SIMPLE GESTURES
frequent
figures
presenting
emotive
rhetoric
& active
commune
ideas
in
encounters
sustaining
split-minded
monumental
eccentric
adjacent
spheres
in
stark
holistic
prismatic
intellectual
kindred
senses
captivated
affinity
proclaimed
&formalised
in
purist
murals
depicting
contemporary
trapezoidals
An unsavory man from Montreal
squatted in dim lit cafes
writing of the pain of love
a charlatan
he was the darker lovely dove
he inhaled the smoke of Satan
he sang to the devils army
purist of evil
his grave a urinal
to be used, over and over
his words knelt like prayers
and rose like knives.
Thinning morals
he possesses zero virtue
just a shadow
of the fires down below
he sings for the child killers
the thieves and robbers of the land
he chants of love, he means rape
for those not of his blend
his wishes burnt under
hidden flames of hostility
He may dress in rags
he may play the victim
in the end though
he will burn your flesh
a sacrifice
then he will call you his fool
he sang for genocide
not for the goyim half wit
Dead, he is dead
angels he will never see
Follow the warmth into the light
don't hesitate to sprint away
when it doesn't feel just right.
Charlatans will bend you around them,
but the sixth sense is a winged gift.
A casual drift toward a peaceful realm
into the purist form of yourself.
Despite the bellowing of loved ones,
you've chosen to go it alone.
Thus far you've had immunity to folly and mishap.
Now you're long overdue, but nobody knows.
You've left no itinerary nor coordinates.
There'll be no search and rescue
upon that avalanche of arrogance.
The pickaxe has slipped from your hand.
Sliding into the sweet blackness.
Days layer upon a twist of broken bones.
Blue ice licks its own thickness into a groan.
You've reached the black pinnacle of the purist, alone.
Under a robin's egg sky upon the throat of icy cliffs.
The alpinists ascend a blizzard of sorrow and bliss.
Sowing a string of prayer flags into the white heart soul of spirit pass.
God bless the searchers.
Wandering through this maze.
That we call yesterday and today.
The pollen of living on their battered bee faces.
They flicker into our lives, then back to shadow for a while.
Their sky mirages always brightening our eyes.
Along bent paths they pick up
bushels of pollen and thimbles of poison.
Wings growing weary. legs ever heavier.
They're the purist type of brave.
With bloody bee faces walking straight into
the pugilist of indifference.
I'm envious of them.
God bless the searchers.
The clairvoyant could be a schizophrenic, or is it the other way around?
Cymbals of the mime must be unbearably loud.
Flowers are for glade and not the lapel of blue clowns.
Is it better for a stray to be forever chained down
or go running off with a pack of the unfound.
After death are we whisked off to heaven
or does the soul shatter against a cold Black wall?
Is faith just a mirage for the eternally weak
or is it a gilded pathway to the purist of all kings?
When things are turning dark,
try pivoting toward the light.
Nothing grandiose-no great secrets revealed.
Just a simple pivot of the wayward mind.
Until the shine comes back into view.
Like the bow of an oft-battered rose.
Weaving its way through icy storms...
Try to follow the sextant of the soul.
Darkness is necessary to expose the blight.
But darkness is also toxic to the virgin light.
Pivot away from this molten blackness.
Pivot sharply -gently praying for direction.
This light will never slither away.
Only devils procure that illusion.
This purist light is an uncharted island.
Anchored to the strength of your faith.
I pray to someday make landfall on the cay of light.
An island that the wizened call...heaven.
Inception
A near accident almost run over by a train
old heart, she collapsed in my arms
wrapped her in a blanket, looked asleep
we drove thro' the long night headlights
made a temporary tunnel
If I turn the light off, we will disappear
I looked in the rear mirror, saw her smile
at the petrol station, the young attendant
seeing death up close paled
this was reality, not play station 2c
I found a cave that had straw on the ground
a lit candle on a niche, it was here Jesus lay
when the women came and cleaned his wounds
while his followers in the olive groove
his face bore the agony suffered by the righteous
I laid her beside him, she looked so brittle
they had both achieved eternal life
She had no foreknowledge of impending demise
she had the purist of hearts
Jesus became a myth in our collective myth
The Messiah
Zen
first light
brings clarity
and forgiving
You've meant so deeply much; within my desire
If I could present a world or build an empire
It would be so easy to secretly conspire
In a way that you would not find hard to admire
Happiness for me; sought just nurturing your purist fire
You see my genuine intentions; carrying us higher
We are beyond me; so far past what I wantingly require
Viewing you satisfied; fuels me to wondrously aspire
A devotion of which I will sleeplessly never overtire
My differing notion; I'm just resolved; to her eternal pyre
Some feel that Bible verse conclusively
Describes all life explained through liturgy.
Some feel that evolution holds the key
With science leading forth explicitly.
Positions juxtaposed perceptibly:
A purist view of Life's conformaties -
A prescient view of Life's complexities -
Could one more view assuage disparities?
What do papyrus texts in fact convey?
And, what does nature's yield expressly say?
Somewhere between these two compelling sides
The letter and the spirit both reside.
We take from texts enough to salve our minds,
And then from nature context-laden signs,
With each constrained by factors of its lot.
Questions for both - what is and what is not?
Yet, could these sides assemble what should be -
A pair of constancies through which we see
Two halves converging as to form the whole
Reach toward a common line that's not a goal?
This dictum for another day, but now
Enough for both conjointly to endow
A symbiotic sense of harmony
And hope - if our thoughts are inclined to be.
Set smoke, so sweet, so delicate
Something fuliginous, so intricate
Ocher bronze is all that I can see
You're beautiful, a dime to me
Spheres of the purist maple syrup
Sums them up; affectionately
Flowing through my heart, forever over my soul
Suspensions of golden medallions, never to control
Carob or chocolate cold never be
Subbed; for your lens looking at me
Caliginous, foreboding, but never forbidden
Like a chestnut mare; not broken, or ridden
My devotion is firmly planted, in your Earthly visions
You absolutely slay me with your warm decisions
Whimsical; they are made of fine mahogany
Eye's like yours set all apart; yet set me free
Scale a bough; and hold onto this
Astoundment, forevermore.
A curtain of leaf, parted for:
Life, and its glory, nested.
So in this world have I placed you.
With loving care, and foresight;
That which, on those wings of desire
Purist, does show you upborne.
Who, above, by your own new-born
Into hushed awe, too, is led.
It’s often used in lyrics
Since the music cuts some slack
But each time I get to hear it,
I am taken some aback.
For to me, who is a purist,
It’s a point in fact that I’m
Quite a stickler who objects to
Any near- or almost-rhyme.
Sometimes laziness explains it,
Or the closeness of a word
To a rhyming one makes writers
Think a real rhyme will be heard.
Often there is nothing fitting
With the word the poet chose.
Finding others to replace it
Is a job each stickler knows.
There are many who will argue
Even Shakespeare sometimes fudged
Though that knowledge doesn’t faze me;
My beliefs will not be budged.
inside or outside
reflected what's directed
the purist fool's gold
The atheist merely seeks truth
Distanced from blind belief
Upon seeing, he nods forsooth
Turning a brand new leaf
Witnessing each entrée
Nonjudgmental and free
Thread of truth, holding key
Truthful purist
The atheist
04-November-2021
Quietus
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.