Monday, July 7, 2014
July Poems, 2014
Introduction by the Author:
Poetry wishes to express one’s deepest feelings, it can elicit in us a wholeness and depth, and conflicting emotions. Poetry can be transcendent if one can connect with the poem’s essence, its spirit; more often than not attached to the poet’s world, if not the readers. It is best to read what you like, and what you don’t like, don’t reread, and toss it in file 13, that’s Army talk for the basket. My selection of poems are in my books, these poems are not, but represent those that maybe. Sometimes the poems I settle on to put into my books are because of my readers, those they like, when you press the button that says “Like” but seldom are there revisions because someone felt it needed one. So what you have is not the final version, I may have to take away a few nouns, to unclutter a line here and there, to increase the flow and movement. We are looking at deletions, and rewritings as well. But should I put the perfect product, that is to say, the complete poem in your lap, why put it in a book? Dlsiluk
Today I feel like an old warplane—
Rusting at the edges;
My engine, spiting and sputtering.
My heart pounding slowly,
My exhaust pipes flaring; they
Actually flare danger every night
I get into bed.
My eyes today are rain-clouds, blurred!
My will, is becoming inflexible.
I think my blood is either too thin, or
Perhaps, too thick, like molasses, today.
I feel like I need to be camouflaged; I
Think it is all part of old age.
No: 4446 (7-5-2014)
In my youth I was deceptively armored,
So I would not be deceptively vulnerable—
If that makes sense….
To be tough, and to always be the same—
To carry that hard appearance,
And to stay in one’s own place—
Wherever that maybe… and
To smile in great quantities!
To carry no words, but poems.
I was more like a tree, than a teenager,
So it would seem—;
Unnoticed by most, but I always knew the
Nature of things.
No: 4445 (July 5, 2014)
There is a Childless Hell as true as one knows:
The eagle does not wed the duck!
In this Hell, Manticores, — their blood,
Is cold as church bells, in winter-time.
I will tell you more:
Should you stand too close to the door— it
Will be ill for thee!
Step no closer, the crypts are of yesteryear—
And the treasures therein, you may see,
Are rubies dark as Satan’s blood!
Amongst pearls and topazes-stones.
Stop! Step back lest a devil or imp, shall plunge
You in, deep into those moonlike pearls,
Forevermore, that seems as innocent as one’s
Youthful flow’rs, —
Yet are bathed in satanic plasma.
And once there, there is no escape from those
Chamber walls, made of opal,
In a rainbow maze.
No: 4445 (7-5-2014)
A Mirrored Reflection?
It is the devil that moves the strings, this way and that way,
And you already know who the puppet is!
The world, round, is his stage.
He makes no claim, but it is.
He tries to have us occupy his mindset, and does a pretty
Good job of it.
Having us feed on his lice like mice.
Sinning freely, believing prayers will wash away all the black spots,
So as to sin again at will.
Yes, Satan’s bewitched mind is endlessly rocking—
Transplanting his chemistry, making out of us, lustful paupers,
Wishfully thinking for clandestine pleasures.
We squeeze and swarm like a billion maggots, wailing for crime
On television, as if it was a consecrated pyre.
Being fed by: rapes, murders, poison, war or arson—
He tells the soul, they are no more than chicken bones, be bold,
Or a pitiful coward.
He is the jackal, more foully than all.
You know him, he maybe your twin.
No: 4447 (July 5, 2014)
No Merits for
Christianity’s humility forbids homosexuality, even if a nation does not.
Matter of fact, Leviticus proclaims, such behavior defiles a nation;
as well as the cross (Christian or not!).
Thus, it is always vulgar, to a Christian, and should inspire disgust—;
but the Christian too often says otherwise, as if he needs to
As being, nonjudgmental, impartial, and recognized.
I state, therefore I have a purpose.
I need no merits to dignify my existence; a Christian has a right to
Voice to a Christian, and if it be a Christian Nation, likewise, of
If it be not a Christian nation, then it should not proclaim to be one;
Lest it fall, for that very reason!
No: 4449 (7-6-2014)
Song of the Ancient:
Praise Singer (Bard)
We are the ancient Amazons
And I am one of many
With our long hair and dark eyes,
We have conquered your city.
Your city’s door was wide open
And we were not your guest—
The soldiers we killed, we left
May’st your ears ring tonight!
We held our swords arched high
There was a demon in me:
“Kill them all!” it cried with pride:
As your swords fell, indigently.
The city Yort, jeered, us Amazons
But she could not change her fate,
And thus, spoke your ancient seer:
‘They will lay the city to waste!’
Below your temple stone walls
The city with its water filled canals,
Did we swim, with pig-gut skins!
To emerge: crushingly to triumph!
The sun came up when we left,
Back to the Black Sea, we went—
Lower and lower the moon fell,
Over the hollow city’s breast.
Cries the bard: ‘Red with blood she lays!’
As the populist, roams aimlessly:
Nodding their heads as she burns,
As the savage sings in merriment!
And now the storm is over
And you are no longer absolute:
For we struck hard with our spears
And much harder with our bows.
But there will come another day
When flies and blood will mix:
For we have not killed you all—
Like ice you walls will crack again!
‘God save thee, thy ancient city Yort,’
Cries the praise singer, afar—
‘From the demon’s plague, that comes;
Alas, yet, no need to look so sad!’
Then the Amazon’s yelp’s echo:
“Hide in the mist if you can,
We shall climb your walls once again
Should you be so, arrogant?”
Sinned, he hears the sounds of a harp,
The praise singer’s by the canal:
He’s singing of the days now past—
And those yet, to be forth coming!
No: 158 (7-2002)
This poem, is part of the Tribology, “The Tiamat” Series, written in 2001, and published in, 2002, this poem never published, and reedited twice since: once in 2004, and most recently, in July, of 2014. Thus, 12-years in the cradle, original name: “The Amazon Queen” changed to its most recent name, ‘Song of the Ancient Praise Singer,’ which seems to make it more original:
Sonnet of the Black Beatle in
The beetles have drunken the undying wine
The same that spirits in obscurity sups.
Hidden above nests the black beetle slides,
Snubbed the unwean, of a mammal whimpers;
The owl has found a calm-abode, sublime.
The waves’ in the void, in the beetles’ lips.
O Troy, they are in your retuning ships!
The collapsed summit, an unhinged symbol!
Yea! Agamemnon, hear your voiceless wife!
Hatred sweet as sandalwood, infinity—
Her cry of avenge for bane, unfinished—
She stands as one whose heart at midnight wanes
On a cold shore; whose needs her soul set free,
And hears the blind waves hissing the finished.
No: 4450/ 7-7-2014