#nationalpoetrywritingmonth
I've been down for so long being up feels foreign. I've been down so long I made my way to my ancestors and acquainted with them. I've been down so long I think I need a decompression chamber because my lungs are not used to breathing freely, so used to breathing synthetically. breathe the breathes permitted at the permitted times, but now breathe freely. breathe like my ancestors wanted me too. breathe because i want to. i want to breathe. and now i can.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
I have dog senses when it comes to people's feelings. I'm very aware of people possessing pain around me. when I talk to someone resignation in pain I yield to them. because my senses can tell me the direction and the quantity of pain but never why. I never know if this person is the pain receiver or the pain sender, but sometimes pain's weight is so heavy I break to it and let my young pup heart attend to it like a vet. when identifying what pain this person posses I either prepare to fetch a solution or my number for them because maybe they just need to adopt me into their life but if they are a pain sender, I find an exit. I know how our commercials end and I'd rather choose to be Iams dog than another SPCA survivor.
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
My freshman year is a reclamation. a reclamation of how I can't play both patient and doctor. My freshman year was supposed to be the second chance that I thought my dad wanted, my freshman year was where the excuses were not accepted anymore by professors nor by me. All of freshman year I lived with my dad. I tell people, its to save money, it's convenient, it's bonding, while in all honesty living with my dad has been the time I feel the farthest from him, maybe cause we started with a crash start, maybe I just happened just like childhood just like my life. my freshman year was a reclamation, a reclamation that if I'm 5 or 50 miles away from home, my mom has me like gravity. when I come back home it may take some time for her gravitational pull to set in but doesn't take a semester, a school year, a high school, a life, for her to be there, to stay there and to be my foundation, my reclamation.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 3:01 PM UTC
To the person who stole my bike, you got more than just a pair of wheels or your next thrill. you have a semester at your feet. you have a transportative transformed version of me at your disposal. just like me it's rugged, beat up, and loyal to whomever it has a hand commands it, but not loyal enough where it stays in the owner's possession. to the thief, treat it better than I did, treat it often, cause if you're getting the same ride I got out of it, it will either break down on you or **** you but just like me, it won't die. just sleep. to the thief, I wish you stole my bike and got hit when you biked in the street. to the thief, take care of it better than I did.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
There was a reason I unfriended you in November of 2016, but my heart won't let the rest of my body do what your president does so well like hate, discriminate, let ignorance drive. with the click of this accept I am far from forgiving who you choose to align yourself with. I just do what people of your party does so well like forget. like, forget the humans has rights no matter what shade of skin you are, or where your place of birth is. I'll just forget the all lives matter posts to my black lives matter post. I'll just forget........
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 3:04 PM UTC
J’ai Perdu Mon Couer
I kept all my childhood dreams
in the sweaty palms of my hands
and one after another they found a
regret and slipped
away.
Jeg Mistett mitt hjerte
J’ai garde tous les rêves
dans la paume de mes mains
moites et l’un après l’autre ils
ont trouvé un regret et tranquillement
glissé ****
I Lost My Heart
Jeg beholdt barndommen drommer
i svett handflatene og etter hverandre
de fant anger go fled unna.
But that is not where I am.
I am a day dreamer
I am a dream chaser, all night long.
I am striding half empty
always to feel the joy, pouring
spilling over the edge of
my day into night. Running
down the sides of this vessel,
saturated with the pieces
of the dreams that stuck
to the sweat and in the pores
of these two hands of a man
that hide the child’s hands inside.
De svarte skyene kjenner mitt navn
Yes, the black clouds know my name
Les nuages noirs connaissent mon nom.
And I know the God that created this heart.
Je l’entends battre
Som Thors hammer
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
I remember Reaching for your hand before we first kissed.
I remember Enjoying the warmth of our hands touching as did our lips.
I remember Measuring my words whispered in your ear, to take you beyond bliss.
I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed.
I remember Minutes spent together, the blood pounding in my state of light headed
bliss.
I remember Brown eyes drinking in my blue eyes, as we touched finger tips.
I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed.
I remember Relishing the next time our hands would be closer than our lips.
I remember
the letter
you wrote
saying it was
better that
this was good-
bye, I was across
the country
and could
not test the
look in your
eyes, gone
cold. This
rememberance
is very old.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
She kills things.
"Roses are red, the violets are dead.”
She stopped, looked at her toes as she spoke.
Moving at full speed, Her hair flowed from her head .
The door suddenly ****** open, against the vase, which She broke.
