#analogies
It's actually a pretty simple formula.
You inquire about
All the folk & mythology
Of any given area.
Investigate the philosophy
Inherent or lacking of each.
As a whole
And by each parable.
Reduce the content
To a "digestible" format.
Substitute words or phrases
Which do not conform
To the rest of the tapestry.
And the first to sew
Did so to sow¹,
Not to make sows².
A condensed collection of the known world's beliefs!
That is,
They wanted things to grow.
To fruit rather than in snout style.
Silk, amber, jade, spice, salt,
Tea, tin, & royal.
Those routes we did the walk
And therein had good talks!
It's been completely butchered beyond recognition!
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 11:11 AM UTC
I say I often,
Is what my mother said.
My sister's too logical to understand
The analogies I use to defend my actions
She said I'm too creative,
She even rated me at an 8.
Apparently that means for me,
Saying sorry is on my plate.
Jan 29, 2024
Jan 29, 2024 at 8:08 AM UTC
When I start to write a poem my initial reaction is to
Purse my lips, brush aside my hair, twiddle my toes, try to feel
Where I am write down, who
I am write now, equal measures physically and mentally
In the case that the tap is on, my thoughts flowing in a steady stream I greedily clutch at them
Some are caught successfully in a bucket but more than I realize slip through
The cracks in my fingers
The times when the **** seems firmly shut I’m left
Waiting,
For an opening in my mind that seems to have dried up,
Not a drop left
So, I start digging. A scratch, two, eventually like a dog frantic for his treasure
I usually hit something
But as to whether it’s my prize is another matter
I’m more often hit with a rock
A very hard unmoving rock
Although, sometimes the rock is gold
Or pyrite and I can pass it off as such
It still glitters and shines
And that’s fine, isn’t it?
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 5:00 PM UTC
The strands tangle and twist
As if my finger,
Is the center of a tiny universe
Of interlocking twining twirling black
With a simple twist and snap
Are ripped,
Star crossed lovers
Every Romeo to his Juliet
Are rip, rip, ri-torn apart
The hair from the hair tie
Yet,
Like tentacles clinging on
A stubborn slug, repulsive
Yet in an obscure manner
Admiringly persistent
It continues to hold on
Like a lizard regrows it’s tail
Impossible,
To truly chop off
So too does the hair insist
Upon an adamant refusal to separate
As if hair and tie are one
Interlocked
In a ferocious battle... Or,
Perhaps, a passionate embrace?
Are they one?
Whether it be so or not
I decide not to bother
Why, should I take up the mantle
Of the evil stepmother, wicked witch, cruel king...
You name it
To separate the two, lovers or competitors
They maybe
Why insist,
Upon what will never
Come true,
At least,
In the case of any proper Disney fairy tale
Is what I tell myself,
throwing down the hair tie
In favor of writing poetry about it
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 12:30 AM UTC
My mind offers a compromise
Which is instantly refuted
Shot down
I’m absolutely amazed by the sheer
Number of superficial constraints placed
Upon me, my superstitions, my desires, my obligations
Each one currently impossibly to fulfill
Each side impossible to sait
And so,
A stalemate
Sitting here, doing nothing
Unmoving, but
Thoughts whirling about
Fidget spinners, or
Bablades repeatedly clashing
Repeatedly smashing
Till it’s just me and the broken debre
But,
All you see
Is a girl
Too lazy to move
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 7:45 PM UTC
A shadow holds me in his grip and seeks the bones that he must find. The grazes of ghostly fingers on myself remind me of my ending youth and the ticking time that is left.
I’ve disappeared into the morning fog as the people I love have begun to stare straight through me They strain to look at me although I vanish upon them catching a small glimpse- I am acid to the cornea causing burning blindness and hatred.
These bones are brittle and the wind has picked up, the sky is darkening as if to rain and the rainbow day is done. However, the rainbow days were spent as a child whisked to the side to be plucked like a fruit all of the brightness and sweets taken, leaving me dull, laughter drops from me like a stone.
I attempt to concentrate on the slivers of light peering through the bars of my own psychological prison cell, but such magnification did not set my heart on afire.
