Poetry saved from various /lit/ threads

FIGHT YOuR DAD:

FiGHT YOUR DAD
PUNCH AND BE PUNCHED
GET YOUR SHIRT all BLOODY

FIGHT YOUR DAD
GET yOUR RIBS KICKED IN
YOUR MUm MIGHT SCREAM

FIGHT YOUR DAD
NEITHER One OF YOU SHOULD WIN
MAKE H IM A CUP OF TEA WHEN YOU’Re DONE

Untitled:

elderly misstep
angled concrete, bone ballet
please call life alert

Untitled:

so much
depends upon

the thoughtful
informed post

fraught with
wisdom and insight

beside the
blatant shitpost

Lowering Clouds:

The creek ran clear, stripping the hollow of its flesh so that its bones showed sand stone.

Tree roots branched to the stream, jade moss clinged, and the water ran jingling.

Then the cry of the red tailed hawk.

The forest stopped.

And all was quiet.

heh…:

and the funniest
but also most saddening
is natural death of a poet
who used to write about suicide

Tower of Ivory:

Watercolored. I have been given a vision of foliage and trees.
Painted forest surrounding, sun teasing the branches, rocking in sky-spangled seas.
Beyond the cloudmeadows, an apparition of Mary I approach on my knees.
She is beckoning me, and the dragonflies drum over the singing of bees.

Her eyes are made of dirt. I am pushing my fingers into her head.
And her tongue notyetwilderness, with her silvery hands she silently said
a litany, while the centaurs wept for her son, the priest of the mountains, their lord who was dead.
She baptized me with ashes and mud, and from her stigmata soft rainwater bled.

Kaleidoscope twilight. I have commanded the creatures to build me an altar.
The deer write on my face with her blood as I am robed in my daffodil halter.
Gratia plena, Mother of Sorrows, in gargled unlanguage I receive the new psalter.
And the angel descends, sulfur and lilies, his unknowing stone face tells me to begin.

This is my body. The oak and the maple kneel at the burial mound.
This is my blood. The raspberry and strawberry crawl like the sunlight toward me on the ground.
Ecce Homo. Ecce Virgo. There is no more sun. There is no more sound.
And I am over Adam. The land still is dying, the plow still is rusted, but I have consecrated his sin.

Sunshine:

Between silhouetted sycamores
Roves a hermit, held
By rumor and hope of an
Unrivaled
Treasure.

The revealing beams
Share slowly, shadowing
Staggering breaths that
Starve for what is
Unseen by Solitude.

A lantern is lit,
Seeking its fortune
With fumbling flame,
Fervently fleeing from
The Bringer of Dawn.

Searching by light
Of dull, dim ego
Gold remains rusty;
All but forgotten
In its eastward ascent.