Quickly, running, fast up the steps, to find Her granddad
She knew she was is in trouble, forgetting her grandparents warning.
Where the violets had been, there was a shimmering, growing lake.
She saw the garden, in full sun, that she watered that morning.
Bored, across the yard She skipped to count, how many would it take?
Surely done, it was playtime, strawberry stained lips, and no one around.
They left Her there to tidy up, shut off the water, and pick strawberries.
They put Her to work in the flower garden full of colour, and a few bees.
Grandpa said to Grandma, “that girl has a lot of cheek."
She said,"Roses have thorns, violets are weak”
She was the garden tempest.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched me sit down there, at a small table.
There were two black tables small, with four chairs each, her eyes shut, she slept.
Her phone at her elbow, tension, burdened ****** features, i prayed.
I left her, I walked out, found a man bent over, a humble posture
At peace, bent head covered, his tobacco stained fingers laced, prayerfully.
He was a blue jean Jesus, beard bore the same stains as his rough hewn hands.
I passed by briskly and did not look him in the eye, walked down the street.
The blonde pole dancer next caught my eye, she wore short shorts that bared her thigh.
Her habit called, the street she knew, "No Fear, Little Sleep, and Need of Prayer"
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
Battle royal for a bottle of red.
Up the ante, we're going for Chianti!
Grant me kindness, pour a splash on my fettered tongue.
Up the ante, we're going for a thousand cases of Chianti!
Hoist the mains'l, sea dogs, raise the anchor, or you be hung!
Up the ante, the Cap'n is in a wanton need of Chianti!
Another wine won't do?
Up the ante, we know where they harbour the Chianti-shhhh
Wind be fast, my thirst is deep, as the desert is dry!
Up the ante, we're not paying' for the Chianti we're takin"
The ship from stem to stern, you get to clean, when we return, alive!
Up the ante, it is worth all the cases of Chianti, below decks we can hold!
Up the ante, we're putting' out to sea, we have a nose for good Chianti!
For when the Cap'n retires he will drink and
sing this Chianti Chanty at a seaside shanty, all day!
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe
Going out on run, in the full Sun
Helmet on my head, both hands on my... Rifle,
If you said "gun", drop and give your weapon 10 of your best pushups.
If this ain't fun, call you mom, call your dad, at mile ten they can pick you up.
Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-No
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe
Sound off ...
one,... two,... three,... four,.. one,two,... three,four
I'll keep running when my legs turn to jelly
I'll finish this run, crawling on my belly
How far?
All the way!
You gonna quit??
No Way! Not today!!
Sound off ...
one,... two,... three,... four,.. one,two,... three,four
one mile down nine to go!
just warming up on the road.
Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe
Don't let your rifle hit the ground,
When you need it most it might let you down.
Hold your rifle above your head
Yes sir, but I'd rather be dreaming in my bed
Sound off ...
one,... two,... three,... four,.. one,two,... three,four
Hidey-Hidey-Hidey-Ho
Wiggely-Wiggly-Wiggly-Woe
Are we there yet?
Closer than we were, you bet!
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:12 AM UTC
"Glory be to God for dappled things,"
from this point on, plucked thin heart strings,
broken hearted blues, smooth as whiskey, for IT burns and the heart has no memory,
Hug the person, not the day, be the tortise shell pattern, that stops the
ocean in its' tracks.
Sit on a curb in a distant place, counting bullet casings, as no one cares about how many tear drops
have fallen,
Swirl the red wine in the bowl of glass and watch the glass bleed back into the wine,
And stretch out on the pattern of shadows as sunset catches, resets, and releases,
and yes you and your lonely spirit, search high and low for an identity, and want to read language poetry, so you can misunderstand the meaning and have an excuse,
but be a wind instrument, the world around you plays the notes, He wrote the song, sings along, and without you, there would be no music, at all
for those who need to meet you yet.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Will it always only be a safe dream
like wandering in a bare wilderness,
game to robust predators, and wildness
clear choices call across the primal stream.
It was late Spring when we first did daydream
the fragrant flowers were dusting progress
Winter's meagre offer, a cold caress
the wildlife, sedate upon the grounds glean
of Fall's gathered rare jewelled leaf mountains,
among the valley's musk we would linger
peak with sounds, echoes loud voiced joy bringer
beyond Summer's pleasured column fountains,
wayward wine red chances, seasoned drinker
deep red and bottled up, loose danger pains.
