Firecracker

Firecracker—soda pop—routine quenching of the mortal verb, Blissful bullet-points banter about the pre-pre-lingual pause—submerging aftertaste in the grandeur of the plunge

Addictive trinkets of euphoric punch—punctuating the blistered awakenings found atop the ridges of the bridge—where with it’s carbonated siege, all pleasures are revealed—as possible and real

A Consortium of Grecian Time

Soldier, poet, dramatist

Father of tragedy

You

Changed the

Way we smile.

Mathematical in its

Elements.

Deductions and axiomatic

Postulating. A

Geometry known not prior to

That parallel

Point,

But one

Line may

Pass

Through

Biblical in breadth

A diaspora’s been met

Sowing seeds

Distant far

As close as man

may be

To apotheosis

We’ve yet to see

Classic beauty

Sunbelt crush

Serenity of a

Steadied poise

Lost to

the

Collapsing praise

 Time knows not

What values one puts upon the individual ray, forgetting

About the center’s bubbling blaze—

Throughout history

Man has pushed forgiveness

To its gravest ends

Testing what

Could be rationally

 Abused before

Hollowed ends

Accrue

Humanity is a contrast economy

We strive to breathe descending views

what it means to understand

the opposing schools

Recklessly

We’ve pandered

For centuries long

Creating pacts and promises

Have been

Predicated upon deceitful hues

That wither, wither, fray

We have

Our communion

And yet, we have our

Betrayals, and they are

 felt ever the more

inherent, when composed unto the flesh, and

     unrestrained when composure only lives

yet, we lived,

              albeit in frenzy’s first breath taken,

amongst the soul,

 of the undisciplined, molting clear those spectrums

oft abused

By timelines, we learn to merge into one, into

The Blur that forges a definition, into

That which has yet begun…

from the sun, to the sea and the sky to the tide

No matter the context, in spite of the ride, the lengths and shackles yet unfettered about malnutrition’s feet, deposed by all the deposits of those underachievement’s we’ve ever learned to make… and yet we’ve always understood how to take aim, and that has to count for something, right?

Mankind has ever found itself as the child of a God, how does one live up to that shadow?

So, just to cast their own beacon of distinction, we often abuse the grace of our father, we often stray from the generous path plotted fresh for our soles alone, and instead of living in luxury’s shadow, we chose to bathe in the cold showers of absence, where we so eagerly became

The makers of rain, irrational beasts

Amidst the moistened shade

And yet…

We meditate

Upon mentally

Equipping ourselves

To deal with what comes our way

To follow nature

As does the stem

To its thorn, is

To disseminate

Good and bad

From the indifferences

In-between the dark and the gray

Run, ragged tryin’

     To catch grace upon wings once craved

But these were not intended for

Man. Bull. Lion

     Egg. Coiled—

Cracking, splits

Ticking, cloaks we mask

Through beards untamed.

until

Hands cease  from cross

Again

Falling

Deep

Into

A rece

Ssion we

Simply can

Not return

To the grammar that’s been

Given to us upon

Our births…and we run

         Away, frightened by the photo albums taken from our father’s early days, brimstone, we’ve seen it in his eyes, we’ve smelt it upon his breath, touched it on his hands

Yet, because of our irrational fear

We forget

Warmth is not reserved for hell alone

And

No matter

What we’ve done

Our father

Will

Always

Accept us back

Warmly, in his arms,

The truth can never be rescinded

Not by man or any other beasts we may encounter for advice

Yet, Just that alone, makes one wonders

Why do we seek advice from outside sources

When the wealth of the world exists within our father

The Atrophied Sinew (Wrestling Known Demons)

listen to ‘The Atrophied Sinew (Wrestling Known Demons)’ on Audioboo

The weight of your sins

Depress deep upon

The spine—forever

Herniating the

Conversations

Ever to remain

Unaligned

The balance of forgiveness

entrenches within—the winding

scars that become the emphatic

provocation—of disturbances wrestling

strong inside—entombed, ensnarled amongst

the covetous coil incubating persistently—still

burdening the landscape with each forlorn promise

ever told—and while the delusion of honor still remains—

the reality permeates this seducing dream—never permitting

acknowledgements their chance to speak—blindly working towards

some unattainable dream, while the Iscariot inside arrests and writhes

Shards of a diluted elegy, broker

silently prides ascent,

from whence, out

of the bubbling hate—

an ill-crossed path, once diluted

by perfumeries and colored specks, now

fostering forward the injective course,

where disillusionment haunts the presence

of this intrinsic bliss-filled knot—and in so,

blindsided it becomes, unwittingly tainting the

vitriol surrounding the stained-glass chambers

of the post-apocalyptic promulgation of a soul—

dispossessed, frayed and suddenly overwhelmed by the

sensations of a once prominent, yet now redacted and hollow

version of what we used to caress so close….

Dark prognostications send antagonistic reminders,

of how the pretty ignorance will shrivel, as does the petal,

withering atop the potting soil, fragrant to a degree, yet

decaying consistently

Atone we must

but even then,

there is a point

where even

confessionals

themselves

break down and

cry for the charcoal

shaded soul, destined,

only to oblige the gravitational

flagrancies of directionality, forever

encouraged to jaunt forward, only to never

truly be awakened from the sleep perdition keeps,

inching unnoticeably toward the ensnaring captivity

that binds one to the annexes of paralysis, that torturous road

that corrals the far beyond repaired, to the pitiless posture found

in the beds of stone—the writhing signature distinct to southern sleep

Depression gnaws at the atrophied sinew—

for what has occurred, may be covered thick and dense

yet never is the collateral fully removed—always remaining, tainting every pleasant memory, enhancing those nightmares to which are tightly clutched…for the remnants, the residuals of a once sinful self, ever has a way of reinventing the torture we inflict upon ourselves

Once again, Tuesday is upon us, and Poets everywhere know exactly what that means…time to head on over to the Pub…OLN opens at 3pm. The D'Verse doors stay open all night, for your poetic fare.  Please tip the staff with a poem of your own.

Internal Questioning

A very intellectual man became imprisoned for thirty-five years. His cell was impossible to escape. It was here that he realized, that the root of any truly great conversation must begin from within.  If this truly were the case though, I wonder, upon release, what his future conversations would sound like.  Would he find himself enthralled by the voices and opinions of others?  Or would he find an utter boredom and simply disengage, returning to his familiar back and forth.