let us look at spirit indwelling form
recognising we are all by God breathed
poised in peace in the midst of every storm
with cravings of ego in bliss mists sheathed
Your smile shines~
as the early effulgence enshrouds
upon wisteria water
echoing ephemeral embraces
on tenebrous turquoise trees
that bear your name.
Your laughters linger~
upon the emerald leaves
that radiate a lilac shade
as the sun goes up
like your eyes that sparkle a hue
transforming into Caribbean blue
on the first glance
of a sweet romance.
Your song soars~
entwined in ethereal ensemble
above each passing cloud
where etched elegies echo
a lost and found love.
That magical morning scene
of enchanted garden near Giverny
unveils a dream I keep
in wild willows lilac leaves
where my story dwells in silence .
The shy sky behind them~
wishes to kiss the gleaming water
where silent sanctuaries are sheathed
upon the indigo shadow,
accentuated by fine chiaroscuro
embracing purple petals
that whisper through silent water
where lofty love story dwells~
perpetuated by each sunrise.
Her purr softer than the shadowed cloud
Conceals a message both strong and loud
And should you be one unaware
‘Tis that purr can catch you there
Then the claws, sheathed in fur
Can come darting forth, to belay that purr
And what you thought so genteel
May seal your fate with an ordeal
Of words selected carefully
To bring you to reality:
Tis’ not YOUR world on which she lives
And she cares not for your missives
You may observe, perhaps caress,
But it’s doubtful that you’ll possess
The Cat who purrs so skillfully,
But not JUST for you: She’s here for - - - WE.
Respect her words; respect her skill
Or your Life’s Journey may be all … uphill.
brethren of the wolves
have I forfeited my sanity
and hungured beyond starvation
that I might fufill my birthright
before the silent rulers
of a dominions order-
awaiting only in death
is my faith beyond delusion-
fortified
in the fear of silent aquisitions
is the rising moon bonded in council-
the union of a path deceased
is it sheathed in the boundless fields
of blooming night shades released-
hedged in a kneeling forest
of what time awaits
is it carried
Mandeville
I learnt a new word today.
Catatonic.
The vexatious coax of its accuracy sanctifies the burden of my reluctant existence.
The vacant faith of its salvation glorifies the redundancy of my timeworn stagnation.
The inertia of my own consciousness rouses within the weight of my repulsive apathy.
I am absent.
My reflection in the window distorts into a portal.
The pale of my skin shudders, an ashen pallet of abasing beauty.
The tremors of my skin winces, a demeaning pallet of humiliating fortune.
The curve of my lips stitch shut, a confined pallet of overflowing tincture.
The violent, lilac fuse of deprivation pounds my crimson in a bloodthirsty famine of a desperate call for condemn.
Yet, the only paragon unearthed is the vacant, potent inevitability of saturation into the voices of my own void;
I will forever remain in an absence of my own conceded mould.
It’s endless.
The words pour out of bodyless lips; honey oozing onto my burning, sheathed wounds.
Am I what they tell me I am?
The question expands through my membranes, inflating my insides until I detonate with the black of their degradation.
The sugarcoated insults hang in the air.
The sweetness intoxicates my silence until the noise implodes, a deliberate provocation to the vacuum of my consciousness.
I don’t want to be what they tell me I am.
Though, the vast, eternal plea for empathy betrays the feigning, defiant arch of my brow.
The hair follicles echo my hallucination of faith.
I wish for anything but the death of my soul;
A lack of voice.
369.
New Dawn of a Pawn
I'm neglected & condemned ‘coz I'm born a wretch & rascal
Whose life is sheathed & ted with insults & betrayal
But after I get my millions of money
I'll build an enterprise not yet in history
I'll buy trust, respect, love & loyalty
And all those forsakers come back to me
The New World shall witness the rise of a pawn
The Father God is my fair godfather bringing a new dawn!
-06/17/2015
(Dumarao)
*My Prayer Poems for Ultimate Victory Collection
351.
My Adoration to Archangel Zadkiel
Oh Archangel Zadkiel, receive my adoration!