Rain droplets taste my skin, unraveling at the ripples as 3 lightning bolts fork through the houses, 7 claps of thunder, 12 bursts of laughter in the house next door and a thousand tears rolling down my cheeks. I suddenly realize that my head was severed from my body days ago while lying sleepless on the worn couch.
Each season the garden dies, i die with each, until i die no more- although his death and mine were not the same, we still rot underneath the dirt in worms and earth as the city streets blacken and decompose.
The tears cling to the sleeve of my jacket mucus separating with a sticky pull and the dolls and smiles of my life are gone replaced by the headache and the row of cuts on my thighs.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 3:03 PM UTC
I’m meeting a friend tomorrow, one I haven’t seen in some years save for the incidental meeting a week ago that sparked this reunion
My thoughts, Reminiscent, tinged with melancholy for that time dotted with puffs of whip cream, sugar, sparkles, and joy spilling from the sky
We were mages one moment,
The elements at
Our beck and call
With a flick of our hands
Warrior cats the next
Loyally guarding
Bravely scarring
We lives in our world of monsters, and magic, and peach fuzz
None of the extra complications, the insecurities, the splotches marring our once vibrant and lovely canvas, turning it from a rainbow sparkle unicorn pony...to a mare
More time for text books
Less time for novels
More time for homework
Less time for TV
More time for crushes and heartbreak and insecurities and tears
Less time to run straight ahead without a care in the world
Reality, setting in like large boulders, so heavy and present, jutting into your life, impossible to unsee
But,
It’s not all planes crashing and burning, because now that she’s no longer made up into a sparkle pony, you can see the mare for the
beauty she is
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
Category 2,
not too bad...
Swirling, whirling
Pounding, hounding
Rolling, Spinning
But
Manageable
Category 3...
Freight train,
coming from every direction
Major, but nothing new
Just an hour
Hold on,
We'll pull through
Pressure suddenly
DROPPING
Ears constantly
POPPING
Category 4,
...
Too late
My father's sharp
Breath
Pieces of homes
ripped off like flakes of skin
Leaving the ground barren
Only the bear bones
possibly remaining
Till they too,
are forcefully wrenched
apart,
A majestic structure,
now reduced
simply,
to *******
Mother nature
hurling trees
in her
wrath
All-
...
Gone,
in
a
matter
...
of seconds
The roar
mirroring the one,
in my head-telling me to
get
Get OUT
NOW
The world...
a symphony
of rage, ferocity, passion
Violent reds,
splotches of
orange and fuchsia
That,
I unfortunately,
seem
trapped within
As the clashes and roars
Waves and cutting wind
Swirl around me, I wonder,
is this,
what an insect feels like,
stuck in a washing machine?
Come to bed,
my father calls
I go,
reluctantly,
to the pillows and covers
that should be warm and soft,
but to my touch,
appear frigid
stiff
My eyeballs
practically popping
until at
some unknown time,
they shut
and I
SINK
Sink
sink
...
...
Sunlight streams in,
A dream?
Perhaps...
Possibly...
Maybe...
Oh, if only...
Unable to contain the hope,
I leap up to my window- And freeze
Debris-
not trees,
not homes,
not anything
Just a mass of objects rendered useless and stamped with the label of
-DEBRIS
...
My father says,
No more running water
My neighbor's little blue
shed,
...
in shambles
Yet,
as I step outside
After what seems,
like a long arduous battle
I was an unlucky
Bystander
caught in the middle
of
Yet,
Despite the
churning feeling
in my stomach The broken battered *******
the ruined property The, miserableness
Of the situation
But then again...
As my father,
fervently
prays
praises
Thanks the Lord
...
My mind,
is blown away
As I stand,
In awe
as my eyes take in the majesty
of those few,
solitary,
hundred year old houses
...
still standing
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
This life we're living, this place we're at, this thing we're feeling. Its amazingly surreal. Like a waking dream that is our reality. Almost too good to be true. And while every rose has gotta have its thorns, even our thorns are, oh, so sweet. Maybe they remind us of how frail we are. How quick a ***** could draw blood. And even the blood is sweet. In a way. In a dark twisted beautifully morbid way.
Our way.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 11:32 PM UTC
I know how it feels
How it feels when there’s a gremlin gnawing on your side
It sits behind your eyes,
And pushes out tears
It comes from nowhere, and anytime
From the middle of a lecture
To being held in the arms of the one you love
And it’ll push you apart.
