unkind
In a state of disbelief
That people live so unconcerned
Turning treasure, into trash
Our time's so brief
Apparently, we'll never learn
Hell burns hot with cash
I was a troubadour
Sang songs of happiness and pain
Accompanied by the wind
But mostly went ignored
As the masses rode their gravy train
On tracks of vain pretend
Hitching from town to town
No lust for pockets filled with gold
Simply moving on
Fall leaves are turning brown
My days grow short and nights are cold
Summer all but gone
I'm a weary traveler
My life spent in a time machine
Powered by the sun
A map unraveler
And every road a different dream
Sleeping on the run
Sometimes the sky would gray
I danced around the lightning strikes
No time to take a rest
Shelter would come my way
Takin' in by ladies of the night
Ease my loneliness
But I can not sleep
original song lyrics by the "Poemdog" Daniel Turner
Reflected in the waters of yesterday,
Considering all that has come and gone,
Affections for those who won’t betray…
Whisper through me like a heavy yawn.
Together with the trembling of night,
Crackling like leaves on autumn’s breath,
Glowing and shimmering in waves of light,
Keeping hope from her tremulous death.
On starry dreams, my heart quietly sings,
Remembering the gentling of dewlike kisses,
Passionate and playful, like gliding wings,
Soul lies in wait for the stardust’s reminisces.
Glorious grace shows up to remind me…
Forever clings to the heart who believes,
Never letting go of that spirit, so carefree,
Who knows what it is to dance with the leaves.
Kindness breaks through the seas of devotion,
Feeding the soul its best cuisine of stunning,
Lasting beyond words or poems in raw emotion,
Whispering truths that keep love from running.
In stories written by those who know verity,
There are rhythms and rhymes, poetic pictures,
Who pledge their gifts with complete sincerity.
This is wonder of a story’s life despite strictures.
Verses alive, like the air we’re breathing,
Lessening the doubts who seem to attack,
Protecting the soul with beds of sheathing,
Secreting fears and tears, all that we lack.
With its silvery veil the moon's pallid sheen
Spectrally cloaks and invests all the homes
Transformed into midnight mausoleums
While those who sleep within can never be seen
As cold as the tomb
As miserable as a morgue
As silent as the grave
As the sheathing of a sword.
The dark shades of night unfold
Where they lie deep shrouded in their beds
Dreams dance lively in their heads
While they look like bodies cold.
Closed to all are the eyes of their resting places
Blinded to outside view
Wrapped in night's dark blue
But within their still frames R.E.M races
Outside in the gloom wreathed like hearses
Stand their silent polished cars in rows
In preparation for sadder blows
When funereal will be the verses.
I was reposed on green velvet
when a notion struck,
so, I took out my tweezers
and set to task
painstakingly I separated
minute fibers of spirit,
away from itself
after examining each shimmer
as it waxed and waned,
a lifeline of ego and id
refracted from Father
I fell into conundrum
what had I done ??
it was only when
daffodils bloomed
and the blue heron arrived
that my tweezers
breached a void
I was astonished to find
a vast empty cavern,
and without its whole
the inner was,
nonexistent
I begin a new endeavor
of reconnection
for, what was once
a spirit for life
throwing a dustcover
on the typewriter,
and sheathing my pen
I have but Milli seconds
left on this page
I detect the scent of lilies
mixed with myrrh,
I follow,
and in my wake
a white dingo steps light
as riding his back the claws
of a blue heron relax,
into the syncopation of journey
at each step the strips
of separation,
refashion a new age
on the horizon Esperanza
swirls veils of green velvet
and in the peripheral
La Mort’s shadow
curls, ever closer
In a garden of weeds
Guarding its roots, Guarding its petals
A rose arose as it danced in the winds
And envious indeed
Sheathing their tooth and tongue of metal
The weeds would boast as they pranced with deceit
For even in twilight, its petals would bloom
Like swarms of dragonflies beneath the twilight moon
It's petals, like feathers of an angel's ascent
Would sometimes wander the winds
But sometimes weather from weather
But even then, the rose will dance in the winds
Sheathing their tooth and tongue of metal
The weeds cut the rose's petals
With that, the rose had to weather
The cold storm of December
But even then, the rose would dance in the winds
That's to say–
The white rose never danced from its glamor
It would listen to the songs – the whistles of mother nature
What were storms where songs, what were rain were drums
From mother nature – only made to nurture its nature
That's to say–
The white rose, only danced in the dark
Only to lessen the tension that mother nature embarked
With a tainted stem
The rose arose as it danced
It's petals grew with its stance
Against the weeds
Against the damned
Why cannot we see
The sun will shine brighter when…
we appreciate shadows as a generous reflection of truth
embrace the dazzling display of rainbow’s complement
contest burning skins on the muck heap of humanity
The night will emerge peacefully when…
we reflect upon rays of hope as a loving absorption of verity
reach out to eminent exposition of darkness’ tutelage
caress ambiguous sheathing beyond the rubbish of greed
22 June 2018
Written for the collaboration 'Poem of poems' by Charles Messina
I would like my name included, if chosen as part of the joint venture.