Chingillas - Hello Poetry

Free fall Winds slice The angel that descends The astronaut come-home The parachute nosedive A naked soul That remains only In no mans land

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Aug 29, 2020

Aug 29, 2020 at 1:03 AM UTC

Free Fall

Free fall Winds slice The angel that descends The astronaut come-home The parachute nosedive A naked soul That remains only In no mans land

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The silence floods the stream of consciousness Tiny bubbles wash up sea foam Into an ocean of nothingness where poet Alone and at peace from adornment Swims in their own faith. It enters their eyes Down to their bones Vast, with no direction. Ocean’s waves approach Selling stories of past voyages While poet empty’s their travels Into faith Hoping that one day They’ll meet the sun.

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May 26, 2020

May 26, 2020 at 7:14 PM UTC

Flood

The silence floods the stream of consciousness Tiny bubbles wash up sea foam Into an ocean of nothingness where poet Alone and at peace from adornment Swims in their own faith. It enters their eyes Down to their bones Vast, with no direction. Ocean’s waves approach Selling stories of past voyages While poet empty’s their travels Into faith Hoping that one day They’ll meet the sun.

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The bottle says nothing Just fills with emptiness, An emptiness it will never understand. The echoes receding to Their century Though never centered. It is who am I, It is who I am.

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May 26, 2020

May 26, 2020 at 7:12 PM UTC

The Bottle says nothing

The bottle says nothing Just fills with emptiness, An emptiness it will never understand. The echoes receding to Their century Though never centered. It is who am I, It is who I am.

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These condolences Are house paintings Oil brushed and Hung on the wall Of a burning Memory Set aflame. On a wooden cross Slow embers Evoke Rejoice. If there is reincarnation It is in the weight Of the bones Where snow readies a Cushion.

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May 26, 2020

May 26, 2020 at 7:11 PM UTC

The Reincarnation of House Paintings

These condolences Are house paintings Oil brushed and Hung on the wall Of a burning Memory Set aflame. On a wooden cross Slow embers Evoke Rejoice. If there is reincarnation It is in the weight Of the bones Where snow readies a Cushion.

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When the words will reach, Will speak, What voice will ring? The voice of the hidden Who dedicate themselves To hiding in plain sight Making their home In other people, Their lives Of other lives. The voice of the warhead Who battles for pride Though No one is proud Nor the victor Victorious, But held with self-doubt. The voice of the mute - Selective of course. Reminding others that the Silence they bare Seeks to scold them. The voice of the Starving child, overfed With humility. The one Whose nibbles were not enough To break the chains round His ankles, rather those Pearly whites of his, once Replaced by yellow commodities. The voice of the Concubine Whose lust has been traded for more lust Whose dresswear daily resembles Peace by piece, bit and bit, Her master, whose love of himself So great, he seeks himself in her. The voice of the somnambulist Who is weary of dance And game. Who if awoken In the middle of his act Will not know it.

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May 26, 2020

May 26, 2020 at 7:05 PM UTC

When the Words Will Reach

When the words will reach, Will speak, What voice will ring? The voice of the hidden Who dedicate themselves To hiding in plain sight Making their home In other people, Their lives Of other lives. The voice of the warhead Who battles for pride Though No one is proud Nor the victor Victorious, But held with self-doubt. The voice of the mute - Selective of course. Reminding others that the Silence they bare Seeks to scold them. The voice of the Starving child, overfed With humility. The one Whose nibbles were not enough To break the chains round His ankles, rather those Pearly whites of his, once Replaced by yellow commodities. The voice of the Concubine Whose lust has been traded for more lust Whose dresswear daily resembles Peace by piece, bit and bit, Her master, whose love of himself So great, he seeks himself in her. The voice of the somnambulist Who is weary of dance And game. Who if awoken In the middle of his act Will not know it.

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Lying empty In this pile of rocks The soul Pounds up the rocks, Not yet disgracing The sun’s embrace, Shortly preceding the downbeat of Life. What distance is Drawn From boiling blood? Whose verdict Made me To spill And to stain The victim’s grasp?

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May 26, 2020

May 26, 2020 at 6:59 PM UTC

Won’t You Stay (Still)?

Lying empty In this pile of rocks The soul Pounds up the rocks, Not yet disgracing The sun’s embrace, Shortly preceding the downbeat of Life. What distance is Drawn From boiling blood? Whose verdict Made me To spill And to stain The victim’s grasp?

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The night gobbles My mind Convincing me of Who cannot be fiend, But how can they not? They that stare from windows They lying in open discussion With legs spread apart They whence Committing crimes. At dawn we eavesdrop On bedroom secrets, Someone's prayers As they kneel. There is longing In the caressing of sheets Viewing dim light Slow Breath. Wood creaks Another has Left with Your silence.

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Mar 21, 2020

Mar 21, 2020 at 10:45 PM UTC

Night Gobbles

The night gobbles My mind Convincing me of Who cannot be fiend, But how can they not? They that stare from windows They lying in open discussion With legs spread apart They whence Committing crimes. At dawn we eavesdrop On bedroom secrets, Someone's prayers As they kneel. There is longing In the caressing of sheets Viewing dim light Slow Breath. Wood creaks Another has Left with Your silence.

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We build empty temples Called Individuals, Relation bondages that though not accessed, Still access you and build your temples False fallible structures That hold this concept in space, But we cannot find Place here So we create One In art What’s more We are Each of us becoming The lives We live Where Self is only The extension of this poem.

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Mar 17, 2020

Mar 17, 2020 at 3:03 AM UTC

Tabula Rasa

We build empty temples Called Individuals, Relation bondages that though not accessed, Still access you and build your temples False fallible structures That hold this concept in space, But we cannot find Place here So we create One In art What’s more We are Each of us becoming The lives We live Where Self is only The extension of this poem.

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Here we are again The war it’s always been And though we’ve always tried Though we’ve always sinned We’ll come back alive. We’ll be back to win. Well here we are again A battle for pride Through which No one is proud Nor the victor Victorious, But held with self-doubt. And here we are again The war it’ll always be I’m getting tired now Flesh and bone you’ll see Oh so tired now Don’t be thin as me. Cause here we are again The day that wouldn’t end Said ‘You’ll come back to life’ ‘You’ll come back as kin.’

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Mar 1, 2020

Mar 1, 2020 at 3:33 AM UTC

Here We Are Again

Here we are again The war it’s always been And though we’ve always tried Though we’ve always sinned We’ll come back alive. We’ll be back to win. Well here we are again A battle for pride Through which No one is proud Nor the victor Victorious, But held with self-doubt. And here we are again The war it’ll always be I’m getting tired now Flesh and bone you’ll see Oh so tired now Don’t be thin as me. Cause here we are again The day that wouldn’t end Said ‘You’ll come back to life’ ‘You’ll come back as kin.’

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For reasons More obvious than love There’s a beauty To forgetfulness As we fuss Infinity now. That at any moment Someone might Call my bluff There’s a beauty To forgetfulness. For man gets caught up In his existence But it is enough for Man to be Told ‘I exist too.’ There’s a beauty To forgetfulness But you didn’t Call my bluff And neither will I.

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Feb 22, 2020

Feb 22, 2020 at 5:00 PM UTC

Happy Accidents

For reasons More obvious than love There’s a beauty To forgetfulness As we fuss Infinity now. That at any moment Someone might Call my bluff There’s a beauty To forgetfulness. For man gets caught up In his existence But it is enough for Man to be Told ‘I exist too.’ There’s a beauty To forgetfulness But you didn’t Call my bluff And neither will I.

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