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onlylovepoetry Jul 2017
a companion piece to
miniskirts & high heels vs. poetry & yoga^
<•>

a couple of buds at a local dive bar, drinking Buds,
talking loud about technology
and other manly man stuff

attract attention for our conversation isn't bout sports,
get approached by long legs in high heels and a miniskirt,
with the best come on line ever
any woman invented,
"you guys know about computers, huh?"

later after reading twenty or so of her poems,
and learning the degree of difficulty of the
downward facing dog pose
(adho mukha svanasana)
she said:

tell me again how I
clear my cache,
change my font,
add more memory for new memories,
stop auto correct from making wont into want,
so I can happy write


"wont thy thoughts to my heart thereof"

so I obliged and then
the geek in meek wrote
his first poem

after first clearing the catch  
in his throat
ryn  Dec 2014
Kite
ryn Dec 2014

i wish
to infinitely
soar•in the highest
of skies•always higher,
and always more•held back by
the string that ties•i'd still welcome
hale air•as it blows stunningly
fresh•meets and carries my
body bare•bearing invi-
sible treasures in its
cache...•the errant
breeze i'd openly
fight•but i was
made with a
shoddy kit
•i'm fail-
ing and
falter-
ing...
like
a
   k
     i
        t
     e

wi  
th
  a
     **
   le
p
  u
     n
        c
          h
      e
  d
   th      
ru  
it
   ...
      •
Terry O'Leary Aug 2014
The darkness, now descending, floods the city as it dies
while shadows lurk in legions 'neath the looming Evil Eye.
Its frozen stare envelops all, it penetrates and pries,
denouncing loathed dissenters to the keepers in the sky.

One’s inner thoughts are well descried before they’ve passed one’s lips
and cruelly crushed with grim contempt twixt despots’ fingertips;
but if no taboo-idea’s found, with which to come to grips,
the stymied Eye dispenses pus as fabrication drips.

The Eye peers down upon us now, to conquer and control,
and mark our every movement, whether hiding in a hole
or preening like a purple parrot perched upon a pole.
Our welfare and our happiness? No, certainly not the goal.

While phantoms fade, then reappear within the urban sprawl,
the gloom (adorned with Evil Eyes which pierce the livid pall)
pervades the ache and agony that poets sometimes scrawl
of plenitude to penury, how life endures the fall.

And should the herd dare whisper words of freedom's fragrant bloom
or murmur sighs of worriment at earth's impending doom,
the Evil Eye will squint a bit at those who so presume,
condemning nascent unchained thoughts to wither in the womb.

The Evil Eye bores everywhere, a tattletale to Kings,
who scrutinize their puppet people, strumming on their strings,
extracting secrets of their souls like spiders plucking wings
that flutter with the hangman’s knot as the corpse of freedom swings.

Yes, Princes rule with tungsten fists wherever they may roam
and sip from golden goblets, nectar, sweet as honeycomb
while peons (stripped of mind and soul) stray never far from home,
with faces 'neath the iron boot, ****** deep below the loam.

And peasants pass, parading by to fill the golden urn
with pennies for the afterlife wherefore the faithful yearn,
though screams of babes with empty eyes are never of concern
to those who covet silver coins, eyes cold and taciturn.

To hide the pains of purgatory, far-flung distant shores
(on islands of containment) cache the dingy dungeon doors
and inquisition water-boards that buoy their holy wars,
while sandmen drape our eyes with dust, with rainbow metaphors.

We’ll know the party's over when there's little left to eat
and all the learned scholars, lean, stay silent when they meet -
the Eye, withal, will spawn distrust on matters indiscreet.
The signs are all around us - even sheep no longer bleat.

                        Epilogue
One sightless seer scans the skies and mourns the heretofore.
Nine limbless men descend the stairs to find there is no floor.
Eight tongueless women babble, telling tales of nevermore.
Four earless children drown within the ocean's muted roar.

