lovelychickenbones - Hello Poetry

*Marmalade skies making love to a ball of fiery mass  led to part swiftly from his maiden’s *****  fertile with the fawn of the trees. Buoyant as the winds waltzing along the sea  the sparrows poured forth the blue stretch  familiar in their parade, uncertain in their path. Clinging to infant evergreens  the morning’s dews slid past the satin beds  and into the dreaming earth, shut and hidden as pearls. The fortnight’s show of drizzle  hung limply in the nipping air, here to stay for  a bracing encore, wild violets gathering  tribute upon its gray curtains. Soldier bees on their march  far, far away from the six-eyed castle  buzzing until the forest falls into song of the sleepful, the land of talking boars and maidens with golden braids for days I stand in the midst of all  dazed as an infant  eyes flutter like fans in the heat of visions  seen but shrouded  solitary but shared. Beholding in my finite eyes  the horizons echoed my sunken soliloquies  like an imagined memory coming to life.  I was quite absolute then  that I, before what could be  the tricks of the mind  or the dreams of the heart,  am just a split second in an everlasting expanse  of space and time.*

0

Mar 4, 2016

Mar 4, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC

[Edited Poem from May 21, 2015]

*Marmalade skies making love to a ball of fiery mass  led to part swiftly from his maiden’s *****  fertile with the fawn of the trees. Buoyant as the winds waltzing along the sea  the sparrows poured forth the blue stretch  familiar in their parade, uncertain in their path. Clinging to infant evergreens  the morning’s dews slid past the satin beds  and into the dreaming earth, shut and hidden as pearls. The fortnight’s show of drizzle  hung limply in the nipping air, here to stay for  a bracing encore, wild violets gathering  tribute upon its gray curtains. Soldier bees on their march  far, far away from the six-eyed castle  buzzing until the forest falls into song of the sleepful, the land of talking boars and maidens with golden braids for days I stand in the midst of all  dazed as an infant  eyes flutter like fans in the heat of visions  seen but shrouded  solitary but shared. Beholding in my finite eyes  the horizons echoed my sunken soliloquies  like an imagined memory coming to life.  I was quite absolute then  that I, before what could be  the tricks of the mind  or the dreams of the heart,  am just a split second in an everlasting expanse  of space and time.*

35

“I love the rain and how it tells me that even the great skies cry over something, too.”

0

Feb 27, 2016

Feb 27, 2016 at 9:43 AM UTC

Untitled

“I love the rain and how it tells me that even the great skies cry over something, too.”

1

It's a sick, sick town Where men have come to rot As a worm infested fruit Lying wet and rummaged on the ground The neighbors with their bent noses And upturned mouths Bubbling with the agenda, the filth Of their smiling counterparts next door In town fiestas they squalor like Emperors on roasted pigs, rice cakes and goat bellies raised and slaughtered They dine like fine crickets loud And unconcerned about matters Which the small town does not speak Scoundrels of politicians Fetchig money like leaves from their Cotton pockets Oh the election is under way! Come come there is money this way! Forget honesty it can only buy You a rumbling stomach and a hut Crumbling from debts and frets! Who cares though When seventy strides from you Gunshots sparkle in the midnight skies All eyes fainted all breaths shallow And someone's just got wallowed In a heat of greed and contempt Poor son!Poor son! Used to know the wretch No family?No peso to his name? Let's move on to our siestas Justice won't spare us from hell God has saved a seat for us instead The church has made its job clear Seven Sundays and we are but saved! But the crowd upon The altar thins like the old priest's head Gleaming like chalice In the dimming lights of the Lord The people look on and yawn For the gospel has now become As good as miracle, literally. The poor remain poor The sinful prosper And this sick, sick town Has its marrows ****** Dry as a liar's throat And you tell me to love it Like a sweetheart of brazen days? Like the grazing stars in the Blank fields of bluish horizons I painted with amulets and rockets with my visions as a child? And you tell me I was born of a town About to sweep into nothing along with the collapse of its people?