Thou who are trumpeted as “Bringer of Joy”
Goad towards me the beings who don't annoy
Tickle me with God's violet ray of happiness
Be my cheerful clown during my hours of loneliness
With your sheathed saber, prevent me from excruciating pain
From the Temple of Purification, rescue me from untimely bane!
-03/07/2015
(Dumarao)
*My Angels Collection
Avoiding the girl-scouts
I hasten out of the store
trying hard not to see the people
huddled in their thin coats
as they wait for an infrequent bus.
This ice-chilled evening
with its stark revelations
is like the nag of an irregular heartbeat
sheathed like a thorn in my shoe.
Later, by a warm fire
sitting in an upholstered armchair,
a despondency chews at my breastbone,
it is a reaction hard to pin down,
to objectify,
a lingering presence.
My mind shifts through a symbolic iconography
effigies depicting:
a lost and hungry dog,
an ill-treated child,
a stranger I refuse to call brother,
places long deserted,
places found far too late.
A love unpicked from a now withering vine.
That same presence
sets a table and chair before me
that I may write, try to explain
this tumbleweed of unnamable sorrows,
a phantom, that even in happier times,
I recognize it as a coarse impression
akin to a grating scar
beneath a tender tongue.
Tomorrow may emerge as a frail old lady,
struggling with full shopping bags,
head bent to a cold uncaring wind.
Many might offer her a lift
but in my present brittle mood
I probably would frighten her,
so,
I don’t.
The naïve life possessed by the power of craving,
turns into an inanimate object, utterly inert.
The buoyant being, unsuspecting and unblemished,
captured by the vicious clutch of cunning yearning,
rolls in remorse like the fallen gems of longing garland,
the fragile string of innocence ruefully ruptured.
The sordid senses sheathed by spiteful insolence
don’t for a moment repent the presence
in the fleeting mind the obstinate obsession
of nurturing the ephemeral debased desire
in the swathing shades of garish grey,
decimating the radiance of the sapphire spirit
of its credulous possession disowned.
For the body and mind ravaged
by the vile strike of Black Excalibur of severance
life is no longer a charismatic concept.
The piteous ruins of the broken heart pile up in futility
at the threshold of despair in the debris of disdain.
Free from the captivity of depraved love,
the agonized heart pines to rejuvenate,
hopes to find the secret of solace for the desolate soul,
waiting for the time to rise re-invented
from the wreckage of self-worth.
My heart is a wasteland
Consuming all it holds
Lamenting, egregious, divine mine devours
Begging for flowers, bloom ensnared
in the midst of barren hands
My heart is a wasteland
Waiting for rainfall
over dry bones
A cold moonshine
illuminates desolate ruins—
what once led prosperity
My heart is a wasteland
Burning eternal flame
set ablaze by passerbys
Athirst for lush splendor
that once sheathed protection
How much more can one withstand
My heart is a wasteland!
All the love I have to give
dissolves into my pores,
crushing my bones
My heart is a wasteland
The Silken Undoing of Fair Things
All beauty holds by Time’s unsteady lease,
Soft vows are kissed, then quietly led away;
The bloom must fade, the borrowed warmth must cease,
Still smiling as the knife is sheathed in silked delay.
white days
of almond flower
and flesh sheathed in sunlight
white sea
dissolves laughing on flat rocks
below white chapels
where consecrated bones
crumble into purity of incense
white kisses
beating against the sun with white wings
white boats set sail for white dreams
where the white days have gone
The windshield wipers automatically slow down when the rain gives way to a fine drizzle. As per habit, I open the car window as I come to a rolling stop at these traffic lights. Cheap perfume assails my senses. Red refracts on the wet road.
long legs
and callipygian
sheathed in red leather
her body was firm
to the touch
exhilarating
uncharted territory
my wife’s tears
the price
I was willing to pay
Aside from its indigenous natives
when those there United States
(home of the braves)
were first settled by white colonists and pioneers
it was advertised with a carrot
(not a torch)
held by copper-sheathed Lady Liberty
with book candle
(no bell)
française est elle
with the slogan 'Land of the Free'
propaganda of the day it's enough to make one sick
as today there's far less carrot and way too much more stick
haves and have nots will always be there
(the tired poor huddled wretched masses)
but we you and me can make a difference if we really care
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