When hope becomes defiance, ask: Will bedlam soon arrive?
Will doves appear above us all? Or drones to guard the hive
while fed with milk and honey by the Queen and kept alive
to gut the gale below them? Will we let the Eye survive?
jonni inferno Apr 2018
'tis a sad sad
tale of woe
of which I sing
of gods and godesses
and their lessening

how forlorn
the goddess Ceres
once loved by all
and wooed by many

when unprovoked
and unforeseen
a war was wrought
'gainst fair queen

caught unawares
her throne assailed
her forces scattered
'twas all unfair

cast down she was
from lofty throne
no longer crowned
no more beloved

pierced thru
with many thorns
belittled
and besmirched
her reputation
and now her station
lost far beyond
re-incarnation

silently
she slips away
lost
and near forgotten
wounded
and rarely seen
her sullen thoughts
of malice reign

shamed and bleeding
plotting her revenge
till time and chance
provide the proper
circumstance

then all the thorns
that pierced her thru
she shook as many blades
and hurled
those bitter barbs as one
'gainst Hades' mighty gates

shaken he
from his dark slumber
his rallied forces
armed in numbers

their banners raised
on solar breezes
as trumpets blare
thru breathless reaches

voices shout
in protestation
slide rules locked
in astrometric
calculations

oh see how Ceres
scorned and mocked
has wrought
her rotting vengeance
on Pluto's frozen rocks


"Oh woe to thee
my Persephone
flee thee now
to thy father's house
for thy husband's hearth
hath been broken
and Hades' home
now just a token
My lofty edifice
a shattered wrack
an' all that's left
'tis a humble
wretched shack"



Pic Poem
https://www.pix-star.com/media/cache/download/9c3731c91f1a3d3519b4f05dc56562c3/JPlutoThouHastFallen-e52.jpg

.
just my spin on Ceres' and Pluto's planetary status - mixed in with a bit of Greco-Roman mythology - as Ceres and Pluto have been reduced to being merely "dwarf planets"...
Lawrence Hall Jul 2018
For Connie, a Friend Indeed

There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
The health certificates make for dull reading
And last month’s issue of Texas Monthly
Has not the old cache’ of Field and Stream

There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
Among the snaps of Baby’s First Haircut
Children and grandchildren in cute little frames
And lovely young girls all styled for the prom

There are flowers and scents and catalogues

But –

There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!

                                                          ­ Woof!
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Wade Redfearn Jul 2018
the green and waxy confusion is your cape and covering
topaz wings strum and flutter,
branches snap
beast and bug
geranium and dogwood
woodear spore and wolfsbane
flower and firm hedge
all wear goosebumps:
the whole army of generation, the waft and release
ready to conceive, to love and make root
to spill and ****
daylight, moonlight
well-fed and hungry
west and further west

a brush against your thigh flattens you
climbs your spine like a curse
robes you in purpose
to be and be alone

there you are: croucher, scuttler,
position known only to yourself
subclade of womankind
treasure in your soul
(in purses and pouches;
taking in, taking in)

it is private here and musty
you own your hands, your knees,
the dirt under them both,
the roots beneath that,
everything on the wind and below the blue sky
everything dark, and everything light:
kingdom of your own discovery
shroud and mountain and cache of mystery.

A door far away slides open
an echo of busy house, busy bones on the air.
Something in the oven.
Something in the heart.

What is the voice calling?
Who wants you home, child?
And if home is a warm meal, a bed,
a bath, a glass of milk,
a known touch,
then do you own your skin?

Aren't you small and lonely?
You are not.
mariamme  May 2018
turbulence
mariamme May 2018
it arises in the early hours
the sun's eyes not yet opened
by the quiet noises of dawn

| the breath in my lungs took a walk last night and hasn't made it's drunken way homeward

the lost hours between 1:17 am and 4:32, when my lids drew heavy under my brows despite the caffeine and racing thoughts

| why do you occupy all the rooms in my soul? you are so casual with my currency, it seems as though you wish me bankrupt on your love's doorstep

i'm too proud to look to the future; i glaze over my calendars with records of past deeds, hoping to emulate the glory years of golden sunsets and scant sorrows; we both know my heart is beating less and less as the minutes quicken to the final gate

