Silence
There's clamour all around me,
the roar won't let me out.
We have to hide ourselves away,
but we're it's chosen prey.
Yet touch silence,we must.
Though,at times, a void,empty,frozen ,falorn
or refuge for thoughts unwanted,thoughts despised
that cling like limpets to servile rock,
I hear the beauty of a longed for dream,
the burbling sound of a far off stream,
the secret spell of hallowed dawn.
Silence begs me in to cleanse my doubts,
to ease the pain of jibes and shouts.
To truly see,not journeyed hopes of A to B.
Just for one precious moment,cradle in your arms
that sweet nothingness.
Robert Parker
Appointed for unity, mercy’s endeavor
acceptance of Christ’s offer at Calvary’s door.
A people with purpose, and a promise, post-war
ask for His blessing - life forevermore.
Bless-ed peace, love and joy like a prayer's lever,
boast not of pride, nor of self, nor of servile chore;
but rather praise freedom to let God’s Spirit soar!
Believers convicted forevermore.
Confession to God, all wrongdoing to sever,
courage to forsake sin, forgiveness we explore.
Consequences acknowledged, humbled in ardor,
commissioned by God forevermore.
Doomsday for others whose decisions have never
dawned upon the grace of God to settle sin’s score.
Devil’s advocates – determined to serve his corps
defer to dues of death forevermore.
Tiptoe the finest, fine twine, needle-eyed thread
and a glitzy sequined clasp, tiny
tweezer-tie it finger-tip fast with a nuanced knot -
my, my, the pedantic perfection of the master jeweller.
I have the servile subtlety of thick thumbs,
all clumbsy carpals, my fudging finesse
better suited to a beanie'd stevedore, loud lugging
heavy-haired harbour rope to ship-secure
a brutish lump in the line.
Tongue tied up, spun on my own silver yarn
like a crystal jeweller, giddy with champagne giggles,
dizzy on a spinning chandelier high strung from the pressed ceiling.
Oh non, pas moi! Mine is more an oiled elegance,
heavy handed, ham-fisted like a scabby wharf rat,
chased and unchaste.
Dextrous in the strangest ways -
gutsy and glamourous,
ours is a nuanced life of grunting grime
with the briefest flashes of bedazzled dance.
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.
A tumultuous time came unushered in my beleaguered life
that writhed in the crushing clutch of destructive agony.
My heart broke, bled with desperation in pining pain,
found no arms stretched to be embraced by solace.
At the edge of hope as the helpless mind sorely got
the unmistakable signal of the beginning of the end,
it surrendered to the benevolent power of the almighty,
prayed for the miraculous results of divine intervention.
In the darkness of opaque nights the tormented life found
in the wilderness the winding path illumined by His light.
My soul swam in the sea of infinite faith, the supreme savior,
to know that the creator’s grace protects what He creates.
As the servile senses perceived the ways of providence,
the feeling of getting assured protection in His benign shelter
invigorated the mental strength for the destined rejuvenation,
and the heart responded to the divine healing touch for revival.
Is your house built out of certainty
are the walls made thin or stout
Is your mind filled up with questions
do you live in fear or doubt
Is your spirit free or servile
is your will unchained or slave
Is your heart the trowel you build with
and love
— the bricks you lay
(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2017)
Written: May 14, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Embrace light within, never trail your cloak.
Embrace thrill, but stay safe.
Embrace strength with grace.
Embrace wisdom of servile bliss.
Embrace a warm smile for friends and foes.
Embrace a squat so you can climb up.
Embrace strength with a gentle touch.
Embrace greatness with grace.
Embrace a duty of sacrifice, yet still thrive.
Embrace both last and start.
Those New Gods
evacuate the violence
simulating patience
they were once created
to guide us, they overtook us
snapped our heads off
every time we thought of violence
Those New Gods
came to reconcile us
with the act of servile silence
we lay down let them take us
like we were beacons
hearts captitulated in black boxes
without god heads or sirens
Those New Gods
with voices like cured codex
placed us like cellos
between steel tight legs
we were smaller violins
our bows vaccuous and vain
crushed on Love
from the Tree
we were plucked
divineless
Candide Diderot. ‘24
The knocking on the door we do not hear.
Is it that our hearing become poor.
Could it be our ignorance and arrogance
As we still plunder earth and dump our waste?
Seems our role here is to abuse nature,
For we shall rule and she shall be servile.
But now the tipping point comes to torment.
The backlash now arrives - a sobering thought.
Tis clear we’ve sown the seeds of our demise.
We saw the early signs and looked away.
But now we are facing wilder weather.
Do we not hear the knocking on our door?
Tak oor grund from beneath oor hurdies
Burn oor birches aside the lough,
Besmirch hard fecht fur freedom,
Dictating oor days tae come,
No from the pint o a gun,
Fae laws an promises broken.