And away
Its little claws grasping at invisible threads connected to your mind
While logic cowers in the corner
And you're left alone
There you’ll turn to the one holding you
moments ago
And they’ve turned too
turned away
So you lay in defeat,
letting the gremlin crawl back into your ear
latching back on
this consistency is the only thing coming up clear
draining you more day by day
but you let it
because
control seems better then the inevitability of the water that surrounds you when you take a dip in the deep end
-but othertimes-
when you're feeling braver,
finished submitting to the shallow end
you'll try and settle it down,
or at least help it sleep
meditation
medication
breathing
tea,
but
these start to ring up useless
hope becomes your ploy
so maybe one day
those bite marks in your side will heal
This gremlin is not biased.
it does not care about race,
or status,
or gender
it has no consistency
it may plague you for weeks on end,
no relief
or room to breathe,
and disappear without a trace for a couple weeks more,
but it always knows the way back
it knows you
This gremlin is inconsiderate.
It does not care of your disposition
towards life
or academics
or your career
It does not care of who you are
and at times it will try to define you
use you against yourself
but just as a tree may lose its leaves,
and blooming flowers
you define yourself from your roots
so sleep tight,
and settle in,
because
although your fight is far from won,
you've always got one thing to hold on to,
to cling to
and coddle in the dark
when the gremlin is quiet and still
dance in the solitude
and laugh
because you are you
and beautiful
down
to
each
and
every
root
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 8:16 PM UTC
Life, love an cooking
are the same-
all of these,
require,
the proper ingredients,
to create a balanced
and perfectly wonderful
life changing recipe.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
I know
I shouldn't feel guilty for putting myself above you.
but lately, I've felt regretful
questioning my reasoning, my sanity, because I need you
(no)
I told you all my truth
everyone views her victim
to my crazy mind, that can't decide,
(you run when things aren't easy)
-and now I've begun to believe them.
I thought we could be friends
I apologized for your jealousy
made it all my fault (I should've known)
it was too easy.
Communication was key,
she said she got the memo
but she's been assuming things she doesn't know
and I've been feeling dreadful.
(stop)
I know she is affected by my actions,
believe me, I know too well,
and maybe this is me overthinking things,
after all I am sick in my head.
If only she knew the way you claw into my brain
(about her) everytime of everyday
I'm exhausted of the way you make me feel
Because one minute I feel just fine
and another I feel fried
im not free.
(you made her kryptonite to me,
but you are me
and this is more than just exhausting,
its deadly)
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC
Just beyond the lapping water I lay
upon the sand
a book in hand
-of words much like my own.
Though style, thoughts, and construction unique
the form (poetry) is all so familiar and warm
like home.
How much ive grown
-from the days I’d only consume literature of tales I could dream of.
Now my taste has grown much more keen,
an eye for insight so far unseen.
Answers of which I doubt Ill find,
though nonetheless I value
like friends of mine.
And in this moment near days end
the wind is blowing
my hair on end
A shift I notice:
The way my skin gleams in the low hung sun
The way my shadow perfectly eclipses the soft sand
The way I feel so very content in the moment.
A shift I notice:
How the day has gone well
How I feel so so swell
How I smile for no reason at all.
And just for now I savor,
I see,
The world (and me) are rolling, crashing, upon the shore,
Symbiotically.
things are looking up
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 10:01 PM UTC
It's hard to admit at times,
how deep I've sunk.
When it all began
I thought I was manipulative
smart;
the way I could "pretend" not to care
so I could escape the shipwrecks I inspired.
At the time I was so preoccupied with my fears
to notice just how much I'd disappear
It seems so inexplicable to care all too much
and suddenly
swiftly
so terrifyingly numb.
And sometimes it's everything
in every wake of blood coursing through my veins
the fear
the numbness
the pain
draining to vacuity, to ruin,
And in the waves bring immeasurable unease
disrupting an ocean of deafening speechlessness.
Some days are easier,
calmer,
some days are ******* impossible*.
And always it seems much easier
to rest,
to sleep,
to collapse into the foamy rapids,
then to swim against the riptide;
And despite the efforts I've drawn in sand
the allure of the sea floor is present at all times.