| and i forgive the pain you've caused, mucking about where you don't belong and shredding my drapes. they enclose the cache of locked-away traumas and you couldn't have known, so i must forgive and suffer with compassion in my eyes yet

in the morning hours
when the sun has not yet woken
the air is thick with waiting
i am caught in the fire of desire
turbulence at ground level
pa3que Feb 13
wrapped up in caramel daydreams,
trying to resolve the screams,

down the windelstán, below,
is someone that he used to know,

one reached for a grip,
a one cold water sip,

but one could never hold,
as he was far too old,

nor old of age, nor old of gold,
but blood dripped down and it was cold,

thee chateau, a ****** mine,
crying crystals over wine,

given screams, now, louder tune,
mixing sugar with a spoon,

he can’t get them out his head,
wrapped, in bed he’s turning mad,

spiral staircase leads to cache,
he’s stabbed by guilt, gone in dash,

thee chateau still there remains,
screams still whisper, leaving stains.
Michael Feb 24
In the gloom of each day when it's dying
Standing to is the normal routine.
A time which I use for reflecting
On what we have done or we've seen.

It's the time, when my view blends with darkness;
And as daytime gives way to the night,
I review the way that we're working.
Are we doing this wrong or right?

Did Jim keep his distance from Stan at the creek?
Why Rod was stung by those bees.
And Frank, who found that crossing point
Despite its concealment by trees.

And the cache that we found on the high ground.
The call of a barking deer.
Searching that corpse before burying.
And asking why am I here?

Note:
Private Jim Kelly, national serviceman;
Private Eddy Stankowski, national serviceman;
Private Rod Menhennet, national serviceman;
Lance corporal Frank Chambers, national serviceman; and
Me.
Brandon Conway Sep 2018

September 16th 2018 1:34 pm

The war started between the illegible instructions and chunks of wood. I decided to enlist, well, more like volunteered. I arrived at the camp today and met a few loose screws. They don’t have time to train us, we are being shipped out as I write this in my journal.
I hope to god I survive this thing so I can see her face at the end. She will be ecstatic to see me alive, I know she has her doubts. We can not let the engrish win.

September 16th 2018 3:17 pm

We have arrived to our camp. It’s a pigsty. Styrofoam specks cover the yard like snow and cardboard chunks are blown to bits just over the trenches. No time to settle in. Just enough to down a cup of dirt coffee before we charge in. It’s been storming all day, everything is covered in mud.

September 16th 2018 3:56 pm

Stage one has been complete. We have a wall up. This should help stabilize anything that comes after us. It was no easy task and we have been told this was the easiest part.

September 16th 2018 4:32 pm

The foundation has been completed. There were casualties. Henry, a brave man, lost a hand and had to be evacuated. We can hold them back if our aim is true. I hope there are angels watching above.

September 16th 2018 4:33 pm

There are no angels watching, only devils in the disguise of pictures with the number on the wrong side and the finished side flipped around. The foundation had to come down. Back at square one.

September 16th 2018 5:56 pm

The foundation has been rebuilt. Correctly, I hope. More men have been lost. I know this is dark, but one had a flask on his body that hasn’t been emptied. It is now emptied.

September 16th 2018 6:29 pm

The wheels have finally been installed. We are now mobile! Thank god. We can now trek over anything that gets in our way. It’s still pouring rain. I wish I could find another flask.

September 16th 2018 6:53 pm

Hooks and roll and top have all been fitted and examined over. We may have done something right for once. There’s hope that we will win this thing after all.

September 16th 2018 8:48 pm

We stumbled onto a cache of cold ones. We lost sight of our goal for a while. We are back on track marching forward.

September 16th 2018 9:17 pm

The last wooden peg has been hammered in, the last ***** has been ******* and locked. This is it, it’s finally over. We won!

September 16th 2018 9:18 pm

“It’s about time” was my only reward.

It’s ok, I came out stronger than what I was. I have scars I can tell my kids about. The blisters from using hand tools and the knowledge on how to decipher Chinese disguised as English. Useful talents I’m sure.

September 16th 2018 9:20 pm

Finishing off that cache.
Today I put together a cabinet island.
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