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The Weight of Time- Bishop Hermes

Please check out my friend, the wonderful poet, Bishop Hermes.

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The Weight of Time – Bishop Hermes

Watch as we do
As the sands pour through the glass
In a stream steady
Unable to determine which will be our last
For the top half stays hidden from our
Morbid curiosity
While we strive to slow the stream and
Give fortunes for prophesy

© Bishop Hermes 2017

[Bishop Hermes is an poet/musician who resides in the Houston area. He has wonderful poetic sensibilities, and we are honored by his participation.]

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Tales Untold

forced
into a crowded room

never
will that moment leave me

savagely
they barked their orders

all but one
was made to follow

unable
for reasons unknown

still
they beat him

heavy metal
tracers did surround his face

wailing
like a dog
in death throes

begging
for some form of mercy

slowly
it kept creeping toward me

his ever growing pool
of fresh blood

finally
it stopped

until they dragged him
to the room adjacent

ragged stewards
rushed in with mops

frantic to erase
the cold truth

blaring from the
windowed hallway

still
they struck him

struck him
still

never
was there any question

this man
had done nothing wrong

all that they had seen
was black

the color of his human flesh

for what it seemed
he surely passed

neither the first
nor the last

silent
is the call for justice

plastic badges
shine as gold

exacting
their will
at leisure

as black men suffer
tales untold

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Hollow

this pithy endeavor

shadows of dust
masquerading through time

i looked away
laughing

returning
to barrenness

the warmth
of her touch

once
insisted eternity

how quickly
it vanished

seen
through open eyes

this sand
shifts beneath us

swallowing memories

until we are hollow

devoid
of our sentiments

i still walk beside her

footsteps
in spectral snow

when all
turned to nothing

and she was no longer

and i

left behind

[image credit: Odilon Redon]

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Dude . . .

if i could convince you
to consider but one candid concept
which, of course, you might suspect
concerns a most elicit topic
if your inclination
was to cringe and quickly run for cover
you would be correct
for you’ve accosted me unlike no other

with a cavalcade of quite conveniently
depicted diq piqs
clogging up my network
like a cable network choking Netflix

please don’t misconstrue my words
as puns or covert euphemisms
this is very serious
like when penis becomes penisn’t
calm down, i don’t mean the content
i declare that secondary
i can’t comprehend your cause
nor lack of couth

it’s kind of scary

curbing your distinct affliction
by increasing increments
can’t quash your creative calling
and it’s in your best interest

i cannot afford to hear the lord groan
when i check my smartphone
nor have leering onlookers
keep winking as if something was known

dude, it’s just a diq
no need to show it to the world at random
put that shit away or else i’ll lop it off without abandon

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Believe Me

the hour
is prohibitive

again

lying in dilapidation

dormient kitten
cradling my head

amid the burden of its fleas

*our fleas

fully enthralled
in trying to write
a fucking poem

on the topic
of diq piqs

perhaps
things could be worse

though only by
a quantum margin

no.

. . . talk about privilege . . .

who am i
to go on living

if this my default perspective

believe me

it’s not as if

i wanted
to exist

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Light of Death

as are
the stars
that fill the sky

i am hopeless

bound to spiral
into the abyss

for our own sun
it flickers
in the distance

in the eventide
of worlds
as far as ours is now

it is but the light
of death

that lingers
through the night

half
as long
as i have ever loved you

[image credit: Frantisek Kobliha]

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Intertwined

together
between worlds
apart

forever
now impending

calming
cumulescent pillows
comfort
cereluscent skies

calling
from the irises
proclaiming me
their captive

nestled
on the cornerstone
of consciousness
sublime

everything
consisting of epistles
scrawled by fingertips

sinking
into restive tressels

breathless

intertwined

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I Now Know

quiet comfort
ease
her words
befit of gentle
lips tinged aril

every breath
a revelation

unassumed
as moonlight lulls

thoughts which flourish
find their home

upon her tongue
a pale rubescent

all that i am
fit to hear
is that
which i now know

[image credit: Frantisek Kobliha]

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Ode to Zechariah

long before light
cleft the heavens in twain
a movement
of manhood emerged

unlike the unsavory
dissidents prior
his was a station deserved

he fostered conviction
amongst the rapt populace
stoically instilling mindful revolt

fully apprised of philosophies spoken
unlike static sophists consisting of molt

fervent emotions born of empathy
ever consuming his radiant heart
salient locution so poignantly posed
lingered long after he bid to depart

tales of his august aplomb echoed through the vales
prose poised to avail the downtrodden denizens

parlance empowering dispelled compatriots
apposite to proletariat wards

forged in the fires of familial defect
stuttering sopor
societal ire

nonetheless, pwning the epic drum solo
from “too hot for teacher” when he was but twelve

not having given an “F” he sought “T”
and tempered his mind with the breadth thus required
of the scant few i regard as elite
he is one by whom i’m duly inspired

Deep within this tattered husk lies the hope
to someday avow this Marxist of a man
of every last tender kiss wrought by his words
intended for naught but to better this land

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