But it always gets better,
though admittingly this bubble is hard to remember.
*In constant flow the sea is me,
chaotic, dark, free,
and so devistatingly beautiful,
a never ending cycle of
birth and death and continuity.*
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
Touch the roughness of my natures bark,
Through the needle ****** of my out-stretched (branched) legacy,
How I once spired toward the heavens,
But now am filled with rot and moldy decay,
All ways had my arms stretched out,
Green with envy,
Of having you not by my side,
But seen in the company of theirs,
Yet now my ****** have softened,
As I have altered from a rugged envious green,
To a mellow yellowed,
And the last of me is drying up inside,
I still stand alone,
My rise upward has all but continued onward,
My branched out legacy as you now see,
Is now wasting away,
I am a near naked skeleton,
Soon to become no more,
Oh, how at my life’s end shall I do what I refused to do in my pride,
For life shall surely break my back… and I left to lean on others,
Their arms shall hold me up with all their strength,
But their help is now futile,
For the weight of my life’s gluttony,
Will break their resolve and push me down ward,
That is now the legacy of my life’s route,
But before I collapse,
With a rage of hot red… I shall become,
My needles will one last time harden,
As I frantically poke my anger into all who dare reach into me,
The rugged skin of my stature may have partly flaked off,
But I want not that my soul core be reached,
By any who wish to reach in and dissect it,
My strength or weakness need not their assistance,
Nor their explanation of matters concerning it,
I was once a great tree in an endless forest of trees,
But it was you alone… that had made me special.
(c) Joseph D R-H Palmateer
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
Have you ever seen a moth die,
Mid-flight?
Neither have I.
But imagine how it would drift
From the immaterial sky,
Upon the slightest currents of air,
Without even a whisper
That you or I
Would be able to hear..
What a sight.
With love
From above
As a guide,
Seemingly glowing
With mother moon’s light.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
Moving at such a momentum that is necessary for the mere realization makes any attempt of catching yourself futile. You’re moving too fast with entirely too much force. Your fingers scrape at hard dirt sides, the glass that sand once was cuts once again. Branches turn into hot, fiery rope in the palms of your hands.
Just fall.
Land well.
And begin to ascend….
Yet again.
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC
we walk on thin ice covering a lake of sharks and serpents.
i feel like i'm loving you through time.
we are not from the same era.
your soul is old and wise and mine is young and foolish.
we are so far apart yet so compatible.
i love you through time
but every day that time decreases a few hours.
i am counting down the days
where our time difference will reach close to 0
and you will have to decide
whether or not to let the difference go to 0
or break the clock.
i love you, but we are not from the same time.
we are spread apart by millions of minutes,
minutes full of emotions and love and happiness,
full of sadness, pain and heartbreak,
full of you and me.
are there enough to stay afloat?
i don't want to wait until 0 seconds. i need to know before then.
i don't want a broken clock.
it will break as the thin ice over the lake.
i can't use a broken clock.
i can't out-swim the sharks and serpents.
i can't lose you,
because i will be broken
and i won't know how to fix myself.
the clock is approaching 0.
is this time that we've spent saving ourselves
greater than the time we'll spend
together on solid ground?
i don't even think our converged timeline is a possibility.
we are not from the same era,
and i don't think we will ever be.
i feel as if i'll always be loving you through time.
this thin ice is breaking and i am the one without a lifesaver.
-m. j. g.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
ching, ching
Two men walk into a local cafe.
A city boy, and a Townsman
The cityboy sports
Slicked up hair.
Blue button up shirt,
Grey slacks.
Dress shoes.
The townsman simpler.
Brown hair.
Orange T-shirt,
cargo pants.
Work boots.
"Hey there!" Says the city boy.
walking up to the counter.
"Do you ladies have different roasts of coffee?
Or do you have just one kind?"
The Register girl looks at him sideways.
"What are you talking about?"
"I want a black light roast if you have it. Also, two shots over ice."
He hands her his travel mug.
"What's this for?"
The girl fondles the travel mug.
"I'd like my coffee in that please."
The manager puts a hand to the girls shoulder.
"The house coffee is a light roast doll, give him that."
"Cream and sugar?" Asks the register girl.
