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
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.
Of these three: faith, hope and love- let love reign.
And faith, as essential as one's breathing;
Hope must be second, for a higher plane.
When suffering and heartache stir the pain
And disappointments pierce us like teething;
Of these three: faith, hope and love- let love reign.
The wiser soul despises old refrains,
Focused only on heaven’s high wreathing
Hope must be second, for a higher plane.
The devil spins his lies for sordid gains
God gives His children a three-fold sheathing.
Of these three: faith, hope and love- let love reign.
Abide in heaven’s mercies and His Name
And discover grace and trials easing.
Hope must be second, for a higher plane.
Great aspirations flow through seeker’s veins,
Unimagined heights and glory seizing-
Of these three: faith, hope and love- let love reign.
Hope must be second, for a higher plane.
When the winds blow and the rains fall
I can feel her
in every breath I take
and
in every droplet that hits my brow
a needing
sheathing the barren recesses of my mind
still
I stand there not caring if I'm dry
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.
Kneeling in prayer, the King folded his hands
His assassination thusly prevented
Times were different then, devotion honored
~ Stabs in the back were frowned on
What Hamlet simply could not bear to do
Today (that) would feel refreshing and new
Not taking advantage of his arch-foe
~ Sheathing his dagger, away he tiptoed
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.
The negotiation table
With sounds of Booms
Invading rooms
And the mounting fears
For the closest spears
The negotiation table
That could things make stable,
Should step into the scene
And hands not yet blood-stained keep clean.
The four-legged furniture
For every peace-craving creature
Never greeted with smiles,
And chilling glimpses by Evelyn
Of Enemy killers Javelin!!
That which urges insurgents to split
And mutineers to wait a bit;
War dancers proclaiming a disappointment
And combatants giving a different appointment.
The carpentry that halts an Armada;
A criminal use of the radar,
Holing up the anxious grenades
Of panting infantry brigades.
Dries it does the tears of a shelled neighourhood; Stickers to the scene of their childhood,
Speedily sheathing a drawn dagger
Which would its receiver stagger.
The Negotiation Table is another Olive Branch
For intercepting blasts that make people bunch!
.
Yesss
there she stood
Flamming
In the Vernal
hern vernal
Blond tresses
competing with the sun
Diaphanous cerulean sheath
sheathing
(not)
hern pink sheath
Bulbous
Beaming
Glabrous
glimmering
as the azure sheath
drip
drip
drip
drip
The fat lady, lips in shape of par excellence “O.” The viking hat makes her taller and more ominous. Faces flicker like torches in the dead of night.
operatic score
the deafening metal shriek
— pissant rodent ears
Doomed shadows quiver where the flesh will pay. The knees never knew such fright. Warmth of imperiled relief, embarrassed release.
the polished silver
patient to plunge or hashtag
— a trustworthy thrust
The blood that’s splayed — an afterthought. Its grip taut and unyielding.
cleansing of chalice
the sparkling wine in tribute
— sheathing of anger
9/19/2018
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.
Longing looks or
furtive glances,
shuffling steps
or pony prances
Sheathing swords
and crossing lances
choices, actions
partners, dances
Living, loving
true romances,
fate and chance
or circumstances
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.
Another snowy day which will become a snowy night
No socks on my feet
My boots are wet
I have raw, red blisters.
Go into a McDonald's
And sit in a corner.
Lift my wet feet out of wet boots
And rest them on the cold tiles, lightly.
On the wall there is a framed picture of Ronald McDonald
A teardrop frozen upon his face
The way the white powdered skin of his lips is sheathed tight
Beneath a red painted frown
Looks like skin sheathing a swollen *****
Bellevue psychiatric hospital staff wheel me around
In a quaint wooden wheelchair
And listen to me tell them about the cat I have to feed
The rent I have to pay
My endless retreat
Then release me back to the streets
With dried boots and dried feet.
She stares
open eyes, lost
white tombstone, motionless
she who loved to smile
inert she sits, sheathing her teeth
Feelings
match boxes
in a sea of sombre paper butterflies
on and under the bed
ironed, waiting
to leave again, some glorious day
She sits
a leg folded beneath her, haggard
his head on her lap
life trickling down a corner of his mouth
she rocks him
She sits and stares
blinded by loss
nothing will tear her from him
and nothing will move her anymore
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