Tag: peoplewithpoetry

Fruits of the Spirit #7

Love as defined by the poets dictionary:

Definition: Love allows for this break in style.

Of love we the poets agree to say little

Of love we the poets agree to say much,

For it stifles the verbose

And makes garrulous

Those wonderful few who are traditionally

Iconically

Ironically

Laconic.

It’s big ideas from small minds, still better than all the complacency of the brilliant.

It’s the ink in this pen, only being itself no matter where it’s placed.

Love is the guerilla act of kindness

In minefield valleys, and stormy mountains.

It is love that perished in an act

Of veil tearing demonstration

That love and justice need each other

To be themselves.

In the dying of love, death was defeated, how lovely.

Love is the adhesive property, holding my cells together.

Love always extends the helping hand,

Not caring how barbarous the individual in need may be.

Love holds two souls together in affection, adoration, and commitment.

Love blots out ones tears with tender lips.

Antonyms: Hatred, fear, self preservation at the cost of others well being.

Only love inflates the space between the words, to remind you your story will stay afloat.

– Vagabond Prophet

– That’s me finished, @mildreflections it’s all yours now pal.

Brand New Key

Brand new key,

Fitting too well

Not allowing for my elbows,

Suicide by installments,

Or even custody of my own eyes.

Truth isn’t easy to swallow

Nothing that sharp is,

Wildfires don’t permit

Caveats and addendums,

Flash floods don’t schedule

Convenient appointments.

All consuming flame

Knows that real estate

Is the only good investment

So it comes and buys it all

No resistance fought

No feeble squall.

This decimation of autonomy

Is a blessing in the end,

For it strips the razor wire

From my own DNA

And cleans those wounds invisible.

– Vagabond Prophet

Soundtrack

I hear desperation sing out

From the shower down the hall,

Plaintive moans

From yet stretching chords.

It harmonizes with carts

Rolling along down the street,

The screeching tires

And the angry cries

At nights most hurting hours.

It’s the soundtrack of the city

Shouting at the great boot

That would stamp out the light

But for the disjointed resistance,

The reluctant militia.

We march in all directions

Starting as many fires as we put out,

Yet onwards ever onwards.

Even at 3 A.M.

The rubber never leaves the road

And the resilience to survive

Is never stopped, only slowed.

– Vagabond Prophet

Chronicles

Wood grain warped by knot in center,

The weakness the flaw

Removed to learn it was the cornerstone.

Extracted and everything starts to crack

Splintering lines rush to furthest border,

Why is it so that we should crumble without scars?

The chronicles of your ventricles

The hallways your blood strolls through

Provide for me an answer.

The best things the strongest things

Are made so by pressure

By a measure of suffering

And persecution,

The flower pressed

Preserved by adversity.

– Vagabond Prophet

Scales

Jagged memories the kind you handle carefully

Or not at all,

Lest they claw their way through

The corridors of your mind

With all those telling pin pricks of blood.

Thoughts intruding at cruelest hours

Syphoning off what was left of your spirit.

Shed them all peel them off

Scrape them from reluctant skin,

Cutting scales from skin grown accustomed.

Trading all loneliness for solitude

And all grief for joy,

Goodness earned through strife

Is a high price to pay

But not to is much higher.

– Vagabond Prophet

Fickle Plumage

vagabondprophet:

Diuretic of the mind,

Extruded thoughts

Shaped by force.

Dread and malevolence,

Hornets in my pockets,

All good excuses.

I know the real reason

I push everything out

At transparency o’clock.

I pluck every bit out,

All that fickle plumage,

To let you see underneath.

I don’t need both hands

To count all my friends,

I just need both hands to be thankful

For the friends I have.

– Vagabond Prophet

Onion

Exiles from the country

We’ve only ever dreamt of,

Refugees from the war

Inside us all.

Like a child miscarried,

The loss complete

But the blood just keeps coming.

I have worked for the firing squad

And know they never exhaust their work,

That injustice builds a tower

Weighty enough to soften

The strongest of spines.

I know that the aortic drum

That beats insistently

With bright red sounds,

Can drive one mad

With its loud demands.

For reasons such as these

Death row can be a freedom,

Homecoming in the coming of death.

A concrete and tangible end,

Real life to sink one’s teeth into

Before your teeth is all that’s left.

Every lungful Sisyphus’ work,

Life too much at full strength,

Some people taking handfuls of night

Just to get through the day.

Oh to find some relief

In this march to our demise.

Lean in close now,

Bend your ear to my lips

As I whisper urgently

With news that changes everything.

Your circumstance may remain,

But perspective is everything

Learning that not all blows

Are for breaking but for shaping.

Be the sculpture carved

From the inside out

With hope turning red from blue

As it swims to the surface.

Peel back the layers

Feel your eyes well up

I’m not an onion I’m a man

Transformed from an earthen bulb

Some black layers true,

But I’m pushing past the dirt now

And you can too.

– Vagabond Prophet

– Thanks @josy57 for prompting me with “Sisyphus’ work.”

Escapee

I am the foolhardy child

Who ran from the safehouse

To the hands of my accuser.

Escapee fleeing my own freedom.

You pursued me relentlessly

Like the sun the moon,

Saying you’d take me

Ignoring all scars

You’d not reject me

Until the shore rejects the waves.

You won me over

Under a clear sky

Using stars always there

To paint new pictures just for me.

Now in the heat of the night

I whisper the truth under

Moth laden lanterns

To others lost as I once was.

That you took my place

In a risk that made heaven

Hold its breath

To erase my coming death.

– Vagabond Prophet