Tag: spilled poetry

Bad Part of Town

vagabondprophet:

They call this

The ‘bad’ part of town

The part with the foodbank

And the building for supervised visits.

Families separated

Estranged by circumstance,

Needy, not bad

Desperate not volatile.

I’ll tell you about

The bad part of town,

It’s up on the hill

It’s all chrome and glass.

Throwing food away

Every single day

Ignoring their children

Who just want to play.

– Vagabond Prophet

Fruits of the Spirit #2


Peace as defined by the poets dictionary

Definition: A tranquility of the spirit that envelopes body, mind, and soul.

Slowing and making graceful your actions for the lack of emergency. The cool waters to calm the aching muscles of your weary heart. The world spinning on as it ever did but your own thoughts remain steady and don’t sway in every wind that blows by, untossed by the waves that ebb and flow. Anchored to steadiest of ground and content in a secure hope, casting aside worries, not because they’re not worrisome but because peace covers it and renders it unimportant.

Other definitions include: The draught that aims to tame the flame which burns your passion into poison.

Achievement and maintenance of amiable relations with your neighbours, forgetting the grass and the corresponding colours but learning about the people behind the fences and being okay with the differences.

Antonyms: Anxiety, restlessness, anger, wrath, violence.

Only peace endeavours to leave blood unspilled, instead doing its good work to bring air where before was only despair.

– Vagabond Prophet

@mildreflections thanks for coming along on this journey, can’t wait to see what you come up with next.

Sanguine


Hundreds of different bandages,

For hundreds of different wounds.

Some with silver, some with glue,

Some that cover most of you.

These ones in my hand

To contain maggots

While they eat

The dead flesh around a wound.

Insect like vultures

Subsisting off decay.

If blight should red or green or blue,

Antiseptic solutions for that too.

Every answer to every question

Understood by spinning blood

And squinting at urine.

What I’ve learnt from this place,

Sanguine in both definitions

Can be present in one body

That’s clinging to a bed

In a crowded hallway.

Medicine is a nice way of saying

A poison that we trust.

“This is going to hurt a little bit”

Means this will be torture.

That the suffering of those

That wail like feral beasts

Are beyond dignity

Looking only to survival.

“Decreasing quality of life” means that

This person isn’t worth many more dollars.

Mostly I’ve learned that hope

Is the ultimate trump card,

Hope covers all bad news,

Is a treatment for any diagnosis.

Peace can’t be prescribed

But can be spread by gentle hands

And kind words.

I only put gloves on a shelf,

Yet I now know the fingers

That will know them so well

Need my diligence

To impart some resilience.

– Vagabond Prophet

Thanks @josy57 for prompting me with “What I have learned from you.” Hope this is okay.

vagabondprophet:

Disarmed

You were armed to the teeth

With something underneath

Disarmed by my smile

That goofy grin not yet yellow,

You ran away for miles

Losing your shoes in the mire.

Years later it was your turn

I was disarmed by your beauty,

But I ran to you not away

For yours is a beauty that beckoned me

Closer and closer still

Until nothing between us but time,

Time to let our love perfect,

Sweetening and intoxicating as

Years go by.

– Vagabond Prophet

Flat Earth

Dipped in water and then oil

Not knowing how to mix with myself.

Sometimes you have to re-break the bone

To get it set right.

Wide asleep

When the vines that creep

Pull me under,

I hear beasts within and without,

I hear claws upon the door

At most unholy hours.

I am the peacock with need so dire

To prove itself just once,

I am the rhinoceros with steepest spire

Upon my face betraying lies.

I am the tiger saying its for camouflage

But it was always about ego,

Nobody else has this colour scheme.

Here’s the truth that chills in July:

If we spoke before The Tower of Babel

We might understand each other,

However in this post Babel era

I only mix the shadows of words together

Rendering the truest shade of grey.

I miss the days of old

When the earth was flat,

Stars on the same level.

When I could run full speed

And have flames engulf my need

Stripping off the laquer

The feathers, the horns, the stripes.

The earth is round, but slowly

You’re bending it back

Back to how it was,

Running gets easier as the slope

Promises to lessen in time,

And though I’m dumbfounded

I’m finally finding sanctuary.

– Vagabond Prophet

Thanks @josy57 for the prompt “Finding Sanctuary” I hope this makes some kind of sense.

Ajar

Moonlight on my skin

Lengthening shadows of twilight

When the windshield caved in

As steel on steel screeched an emergency.

The sound of everything

Grating on everything else

When greens became reds too early

And the deep roots

Of hopeful pursuits

Came crashing into me.

The police came to collect stories

And the door ajar

Sounding into the night

It’s persistent plight.

Nerves steady as milk

On the verge of sour

For a while after that.

Took months for them

To be rigid again.

– Vagabond Prophet

Thanks @josy57 for prompting me with “A door ajar.” Not very happy with this but there it is.

Let’s get burned
Let’s get frozen
Let’s be rabbit trails
Long grown over.

Transformed into fire by
The licking of the flame,
Isolated into ice
By frost that aims to mame.

Roots pierce through
This stony heart
All to begin anew.

Allow the elements not to defeat you
But to become you for a purpose
That was always above us all.

Vagabond Prophet

What goes up must come down,
Are we so sure?
The world has never been that balanced
Always heavy at the blade.

It’s true that for every child
Born with a silver spoon
There is a child born
With silver handcuffs,
But not all things come down.

Such as my hopes
Of growing old with you
They are way up high
And won’t be coming down soon.

Vagabond Prophet

@delightfulharmonypoetry