0

Feb 14, 2016

Feb 14, 2016 at 8:53 AM UTC

160214

It's a sick, sick town Where men have come to rot As a worm infested fruit Lying wet and rummaged on the ground The neighbors with their bent noses And upturned mouths Bubbling with the agenda, the filth Of their smiling counterparts next door In town fiestas they squalor like Emperors on roasted pigs, rice cakes and goat bellies raised and slaughtered They dine like fine crickets loud And unconcerned about matters Which the small town does not speak Scoundrels of politicians Fetchig money like leaves from their Cotton pockets Oh the election is under way! Come come there is money this way! Forget honesty it can only buy You a rumbling stomach and a hut Crumbling from debts and frets! Who cares though When seventy strides from you Gunshots sparkle in the midnight skies All eyes fainted all breaths shallow And someone's just got wallowed In a heat of greed and contempt Poor son!Poor son! Used to know the wretch No family?No peso to his name? Let's move on to our siestas Justice won't spare us from hell God has saved a seat for us instead The church has made its job clear Seven Sundays and we are but saved! But the crowd upon The altar thins like the old priest's head Gleaming like chalice In the dimming lights of the Lord The people look on and yawn For the gospel has now become As good as miracle, literally. The poor remain poor The sinful prosper And this sick, sick town Has its marrows ****** Dry as a liar's throat And you tell me to love it Like a sweetheart of brazen days? Like the grazing stars in the Blank fields of bluish horizons I painted with amulets and rockets with my visions as a child? And you tell me I was born of a town About to sweep into nothing along with the collapse of its people?

57

Mother those dead people in the books Who pen tragedy, brew empathy in a whisk of their words Seem to understand me better than you do And to think they say mothers Have intuition As razor sharp as your mouth For someone with so much ability You fail at seeing nearby distances No I will not become a mother Like yourself I refuse to believe a world That doubts me as I am I am a woman And they see me as less than a man How absurd my fictional mother Maya Angelou made me think I was more Read Sylvia Plath if you could just Maybe you'll hear the voice of my soul Which you have rightly marked By your own answers No I will keep wearing Worn out sneakers and dip them In mud once in a while Also, I do not want anyone To tell me my femininity Is anchored on fair complexion, Rose red lips that open Only to say yes Because it is not mother dear You see I have learned a lot from pain To understand that what is good is people as they are and were I have learned enough from a curse That lives within me (And which you dont seem to comprehend) That I believe in myself No matter how much Broken bones lie beneath me I've died so many times mother But I lived again and again To be mad, to be absolutely irrevocably insane Headfirst, a marked man But nevertheless alive Before those who tell me I am a nonexistence.

0

Feb 2, 2016

Feb 2, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC

160203

Mother those dead people in the books Who pen tragedy, brew empathy in a whisk of their words Seem to understand me better than you do And to think they say mothers Have intuition As razor sharp as your mouth For someone with so much ability You fail at seeing nearby distances No I will not become a mother Like yourself I refuse to believe a world That doubts me as I am I am a woman And they see me as less than a man How absurd my fictional mother Maya Angelou made me think I was more Read Sylvia Plath if you could just Maybe you'll hear the voice of my soul Which you have rightly marked By your own answers No I will keep wearing Worn out sneakers and dip them In mud once in a while Also, I do not want anyone To tell me my femininity Is anchored on fair complexion, Rose red lips that open Only to say yes Because it is not mother dear You see I have learned a lot from pain To understand that what is good is people as they are and were I have learned enough from a curse That lives within me (And which you dont seem to comprehend) That I believe in myself No matter how much Broken bones lie beneath me I've died so many times mother But I lived again and again To be mad, to be absolutely irrevocably insane Headfirst, a marked man But nevertheless alive Before those who tell me I am a nonexistence.

48

The clouds scatter askew Into the dimness of mere moments to twilight Water jumped on my skin Playing run and hide Sifting pieces of a small town Into a phantom's mosaic I was a spectator to the familiar While mother has sent me To an errand of a quarter pound of ginger Those deformed baby toe-like things Hideous almost supernatural A middle aged cabby stops With a knowing look On to my face that only moves To answer, not to question I sat down on the old leather chair A waft of fish and dried sweat Dust and a little exhaustion Regaining his gear, every bit A weary man and so The drive went silently As a secret. The exhausted cement path Looked frozen, deserted As a widow's heart. There were faces of mixed hues like Technicolor film in a psychedelic haze Lined like domino pieces In the streets of this sick town Some leaving, some going To some smaller street perhaps Off to estrange their lives From grey shanties, small lumps of Grains on their shaky family tables. Like the downpour they are sad Sadder than the cabby's squeaking wheels Between the tension of the road And the misfortune of its master I say hello like an egg laid by chance In a nest made for spiders I do not belong here But the web ties me head first.

