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annh May 22
Ducks wrestle doubly
Wet from rain and river flow;
As above…qua-a-ack…so below.
‘Some people talk nonstop, but say nothing. Ducks speak only one word, quack, and communicate everything.’
- Jarod Kintz, Ducks are the Stars of the Karaoke Bird World
Dave Robertson Dec 2021
Call call callous
all wretched all broken all

hear the melody call
discordant heart
arrhythmic

choked, abysmal
abyss, abyss

while the clock still ticks
are we
Man Jun 2021
who the **** knows how an alien would view us

terrified, at the awe inducing power
we've wrestled from the world
and the lack of respect we have for it

mortified, at the sheer opulence
we've dug out from the earth
and that the many shall never see

inside, we all know
that anything makes more sense
than a perspective that rung
even neutral
Ylzm May 2020
Adam's hand wrestled and bound:
unsubmitting, defiant, in anger, rages;
The Name of the upper hand is known,
but denied, and the Son of Man blasphemed.
colette alexia Jan 2020
Are you angry?
I was.
I was angry you didn't love me enough
And still chose to tell me
But now, with time, I'm grateful
It was good for me to recognize those feelings in myself
I needed to wrestle with whether or not
I wanted to leave my relationship
Or value it more because we loved each other so much
There are a lot of people that I can love a little
But few, if only one, I can love a lot
And I don't know if I would've known that if we hadn't been caught
So while I was angry you didn't love me more
I see now that it was enough
I will always be grateful for what it was
And I hope you hold onto it
For the both of us
07.10.19
Sometimes you are called too big for people.
Because the heart is too big
The dreams are too big
The expectations are too big

But I’ve learned what that means
Is that other people are too small for you
Maybe you burn too bright.

Maybe you DO feel too much

But in a dark world what people need is light
Shining hopes and glowing dreams
The glory of a valiant character

Maybe they will be brittle and broken and old
But at least you will have had them
Those pulsating memories of adrenaline and beauty
Effort is no foolish thing

You may put it into only certain things,
But the reason people like me burn out so quickly is because
We put so much into everything
That eventually we can’t put anything into everything but the thought of death

See, we glowing, shining, beautiful, people
We are the ones who see the glory in effort
The intelligence, the courage

We know that failing is only a small possibility
If you are already in motion

We shiny people are also the darkest people
But effort is beautiful and strong
And effort isn’t you
You don't get to be effort
Effort is me.
onlylovepoetry Feb 2018
Parkland: Oh My divine, We Wrestle Over What is Yours



and what is mine

it took days for the after- shock and awe to arrive;

the bizarre tempo reversal, myself, out of order,
is my shame, after the mind’s pretense ennui of “yet another,”
had to slow seep away beneath the
firewall cutting off the pain of my the true self
and the I, of ordinary

how else, to keep the madness away?
it’s disguised in a well tended secured lockbox
chamber labeled, I, all about me,
deep hid in the rear, not too near the true self,
must keep the unseeing functioning, functioning

but bus-ted poet is triggered and the weep welling
in the eyes commencing that makes writing on a cell
on a moving vehicle an annoying frosting
on what is an inconsolable hell

everyone stares unawares that the shock,
is without awe, and the only awe is in awful awful awful awful

we sit at the Friday eve sabbath table to begin our negotiation;
but there is no negotiating though the excuses and the divine’s stumbling, flailing failings are pre-prepared,
we know this battle too well and the outcome as well,
it is mine true self’s to win, have me not
words and stanzas and music suffice
to convict the lord of the hosts, adonai

take all your seventy names in vain to crush the vanity of
omnipotence for your godliness degrades and your instant access to where the good in me resides is cutoff;
under My Contacts
you have been


blocked

we shall meet as always on the Day of Atonement
but this year no repentance to be granted, the pardons shared
with my kind only, none left for the lonely gone-gods,
no longer seek yours for me, there are 17 extra to be given out*

the left foot and the falsehoods join in the denunciation,
though some suggest reprieve and only reproach
for isn’t atonement possible for even gods?  No. not,
for a god who got human kindness installed in all his devices
but then never opened the app

my name was
onlylovepoetry;
but for now, till the culling of the agonies is done,
till the hollows are refilled and the curses fully final expended,
till the sudden eye tearing ceases to render me torn, messed,
you may call me nothing but this:

onlyreproachpoetry

should you come calling
there will be no beseeching,
just the stoic bearing witness of my silence,
my finger-pointing judgement,
and my angels presence

“May the angel Michael be at my right,
and the angel Gabriel be at my left;
and in front of me the angel Uriel,
and behind me the angel Raphael...”
and above me seventeen new protectors
whose names my true self will now memorize,

for now they are mine

~<•>~

2/16/18 4:34pm  ~ 2/17/18  3:34am
my wriggling
dory in
nautical wine
that attested
my craw
with my
line high
now artistry
win a
bite-sized cling
that naturally
could sing
and dance
with the
air and
rhythm of
its strand
Phi Kenzie Aug 2018
I’m afraid to sleep on earth
for the fear of having to fight again
battling for rest
only against myself

Past the stratosphere
no one can hear you dream
like they were trying all along

And I can’t either
which is what made it so appealing
but you can only wrestle with nothing up there
for so long
until the sky comes down again
mark john junor May 2018
the muse of her daytime mind
cast in paper and plaster
burns in effigy of her wandering heart
directionless tones seep from beneath her lip
as her hot eyes scatter place to place
in the neatness of arranged stuffed animals
who neither claim or deny
just gather dust like a memorial to the passing ages

the 8th muse sits entwined
in the onslaught of the forest's burning desire
to grow unchecked by man's hand
to grow despite the sea of grey gripping the sky

her bland flesh
in pastel colors
just clings to the rain
running like makeup under tears
and the handcrafted sketches
of paper-thin smiles
are but a foretaste of masterpieces to come
she will find her own Sistine Chapel
for her soul to wrestle
she will find the word redemption
and know its meaning to the core of her soul
© 2018 mark john junor all rights reserved
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