geminicat: Favorites

Jan 2015 geminicat

wordvango

Like things growing closely in clusters
are the memories of sweet trying to understand truth
when wrong arms reached out and offered devilish friendship.
As a child you sat reading softness and hope and butterflies
untitled poems rhymed in your head,
Nightmares woke you up, so cruel as to drive you here.
All windows closed and flies and stink festering within
and burning fires untended threatened to burn you down.
As you sit, still reading alone,
poems unwritten.

Jan 2015 geminicat

Tornado

Jan 2015 geminicat

ryn

Tornado

.
             *the *future is...a tornado of uncertain-
          ty• a swirling vortex, in its centre is
me•such power and speed, can ne-
ver see•can never foretell, it's hid-
den debris•like clockwork, it will
   make contact•by the second, bra-
cing for next impact•the past is...
  yet another•wild winds that echo
     my mistakes as reminder•this twis-
      ter within...tearing with no remo-
           rse•destroying confident strong-
             holds, breaking feebly boarded
           doors•can't ease the rage...eat-
    en from the inside•won't stop
until...my beating heart had
        died•the present is...only this
   frail little body•fighting huge
battles that come incessantly
•fending off the future, con-
    taining the past•not know-
ing how long.......this disas-
ter would last•but I'm still
   here.....still holding integ-
   rity......•still fighting this
war waged in history's
folly•will i be settl-
ed? will the winds
ever abate?•
will i ever
      come to
terms...?
will i
ever
    acc-
          ept
                     fa
                 t
               e
             ?
             •

#unsettled #concretepoetry #hellopoetry107 #tornadoinme

Dec 2014 geminicat

There

Dec 2014 geminicat

Elijah Nicholas

There

The thing about a mind that wanders
Is that sometimes it'll wander to the graveyards
Buried in the back of your soul.
Or an abyss that contains nothing but the past.

Sometimes when I'm not careful
I lose my footing
And fall into that abyss,
But instead of hitting the bottom,
I fall deeper and deeper.

In a matter of seconds I am falling down an archive of my thoughts,
And in a matter of seconds,
I am reliving the moments I carried with me all these years.

I open up the files,
And just like that,
I am there when she calls me "girly" and wants a "man" instead of me.
I am there when she tells me that she doesn't see me in her future.
I am there when she
left me on the dance floor.
I am there when I found out he held her hand and kissed her.
And more. . .
And more.

I am there.
Sitting on a bus I am there.
Sitting in my car I am there.

This doesn't happen often,
But when it does,
The darkness demands my attention,
And I am there.

#depression #life #thoughts #personal

Dec 2014 geminicat

-Camino-

Dec 2014 geminicat

AMcQ

-Camino-

It seems so far from here and now,
Both in distance and in kind.
That place I found, through winding ways;
The time when I cared not for time.

When shadows stretched meant day was new
And as they shortened haste was made.
Butterflies played and danced and flew,
Distracting minds in need of shade.

Pain in toes and knees and hips
Dissolved all ailments of the head.
Stories poured from sun kissed lips.
Easing aches in time for bed.

I wandered back to times gone by
To grief, to love; so bittersweet.
I played them out, I laughed, I cried-
To the echoed fall of dusty feet.

In all the things I've so far learned,
Of all the 'me' I've yet to know
I've found that peace and calm is earned
Through open minds, on unknown roads.

And if the names, the talks, the places;
If they try to fade with time
I'll think of all the smiling faces;
Kindest hearts, now kept in mine.

In July of this year, I walked 350km of the Camino de Santiago in Northern Spain. A beautifully moving and life altering experience. This is a little memory of that journey.

#love #poem #poet #pain #rhyme #feet #walk #spain #camino #caminodesantiago

Nov 2014 geminicat

I Should Stop Writing Poems About You

Nov 2014 geminicat

Margaret Austin Go

I Should Stop Writing Poems About You

Recently,
her mind is
debating
with her heart
resenting
every word
she wasted
on this paper
and all the metaphors
you haven't even decipher
but how
can she stop it
you have brought her up
to the top
then pushed her
to this
bottomless pit
now
she's stuck
in this drop
and it's growing
big
like
a bad habit
running
like
a mad rabbit
munching
on her thoughts
of you
while trying to
remove your face
off the view
like grime
on her tiled walls
made by
endless waterfalls
of whys and what ifs
and all her selfish beliefs
like
how you will read
her poetry
and chew the words
like sticky pastry
but her mind said
"you're wasting your ink"
she should stop writing
poems about you
and let her
memories
sink
in the letters
of your name
that are scattered
in her head
all printed
in heavy lead
therefore now,
she concluded,
the real dilemma,
to wake her up
in this coma
of dreams of you
and
find
a paper
that will reach miles
across the equator

-I Should Stop Writing Poems About You, Margaret Austin Go

#love #poetry #heart #pain #poems #you #writing #problem #coma #dilemma

Nov 2014 geminicat

From the Eyes of a Child

Nov 2014 geminicat

Haus

From the Eyes of a Child

You are not
the cinder block of aggression
that kept the bathtub
from touching the
floor.  You are the ears
below the floor, you
are crouching
beneath the cottonwoods, slowly
molding into the support
system of a 1950’s kitchen
that a man’s hands learned
to bleed between.  You are his
father’s sweat when he
delivered him from his mother, you are the fists
he used to pound his reasons, a woman’s
tears seeping and melting in resin.  She
lay barefoot before you, completely naked
sliding her hands between her knees, wondering
why the bare spot is so empty when
there are bruises on her eyelids, on her
face, in her mouth; Why there are no hand prints where there
should be.  The prettiest parts of us
become compromised with badges, badges
we tell ourselves make up for the battlefield
we were too young to witness, she
wishes she would have learned ballet
when she was young, when her hair
still held shape.
When she slit her leg
and bled crimson you caught her.
You watched the human race
become disgusting with
desire. You
are composed of the same wood
they used to keep a cradle lit. The
wood of a casket, the
same wood of a white cross
in a room of crying soldiers
who finally realized
they served no benefit.

Nov 2014 geminicat

short circuit

Nov 2014 geminicat

bobby burns

short circuit

if a woman were to wile
     and beguile me
it would be she--
she is ebola, burning hot and fast
                 replicating majesty
       without space or energy--
she is spirit in a short circuit
voltage and current--
       she aptly replaces
                 the schematics
copied down in physics.
            a girl of the Ganges--
               distance distracts
          and remembers little
       yet often still i pray to
    insulate her sparks, to
absorb each ionic mote
  of excess she discharges,
     wrap them in neutrino ribbons
        and save them under my vest
          for the birthdays still to come.