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my soul is Yours to sow

November 12th, 2012 No comments

my soul is Yours to sow

in fertile land, not fallow

in richest earth to grow

and root quite deep, not shallow

i'll germinate to know

my foliage green, not sallow

 

so sow me head to toe,

but sow me in Your Heart to make me hallowed

Categories: Miscellaneous, Nature, Poetry

A Shakesperean Sonnet for Lucinda on her Birthday

January 27th, 2010 No comments

All stars do sparkle silently in the sky
While cinders twinkle quite sonorously
Our hearts beat likewise bum-ba-bum oh my!
And don't we breathe (tis true!) pulsatingly?
The tide may rise and it may fall again
And night does turn to day as time goes by
The moon herself does wax and then go wane
Things cycle and we don't know really why.
With spirit we go forth to try succeed
Succumb to failure that we stand once more
We want to be just hugged in time of need
And hug in turn rememb'ring yester yore.
Your beauty and your charm, Lucinda dear
Do not ebb since you're linda year to year.

Categories: Miscellaneous, Poetry

Busy People

June 17th, 2009 No comments

People.... mYsTiFy. Some I don't get. 

They act like we've never met.

They've plans, their afternoons are set.

They work, in their sleep they fidget.

Heart disease? They'll go ahead and fret.

It's about their office and their mile-high docket.

"Hello! Sorry, I've got to jet!"

Or, they'll stare through their socket,

Eyes angry, eyes wet,

their pens on their desk going tet-tet-tet.

Get out, like a rocket!

They've a gun in their pocket!

 

It doesn't seem they will let,

nor go fishing, cast a net,

chillax, get a pet

 

and take it to the vet.

 

Shet.

 

Categories: Miscellaneous, Poetry

The Plant Kingdom, Tonsured

October 4th, 2008 No comments

Plants, sheared to a stub
like corn, reaped for harvest
or grasses, mowed
and trees, cut of their limbs
for decoration
or put down for paper
issue forth an
aspirin-like compound into the air
for the

pain,

I kid you not.
It is true that plants
have no nerves
have no minds
and do not twitch in agony
like we do. But then

why

do they release an analgesic
into the surroundings
when under stress?

In utter silence
of monastic proportions
plants endure our butchery
And never do we thank them
or admire them
for their exuberant boon
their fruit
their strength
their beautiful verdure
or
their venerable, stoic

martyrdom.

*In writing this poem, I thought of the Amazon and Brazil and the exaggerated deforestation taking place there.  An interesting article can also be found here, as an example.

Categories: Nature, Poetry

Jake's Story

September 5th, 2008 No comments

"Tromp" is a new word
I'm introducing to the English language.
It refers to the puckering lips
of one in love
as he kisses his beloved hello or...
good-bye.
The putting together of the "soft"
of the mouth
of a child degusting
the sour
of his lemon ice cream.
The sad pout of one emotionally

overtaken

by intense feelings of loss, betrayal,
of heartache.

Jake was born to this world with a
swollen red tromp on his
swollen face. In fact, he was
swollen
all over and covered in amniotic fluid
and his own

phlegm.
Thus new and raw, a throbbing little cuteness,
his lips put together and warm

and inflamed

as they were, he laid his first kiss upon those
tender
of his happy, sobbing mom.

"For the longest time,"
now grown he said to me one starry night,
as we sat together atop the flatroof,
"I believed I had come to this world in
a space capsule, from a far-away planet."
Statements like these made

me

wonder as to his
true
planetary origin.
"My sister convinced me she had herself.
Of course, I wanted to be an

extraterrestrial

too. I had to be, being her brother
and all."

I

chuckled only to
stop short

a second

later,
choking up at my own

sudden

realization

of his sister's inspired understanding.
Placental sacs are

like space capsules -- you see.

But whether he descended from the
skies
one chilly night
has absolutely no bearing on the fact that

regardless

he was extruded out his
capsular surroundings

tromp first.

His salient gesture, whether tied to

his frightened frustration

quiet anger

introspective rumination or

mocking amusement was his

tromp.

If
you saw him in the subway
you'd judge him handsome with
his proud airs and
hairs disheveled
and inevitably focus on

the fullness

the peachy-cherriness of his

incarnadined

tromp.
It wasn't his
impish wink or nod
that would make him

irresistible

to the ladies, whether married or not
or his princely, respectful
poise toward the

chattery

gentlemen (too afraid of leaving him alone
to their wives or sisters or perhaps too
possessive
themselves of his
charismatic tromp);

it was his

tromp.

You can imagine what
was hushed
around in
girl circles about his

kissable

tromp.

Gigglingly silenced, several found

blush
run not to cheeks but to their

pale lips

now rubicund
puckered out in readiness

oh his full-mouthed

tromp.

 

 

*In this poem I attempt to describe me from a third person's point of view, in the manner of a little story. I pushed my luck with the interpretation and connotation of the word "tromp," and I'm hoping that by the end the meaning has not deteriorated to something my friend Marcel would describe as "creepy."

Categories: Miscellaneous, Poetry