Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Out of the sea.
The air a splendid cage.
Gasping upon the surface,
Born to change.

To fight for fins, for wings,
And crowds form against the rock.
Patterns shimmer across skins.

Glaciers shape sound, sickness gets in,
And we fight for fins and wings.
Foundations empty for totems,
To fall in.
First few verses. Written in 5 mins and may, just may be the first piece I paint my debut series of works to.
he'll be seen with
others of his sort  
for they travel in
a drove's escort  

he's not an Angus
nor a Hereford  
yet he's of the
bovine accord

over the centuries
he's roamed inside the Utah state
so he can find food
for his stomach's sate  

the first nation people
will symbolize him on a totem pole
as this represents
his strength of role

if you can guess what
animal he is
you'll be the one
to solve the quiz
K Balachandran Jan 2019
A totem am I,
Double helix memories,
Of DNA history!
Nis Jul 2018
Among the garbage and the flowers,
forgotten between stars,
abandoned by their creator,
who probably didn't even exist;
a poet is born.
They care not much for their life
for they've seen through it, they know.
Not different from their peers,
not new in their painful world,
sometimes garbage, sometimes a flower,
maybe forgotten, maybe a star,
certainly a creator.
They know and are known,
they love and are loved,
they hate and are hated.

Among the garbage and the flowers
a totem is erected, its life decided,
it's grow is determined, forever.

Among the garbage and the flowers,
between the poet and the totem
a poem falls and makes a soundless noise.
Dutiful in its love and hate,
it loves the totem and hates the poet.
It moves, unmoved and unmoving,
away from the poet to the totem,
it races towards an unseen goal line.

Among the garbage and the flowers
a photo is taken,
an image of a poet, a totem, a poem.
Something calls your attention
you look at it, and they are gone.
I took two totems
and held them to
one in my right pocket
and one in my left
for clenching
tight in reminder
while walking about
of what's really

a brass bull
keychain strung
to the keys
that opened my home
and made it mine

for prosperity
and material health
and weighing down
to the ground

and a little hunk
of lapis lazuli
speckled through
with golden

for keeping
bright blue and
my spirit

the bull broke off
its chain and
left a dangling void
a superfluous
wiggling on old
keys turned in
to an old landlord

the stone
slipped out of my
jacket pocket
in a cab to the
airport to a plane
to the other side
of the world

now of my totems
but a short refrain
and a
memory's glitter

© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
It is perhaps naive to believe in totems. To believe that one can will something into existence just by imbuing an object with its representation. If a brain, if a life do not want to hold those things yet, then the totems will simply slip out of one's pocket, forgotten.
Next page