0

Feb 2, 2016

Feb 2, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC

160202

The clouds scatter askew Into the dimness of mere moments to twilight Water jumped on my skin Playing run and hide Sifting pieces of a small town Into a phantom's mosaic I was a spectator to the familiar While mother has sent me To an errand of a quarter pound of ginger Those deformed baby toe-like things Hideous almost supernatural A middle aged cabby stops With a knowing look On to my face that only moves To answer, not to question I sat down on the old leather chair A waft of fish and dried sweat Dust and a little exhaustion Regaining his gear, every bit A weary man and so The drive went silently As a secret. The exhausted cement path Looked frozen, deserted As a widow's heart. There were faces of mixed hues like Technicolor film in a psychedelic haze Lined like domino pieces In the streets of this sick town Some leaving, some going To some smaller street perhaps Off to estrange their lives From grey shanties, small lumps of Grains on their shaky family tables. Like the downpour they are sad Sadder than the cabby's squeaking wheels Between the tension of the road And the misfortune of its master I say hello like an egg laid by chance In a nest made for spiders I do not belong here But the web ties me head first.

42

*So on a night As dry as a seed The fourth child Leaned in towards the darkness Barely a summer's past of his sixth year He bubbles with the hope Of children so unaware They mirror a blank sun As the abyss catches on With his flaming wonder He saw a gleaming mirror Of himself upon the dull walls Waving like a tide On the high cliffs He goes and goes Unstoppable as a waterfall The shadow looks back Black as his eyes Fluid as the tips of his hair It resembled a cloak Inscrutable like fear Familiar like beauty Mirroring the infinite glide He strokes with the brushes of youth An eye for an eye A tooth for a tooth Inflections of the same stock Light the destroyer and creator of kin But the child Smiles to himself, undaunted His counterpart toothless Breathless as a rock Could not.*

0

Feb 1, 2016

Feb 1, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC

160201

*So on a night As dry as a seed The fourth child Leaned in towards the darkness Barely a summer's past of his sixth year He bubbles with the hope Of children so unaware They mirror a blank sun As the abyss catches on With his flaming wonder He saw a gleaming mirror Of himself upon the dull walls Waving like a tide On the high cliffs He goes and goes Unstoppable as a waterfall The shadow looks back Black as his eyes Fluid as the tips of his hair It resembled a cloak Inscrutable like fear Familiar like beauty Mirroring the infinite glide He strokes with the brushes of youth An eye for an eye A tooth for a tooth Inflections of the same stock Light the destroyer and creator of kin But the child Smiles to himself, undaunted His counterpart toothless Breathless as a rock Could not.*

33

*There is an absence of light screaming around me It is the first of February the night crawling, an obituary Conspicuous and hung with death. A blackout the local electric company has yet to be friendly I didn't mind The air was young and a tease Through the windows it approached Like a growing fire Closing in on my bare ribs Soothing my sore mind Out on the receiving territory Comes the warm excess Like oranges hilted on wax It was sad claiming They wage brighter wars Than my soul But I inhaled their spirit For a quietness lived in their glow Barks scrape against the summer dread Unable to shut their stubborness They connive with the crickets For a night of overture I can smell ambivalence In the starless skies Will it cry? Or will it die along as with everything? I'd embrace the cold with My equally hostile arms It treats me with dignity From outside the cars screech Like a wailing woman Stalling the witch's eye With fragments of yellow and white Onto the oblivion of the roads And the loneliness of a night just Coming to life.*

0

Feb 1, 2016

Feb 1, 2016 at 7:56 AM UTC

160201

*There is an absence of light screaming around me It is the first of February the night crawling, an obituary Conspicuous and hung with death. A blackout the local electric company has yet to be friendly I didn't mind The air was young and a tease Through the windows it approached Like a growing fire Closing in on my bare ribs Soothing my sore mind Out on the receiving territory Comes the warm excess Like oranges hilted on wax It was sad claiming They wage brighter wars Than my soul But I inhaled their spirit For a quietness lived in their glow Barks scrape against the summer dread Unable to shut their stubborness They connive with the crickets For a night of overture I can smell ambivalence In the starless skies Will it cry? Or will it die along as with everything? I'd embrace the cold with My equally hostile arms It treats me with dignity From outside the cars screech Like a wailing woman Stalling the witch's eye With fragments of yellow and white Onto the oblivion of the roads And the loneliness of a night just Coming to life.*

40

It's weird but across history many great things started with a problem.

0

Jan 26, 2016

Jan 26, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC

Untitled

It's weird but across history many great things started with a problem.

1

*The heat opened a casket somehow Entombed in a white hot vacancy Rests my summers day melody Of gentle feet patting crunchy gravel Along the pink spines of swamp snails Out there with listless goats inhaling The moss infected water And how I am trapped in my protective Jalousies like a silly little lifeguard Waiting for a dip in the surface An action in the preface The fields are screaming silver mutiny amidst The drought on their legs What travesty happened here? What reverie of the cosmic nature? They left it bald as an onion Sifted as cement I can hear their pleas To drop them my sweat Like a mother to her children All to ease their parched throats The wind hangs like a scandal Whip there, calm somewhere Or a fusion in between As fickle as my feet could carry me I feel like a sponge in all My sublime holes Waiting for rain to drop its mercy Submerge me in its ocean of rumination It is horrible I am fried like chops Of hard meat about to skitter and burn Rare you say?Not possible in this Omniscient oven. The birds turn brown in my eyes Like lumps of soil with feathers for feet They seem to be getting along With the unforgiving sky.*

0

Jan 24, 2016

Jan 24, 2016 at 2:52 AM UTC

summer colloquy

*The heat opened a casket somehow Entombed in a white hot vacancy Rests my summers day melody Of gentle feet patting crunchy gravel Along the pink spines of swamp snails Out there with listless goats inhaling The moss infected water And how I am trapped in my protective Jalousies like a silly little lifeguard Waiting for a dip in the surface An action in the preface The fields are screaming silver mutiny amidst The drought on their legs What travesty happened here? What reverie of the cosmic nature? They left it bald as an onion Sifted as cement I can hear their pleas To drop them my sweat Like a mother to her children All to ease their parched throats The wind hangs like a scandal Whip there, calm somewhere Or a fusion in between As fickle as my feet could carry me I feel like a sponge in all My sublime holes Waiting for rain to drop its mercy Submerge me in its ocean of rumination It is horrible I am fried like chops Of hard meat about to skitter and burn Rare you say?Not possible in this Omniscient oven. The birds turn brown in my eyes Like lumps of soil with feathers for feet They seem to be getting along With the unforgiving sky.*

38

Til when will I snap out of this. I havent been reading or writing poetry like I used to. I'm so mad at myself and of everything bec it feels listless and aimless. I love what I used to do and given the chance I'll pay a leg for it if I could. But that passion seems so far away I only ever dream about sleeping or not really giving a **** and the days pass on like fleeting whispers and I hear nothing, I know of nothing. How did anyone live with this preposterous piece of **** I'd like to understand how because my days of tolerating it are dwindling down into a deep desire of wanting to see something burn and smell the smoke and hope it possesses my ******* senses. i hate this i hate what has become of my sanity of my body of my feet they all betray me like an idiot ******* out of my ******* hinges I am. I am screaming into a vacuum that nobody goes to the ****** lie I just want everything to be okay because I cant stand another year of blind inferno this is not fair this is terrible it's like dying with your eyes wide open forcing you to swallow all your pain and do not complain you ungrateful coward this is the life you will have give or take shut up there is no point. I am mad and sad and everything in between i wanna rip the ******* edges of those weaker than myself but I cant but I wont idk why but it's for that that I am still on my limits

0

Jan 20, 2016

Jan 20, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC

You've overstayed *****

Til when will I snap out of this. I havent been reading or writing poetry like I used to. I'm so mad at myself and of everything bec it feels listless and aimless. I love what I used to do and given the chance I'll pay a leg for it if I could. But that passion seems so far away I only ever dream about sleeping or not really giving a **** and the days pass on like fleeting whispers and I hear nothing, I know of nothing. How did anyone live with this preposterous piece of **** I'd like to understand how because my days of tolerating it are dwindling down into a deep desire of wanting to see something burn and smell the smoke and hope it possesses my ******* senses. i hate this i hate what has become of my sanity of my body of my feet they all betray me like an idiot ******* out of my ******* hinges I am. I am screaming into a vacuum that nobody goes to the ****** lie I just want everything to be okay because I cant stand another year of blind inferno this is not fair this is terrible it's like dying with your eyes wide open forcing you to swallow all your pain and do not complain you ungrateful coward this is the life you will have give or take shut up there is no point. I am mad and sad and everything in between i wanna rip the ******* edges of those weaker than myself but I cant but I wont idk why but it's for that that I am still on my limits

1