Lees an lees spout forth like watter
Lives expended as if they dinnae matter,
Feel the Jacobite spirit again,
Ready tae fecht like scotsmen again,
Like warrior poets risen from the glen,
Fae the mists o the past remember,
Oor freedom wis wun sending Edward hame,
Yon wis the past a new war begun noo,
No wi claymores ,targes an guns,
This time its ideals an Eton buffers,
Those who wid sell oor birthrights
Tae mak us slaves an servile peasants,
Using stealth ,treachery an unco ither weys
Rogues they be crooks ,cheats and thieves
Seeming beyond reproach wi things hidden
Frae us puir mortals aye they wull dae us doon,
Sic a time as this tae fecht fur whit is oors
Naw mair begging fur aa few scraps
Fae a table fu wi guid things ,
Scraps urny fur us we ur free loons
Burthit free an deeing we wull be free,
Ur ye ready tae rise yince agin?
Andrew P mcintyre 14/09/2020
“Let the last rays of the setting sun shine serenity
on the last mile we traverse” – Quote by Poet
The emerald forest mesmerizingly so mystique,
spreads the shroud of surreal stillness unique.
The scented rippling breeze I embrace floating,
as it enthralls me with its cadence charming.
With the servile sense of absolute surrender,
through the serenading solitude I wander,
decipher the depth of the dense tranquility,
compose for the soul the music tuned to serenity.
The rays of the setting sun flush the calm canopy,
as I walk on the forest path meandering merrily
around the tilted roots of the twisted ancient trees,
the clumps of amber leaves rustle in the breeze.
My feet crumple them, make the departing melody,
as I saunter enchanted on my unfinished journey
to the hued horizon from the fascinating forest,
and find the abode of peace for the final rest.
A lonely traveler free from the attachment recess,
I am in search of the sanctum of sublime calmness.
Within the drizzling twilight colors I immerse awhile,
as on the time-track of life I traverse the last mile.
From deep inside her complex nest
She rules her colony
And sees that all the others there
Her orders they obey.
Hundreds of her daughters there live.
Her strict rules they all fear.
Their fathers now all of them dead.
Only females live here.
Each one has well defined duties
And daily they must work,
Cleaning and fettling this huge nest.
But beware those who shirk.
A long evolved social structure
And all know where they stand,
To keep the colony as one
Accepting queen’s command.
Those daughters can’t attract the males
For she made each sterile
So that they have no distractions
And to queen stay servile.
Wingless, they cannot fly away
But may crawl from the nest
To milk honeydew from aphids.
Taste fresh juice at its best.
Each springtime the queen will grow wings
To fly and find the males
And so becomes fertile again,
Producing more females.
The queen ant lives for some decades.
Every spring, eggs she lays.
Each daughter worn out within months
And males last but two days.
She has red lips and dimples
round rabbit eyes
brushing hair
waving over a broad forehead
is coming
her slender legs are long
The ends of skirt sway over lap
Her waist is an ant's
Her breasts are making the softest curves
Her neck is neither long nor short, neither thick nor thin
Her face is as round as an egg
Her nose is neither arrogant nor servile
she come closer to me
moment passing by me
But my eyes still following her
i fall over I stand up without shame and raising head
Then a woman standd in front of me
sat down clouds from the blue sky
her head and saggy shoulders
Broken and worn jacket blowing in the wind
and hold in her right hand
She leans on an old cane
She takes a step that is difficult to take even one step
catches a breath for a while
she talks to me
a furoshiki in left hand
As she lays it down at my feet
she talks.to me
"Can you deliver this to my daughter in front of us?"
i get her gift
I take her hand and start following her
keeping the best distance.
A simmering fractured breath
Deliciously drawn
Permeates my lifeblood
Where fetid thoughts are born
An insincere promise
Impure, misfit ways
A venerated oath
Wanting crystal days
Bound by consequence
To achieve my vital aim
I whimper like a baby
Refuse to join the game
Forgive my bloody sins
I bow in servile state
Pleading for your forgiveness
My mind is at your fete
Deliver me in whole
My scars are plainly seen
A splintered soul I carry
From a Dantesque scene
My ego diminished
Rejected by the light
A barren, rotten carcass
Devoid of any fight
I challenge you to want me
To fill my empty heart
To open up these eyes
Before I come apart
Hold my withered hand
Rejuvenate the skin
Into the very marrow
Your love I hope to win.
A wild wisp,
bound by a vile kiss.
A rogue thought,
bound by flesh and an unchaste heart.
The parallax of bliss..
An outcast shut in.
Withering in distraught.
Die blessed, you stand in my cold rot,
Your flow taught.
Beckoned by a teal whisper,
enticing the senses to tame.
Amethyst's fragile wish,
inviting my essence to claim.
Your coy hum softens the core,
irrigates lust, makes me adore.
You dissent yet knead so servile.
Sweet subject, so ready, so fertile.
My Power to poise a psyche,
to hasten growth, or de-generate.
You waste in both pity and modernity;
a Dance of Eternity.
Hold my hand and crawl against the grain.
Surround my ecstasy with your misery and pain.
Hold it tighter and crawl through your shame.
Touch my flare, forget your guilt and blame.
Adhere to me; my servitude of the Bloodmoon.
Rebound your mental plea, succulent flame.
Centuries accrued in its elegant name.
Bask with me, potently; impel and preordain.
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