Members
Poems
Erwinism
Sep 19
We spend so much time blinking and looking away,
we blink so much that we don’t realize our fuse is alight.
A turn of the dial,
into another scene,
never rooted in the moment,
as transient as everything mortal.
We blink, to erase the unpleasant,
we blink, to jump forward,
coil our bodies around rest,
wrap paychecks inside our hands,
so, we can blink a little more.
We skip and jump out of the day,
when tomorrow is worse than today,
we blink it away,
as if we have unlimited blinks,
and soon enough we’ll hit a wall
and wish we could have kept our eyes open
more frequently.
—e.d. maramat | erwinism
we blink so much that we don’t realize our fuse is alight.
A turn of the dial,
into another scene,
never rooted in the moment,
as transient as everything mortal.
We blink, to erase the unpleasant,
we blink, to jump forward,
coil our bodies around rest,
wrap paychecks inside our hands,
so, we can blink a little more.
We skip and jump out of the day,
when tomorrow is worse than today,
we blink it away,
as if we have unlimited blinks,
and soon enough we’ll hit a wall
and wish we could have kept our eyes open
more frequently.
—e.d. maramat | erwinism
Erwinism Sep 19
Motherland
Erwinism
Sep 19
Warring colors busting at the seams,
the day-burnt sun's fists
sag and dip into the clouds,
weary of the battle the night has won.
And the night sired children,
restless as the dawn,
riveted the dark with metal sheets
and armed it with visions
of an obscured future
polluted with hollow promises
stirring in their minds.
Hope lay dying,
dank with mold and blood,
her cries met with clogged ears
and barred doors.
They were against mother,
she who fills their bellies with
rice and corn,
she, who pours water onto their
glass to the brim,
she who softens their fall with
carpets of moss for their bed
and canopies for shade—betrayed
and thrown out with the wolves.
Now these,
and what sorrow to behold
hands holding up their voice
snatched and pocketed
for a bushel of grain
to fend off pangs of hunger
away for days,
in return, all their tomorrows
until none to spare.
Mother why have they forsaken you?
You gave them life,
now they bring you death.
—e.d. maramat | erwinism
the day-burnt sun's fists
sag and dip into the clouds,
weary of the battle the night has won.
And the night sired children,
restless as the dawn,
riveted the dark with metal sheets
and armed it with visions
of an obscured future
polluted with hollow promises
stirring in their minds.
Hope lay dying,
dank with mold and blood,
her cries met with clogged ears
and barred doors.
They were against mother,
she who fills their bellies with
rice and corn,
she, who pours water onto their
glass to the brim,
she who softens their fall with
carpets of moss for their bed
and canopies for shade—betrayed
and thrown out with the wolves.
Now these,
and what sorrow to behold
hands holding up their voice
snatched and pocketed
for a bushel of grain
to fend off pangs of hunger
away for days,
in return, all their tomorrows
until none to spare.
Mother why have they forsaken you?
You gave them life,
now they bring you death.
—e.d. maramat | erwinism
Erwinism
Sep 18
Run, run while you can;
while your toes can spring from the asphalt;
while time is on your side
and the wind is behind you,
and the world is a trail of blur.
The cartilage of your joints,
fresh and oleaginous,
pliable as your young mind,
can take you to your destiny;
can satiate wanderlust,
a bitter aftertaste for a time long gone
of a weary spirit
tenant to a rigid flesh.
Breathe
the scent of life in.
Let your lungs and air,
like lovers who have folded
the distance between them,
savor the embrace
throbbing in their minds at night.
Breathe the scent in,
in time,
they grow stale,
planted in water by the bedside
wilting with apologies
and well wishes
dancing to the music
of beeping machines.
Up the hills if you must;
through mist,
yielding not an inch
to questions
doubt pours on the road.
Against the unwillingness
of your body,
defy,
and when its defiance ripens
in its season,
your spirit shall burden
it a heavy swathe of obstinacy.
So run,
for the loan of time digs deep in the pocket to claim interest,
pay your heart in full,
before foreclosure.
Time inevitably demands its due.
—e.d. maramat | erwinism
while your toes can spring from the asphalt;
while time is on your side
and the wind is behind you,
and the world is a trail of blur.
The cartilage of your joints,
fresh and oleaginous,
pliable as your young mind,
can take you to your destiny;
can satiate wanderlust,
a bitter aftertaste for a time long gone
of a weary spirit
tenant to a rigid flesh.
Breathe
the scent of life in.
Let your lungs and air,
like lovers who have folded
the distance between them,
savor the embrace
throbbing in their minds at night.
Breathe the scent in,
in time,
they grow stale,
planted in water by the bedside
wilting with apologies
and well wishes
dancing to the music
of beeping machines.
Up the hills if you must;
through mist,
yielding not an inch
to questions
doubt pours on the road.
Against the unwillingness
of your body,
defy,
and when its defiance ripens
in its season,
your spirit shall burden
it a heavy swathe of obstinacy.
So run,
for the loan of time digs deep in the pocket to claim interest,
pay your heart in full,
before foreclosure.
Time inevitably demands its due.
—e.d. maramat | erwinism