"Oh god, please no." Laughs the city boy "Thank you."
Handing over a credit card.
The register girl does not understand
what is so funny about cream and sugar.
"Cash?" Says the manager.
"Is there an atm? I can only offer this, but I know how to change that if you point me in the right direction."
"No ATM. We just Offer a discount for cash, we'll take your card." Says the manager.
The city boy waits for his drinks.
The townsman, walks up and says
"Coffee, please"
The manager hands him a paper cup with coffee, cream, and sugar.
He pays them in cash.
smiles, nods. Says: "Thank you"
Then waits for the city boy.
"Here's your sippy cup."
Says the register girl.
Handing over his travel mug.
The city boy stands there waiting patiently.
"Are you waiting for something?"
"Yes. my two shots over ice?"
"Oh I put it in there."
"Could I have two shots over ice please? I'll pay for it again if you forgot."
"Oh we don't have an espresso machine.
Our shots are like a syrup."
"Oh... Is there syrup in here?
I just wanted two shots over ice."
"Well like... I mean our prices are so low anyway, it's no big deal, but we don't have an espresso machine so..."
"Sorry" says the manager.
"Thank you ladies." Says the townsman.
The cityboy grabs the townsmans hand.
They leave the Cafe.
The city boy sips his
Botched coffee.
"I've had good, bad, and know what I want.
I don't want to be seen as difficult because I'm educated."
He tolerates it.
The townsman sips his
Familiar Coffee.
"Sometimes ignorance is bliss."
He enjoys it.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
I didn't want to be cliché about it,
but he was the sun after the rain.
He was the light after the outage.
The courage in fear,
and the dessert after the meal.
He was the sigh of relief after a long day,
he was the wind in my sails on the vast ocean of my open heart.
I didn't want to be cliché about it, but there was no other way to describe the way I felt in my heart. Anything was possible. There was no reason to listen to sad music anymore, because for once in my life I was happy.
The poems I wrote weren't just strings of word simply pressed against a dead tree someone processed so we can write on, but heavy weighted letters that put together the reasons why you could look at a person and feel more at home than the place you grew up in.
He sat there asking me how much I loved him,
I pictured the rest of my life,
and how nice it would be with him holding my hand for the rest of forever.
I didn't want to be cliche about it,
"As much as the night brings out the stars, after the hours of them being covered up."
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
I'm a little wilted orchid
poisonous and dead
if you aren't too careful love,
I might just lose my head.
Flowers aren't so pretty
when their colors aren't so bright
I haven't had colors in a long time love,
The sun has bleached me white.
Yet you still think I'm beautiful
Im grateful, darling its true
I am almost recovered love
and its all thanks to you.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
Poetry’s carved into her flesh,
intertwined with her ribs
and parasitic on her brain, the softest ***** now that her thrashing chest hardened.
It’s the thorn of a plastic rose, jabbing her distinct print, and
analogies crawling down to her jaw line,
sprawling at individual forks of two points; it was always only two.
Melodic qualities burgled her mind to
exist in ubiquity throughout her pores
and soiled strands of hair pinched with a tie ten centimeters from the root.
Poetry, disobedient and sovereign,
lived to spell a testimony
individual to her since no one breathed her air.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
Roses aren't always metaphors, you know.
For the ghosts in the walls that write poems about how you sleep.
For the shadows in empty closets that you fear will creep.
For the rivers you've travelled that leave burns on your arms.
For the faces pressed against windows that slip colours into the wind.
For deserted bus stops made of crushed beer tins.
For the bars filled with grannies and trannies and the best kind of sins.
Sometimes they're analogies.
And boy, are they lovely.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Clean endings never exist and I can't breathe when you're around.
I get stupid; I get dizzy.
You're like a bad taste in my mouth, I'm doing everything I can to clean you out.
You're every ****** word on the tip of my tongue.
Wounded birds have more fight left in them than I have standing in front of you today. I am a wimp in my own sense and fashion.
I can't think when you're around.
Do you understand the emotional breakdowns that go on inside my mind when you're around?
It feels like a blind person trying to read a book. Like a roller coaster flying off the tracks.
I love you more than I can explain in any sense. So much that I need to you get away from me before I end up insane.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC