Progenitor Poems | Examples

Song of The Earth

It is because the power of separation from ones "Ground Of Being" that compulsion to return to the source is so powerful.

Jesus is a name and a faceless face who offers a return to that sense of being that The Face of Love is, in fact, Your Face.

and in "American Beauty" - the mellifluous geometry of a single sheet of paper dancing with the invisible spirit of mother Earth is just as powerful a sign of her rediscovered truth but:

'Love doesn't last'

we are told by Lucifer in "Invasion of the body snatchers" but it is the progenitor of our separated-material-being and is therefore; The Only Thing That Does!

Ode to Mothers

Mother – thy name is Blessed
	For thou art the
		Nurture of the Soil
		Fruit of Love 
		Product of Thy womb

Thou art the comfort of
		The Soul

None is more blessed by 
		Israel than art Thou
	
MOTHER

Thou art the progenitor of
		The Universe

The Mistress of the 
		Future

	And Time Honors you!


Mel Gill @ copyright 1963

genesis

i remember now
the sucking whoosh and rattle
of my life
as I was uprooted
still squirming - caught now
in the slalom clutch
of a blood smeared latex glove

a world as cold as a morgue
coagulated around senseless perceptions
a fluent reality that dripped slowly
into clotted forms

for a moment I wallowed
in that instinctual mud
that is both a sacrifice
and a subterfuge
a lamb born not to suckle
but to swallow all before it

if i was aware of anything
other than
my newly crushed heart
it was just the fading echo
of an erstwhile progenitor
either weeping
                          or laughing

Spring's Abysmal Guile

Spring’s Abysmal Guile
By Sy Roth

A vapor rises, rank as the charnel pit,
a corruption of a miasma vast,
as though some sepulcher, long sealed,
split its stony jaws to breathe.
Vile exhalation of a corrupted world.  

The reveler, unwitting wretch
treads the decadent fields where verdure writhes,
each blade a hostile tendril, squamous, cold,
glistening with ichor 
No earthly fount its progenitor.

He deems the shade of evil vanquished,
trampled beneath his hobnailed boot. 
The soil heaves with malefic will,
its roots, like veins of some primordial fiend,
pulses with a rankness older than the stars,
a stench that whispers of aeons lost.

Spring cloaks itself in verdant pall,
no bloom, but scales of a vast, unuttered thing,
its thorns a raven’s beak, evermore to rend, to sow, to bespoil.

He quaffs the tainted zephyr,
proclaiming triumph over a gloaming moon, 
Swept in the season’s unseen talons,
fathomless ennui
creeps through his sinews,
entombing his soul in an abysmal cleft unshriven.

I Am, You Are

I am the fall leaf that spins on the branch.

The autumn flower bowing to winter's gaze.

I am the last bird to chase the fleet foot sun

The final cut of skeptical, loon grass.


You are the silent shriek of winter's gasp

The tease of times cryptic temper

You are the promise of menagerie green

The progenitor of silver scent melt


We are the bridge of blended suns rising

The continuance made it possible

We are wakers and sleepers of the in- between

The silent clip of the small hand turning

Welcome to the newborn summer

Progenitor

shadowy darkness 
broad laser etches light 

galaxy opens

Aquarius

Aquatic spirits have spawned us.
Sprats and minnow
are now skin and bone,
krill and whale our flesh.

A progenitor who knows
how to hide a fish in a fish,
also hides the head from the tail,
the beginning from the end.

That one has left us
to swim in a scallop shell
until heaven-sent oceans
gives up their secrets.

Two Hundred Years of Braxtons

tercets

Braxton H. Gardner of north Kentucky, 
progenitor of our family tree.
His marriage date was 1833.

Braxton Charles S. Gardner from our archive,
was his youngest son, born in ’45.
He barely recalled his father alive.

Barney Braxton Gardner, uncle of mine;
his sister, my grandma, mother of nine.
My father was namesake of his blood line.

Barney Braxton Jolly born in ‘11,
married his sweetheart in ’37.
These four have died and look down from heaven.

    Ruth Braxton Jolly, that’s me, data fount;
    only female in this list tantamount
    of Braxtons quite an accomplished head count.

Darren Braxton Poteet, my younger son,
Braxton Lee Poteet, age 14, grandson
complete my list of six kinfolk Braxton.

November 18, 2020

Heavens To Metaphor

I sit, listening to the whisper in my breath,
shaping my expressions is safer than meth.
A voice among others, I am poet progenitor.
Do you see what I have wrought?
Heavens to metaphor!

As originator and instigator, I wordsmith 
like a predator,
a panther ready to pounce, 
an enchanter you might denounce.
Do you fear what I have brought?
Heavens to metaphor!  

Finding fluid flourishes like jewels,
writing often without rules.
The singing cantor of candor, 
A traveling troubadour 
you never asked for.
Do you like what I have taught?
Heavens to metaphor!

In these days of isolation,
tenderness must be no aberration.
Here my casual parlance dances,
offering intimacy new chances,
for all your cares it enhances.
Do you welcome what I have sought?
Heavens to metaphor!

Mother Is My First World Best Poem About Mother

Mother is My first World
Philosophy of Mother

Mother is a Nurture 
Nuture of Father
Nature of Brother

Mother is a Creator
Creator of our
Creator of Suffer

Mother is a Minister
Minister of Progenitor
Minister of Look after

Mother is a Mater
Mater of predecessor
Mater of Foster

Mother is a Procreator
Procreator of Culture
Procreator of Other

Mother is a Teacher
Teacher of Translator
Teacher of Devoter

Mother is a Doctor
Doctor of Grower 
Doctor of Trainer

Blind Love

Would it matter to you
if I believe in God
or Gaia
or the sacred interdependence of Earth
or our ProGenitor
or our Source
or Earth's Living Natural/Spiritual ReSource
if I love you
and our shared right to love whomever we wish?

Far more than I could hate you
and any presumption
that we are right to hate
whomever we wish.

Why would you think
or feel
Earth's ProGenitive Gaian-God ReSource
is any different than an elephant
so resonantly grand
that we are likely to blindly take Her tail
or trunk
or toes
or tastes
or tirades
or trusts
for Her ego/eco-bicameral Whole?

The Spirit of God Is With Us

Three spirits rule the world
Spirit of God the Creator
Spirit of Satan the destroyer
And Human spirit

As a free moral Agent
Human spirit has freedom of choice
To yield to God’s spirit
Alternatively  be ruled by evil spirit

Evil spirit is the cause of pain
Makes victims live without gain
Thereby  see their God in bad light
To devil’s eternal satisfaction and delight

The spirit of God is with us
Progenitor of human existence
To Him we owe the fruits
With which to destroy the power of satan

The Rising of the Dusk

The Rising Of The Dusk

a hurry home hour
this sill of winter
just one step away from 
the revealing white of snow.

a change 
surreptitiously  invades the way, 
as landscape morphs
before a weary traveller trudging there
dusk a preamble to the dark of night.

seemingly it rises from the ground
and clings to shapes of tree and rock
whose bright face remains to the west.
a silent battle ensues between.

trees become their skeletal nemesis.
long branches, grasping fingers
clacking in the cold air that filters through
bent and twisted bodies
bare of softening silken green

boulders could be the hunched 
shoulders of ancient ogres 
cursed long ago, by Merlin,
buried by the wayside they once 
hunted for lone travellers at sun down.

The rising dusk is the progenitor of 
many tales told from inn to home.
cautionary stories about the difference
brought on by the coming of dark.

Nobel Lionized Matriarchy

Freely forming metrical mainstays
poetic occasion to phrase
the fairer and gentler sex,
thus the following turns of phrase
to bestow acknowledgement

regarding wonderful wise ways
of collective she who assays
to create safe/secure home/ hearth
as bedrock and fount of ample
maternal duties tiredly sashays

with keeping house receiving praise
the second Sunday each May, her
tired body sprawled on chaise
lounge, perhaps basking in solar rays
communing with Gaia, who whiz 
bruiting with sky goddess

defying forecasters prediction, no slate grays
pose dampening effect on huzzahs
regaling torchbearer diploid as amaze
zing newlife, where loving labor pays
more than fine spun gold cherishing
offspring in her nurturing ways.

Paean dutiful daily deference, I dole
ensconced with pineapple getup
surfing the cyber sea, this hyperbowl
lee, yet deserved dignity deifying dames,
who bear brunt whole
ding potent biological reproductive role

de facto duty honorably decreed
tribute paid despite commercialized
money making hyped up rigamarole,
nonetheless yours truly accentuates sole
sans, progenitor of human race
saddled with disproportionate/ unfair toll.

Son of the Soil

I am the son of the soil 
The very black Afrika I am
My color is dark and lovely 
It sings with rhythmic melody of beauty  
Uniquely gifted, talented and black 
Show me my debilitated and frailties  
And I will improve beyond imagine 

I am the son of the soil 
Teach me how to dream about life 
And will become extra-ordinary 
Teach me character, teach me discipline 
And I will become the footprint of history

I am the son of the soil 
 Give me a set of electronics and soft-wood 
And I will build you a flying helicopter
Give me a library with a lot of books 
And I will write thousand of poems 
Give me a yard of land and a hoe 
And I will turn it to a large garden full of all sorts of fruit
 
I am the son of the soil 
I have been blessed by my progenitor from the Nile
For her wilderness quenches my spirit 
And bring me closer to source of life

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