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
moon beams read all the stories to the children at night as they
went to bed, not sleepy
the Underjordiske were everywhere they could cause a fray, always
acting out and creepy
and lost people from far away have stories to tell
but eyes, echo against safe canyon walls, they are lost too,
And the Earth gives a beautiful sigh out my window, and the branches and leaves say "again, do it again, do"
I let my self drift on the Columbia River, an inner tube swollen with the air from the smelter on the steep banks of that place called home
and here the clear and cold night snaps me out of my reverie
for just a moment, I see the gloaming
the dream, I had as a child climbing mountains all,
ones that scratched the belly of the sky
from there I would see all the longboats there that ever floated
on any ocean or any bay with sails on mast high, flags to fly
and the bright lit ones would be the funeral pyres
lighting the way to the Rainbow Bridge,
"Odin, Ve, can you hear me?"
big dreams that don't fit in small houses and needles
from the street won't pick locks but pierce lives, lost souls of the sea
and my past is a lover that lets me sleep at the foot
of her bed, curled up on a cushion of Dogwood flowers,
every morning to wake up in a different alley and walk just long
enough to see that I am lost, powerless
but i fear that this is savagely wrong
and there is no music in here to sooth the beast
standing so close to border of reality that I
hear all the illegal crossings scream, West to East
and Belugas gently drop
into the deep part of the
of the River Fraser where I wait, they leave
me her letter and take the bait
and she said "she didn't think
I would mind if she found someone
else, as the distance and time was further
than she first thought", and the tears...
filled that flow since, and through time
Empty
at my feet helmets, two, both an ancient one, a new
one, i light the letter divided in half light the paper on fire
and
my great great great grandfather says as he
turns away saying "there is no shade in the shadow of the cross"
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 2:44 AM UTC
Zen grasses spring from the brown blades of Winter
Dirt dark, young trees harbour the empty spaces,
Full heavy wet clouds to lift, drop crowds of rain,
Falling drops land where grasses spring, a hint there.
Parking lot watchmen, patrol the dark places,
People get help with injury and disease,
Cars, people and water collect, but it's plain
Zen grasses hold rolling rain drops, offer Peace
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 11:47 PM UTC
And in the end I will wander and squander my final moments selfish
I will grab from some past notion to choose motion by walking
Thru pain and sorrow will convince me that tomorrow is enough
Terminal diagnosis will drive me from the world spouting profane
Words down the street, into the woods, clothing optional
regrets hold on all the deeds left undone
save for knowing my roots laid bare
the maelstrom inside will rain tears
start speaking sounds of darkness,
from lips garbed white
hear the words
if I...
Aye
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
How do you do?
I am here for you.
Simple for me to say,
I am a container of dismay
After Thursday.
What is good poetry,
what is a good poet,
(s)he is a teller of stories in verse,
s(he) makes music out of sounds,
(s)he explores tension and boundaries,
s(he) undresses your sensibilities,
(s)he has a heart tapped into broken vessels,
s(he) can cry while in the midst of a write,
(s)he writes poetry for others, almost always from the self
s(he) can write love with a thousand different metaphors,
but chooses not so to do.
(s)he loves language, maybe more than self, has as many
books as dust on the shelf.
s(he) is a quiet observer, with no remorse for putting into
words what the sky says to the child, what the man
hears from the Earth, what a woman knows about
birth and the pains of life as well, that no man would
survive and too the wisdom found as one walks along
the garden path.
(s)he knows that poetry is readily available, simply by being
vulnerable and sometimes obtuse.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
if one day,
I am away,
worry not.
if in two or
three days,
there are
no words,
no write,
I am all right.
if a week
becomes
two and s t r e t c h e s
the ache…
to a month
or two in
you.
I have gone
across
the Rainbow Bridge,
to the Other side,
with no regrets…
save not knowing
you, as one of this
Warriors conquests.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
Across
the sky
cloud smears remain
Gauze
in bunches
white and bright
Winged
ones broken
no flying dared
Spirits
strong births
and weddings still
People
parked lives
in garages safe...
other
places need
earth shaking change
from
flightless broken
wings ill repaired
1968
turns out
a 2015 sequel
Cities
both, streets
filled, with rubble.
One
an Earthquake,
other Equality troubles.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
there is good in all,
woman and man to a fault,
(the only bad came the result of a fall from grace)
being a woman does
not disqualify you from
a man's work,
men take note,
say with me by rote,
'I must stop being a ****
(chauvinisima)
take my love to the next level
measure it against the bevel of the Platonic
lust is a bust, then there is love, gimme agape
every time after a time,
and after a while you might under-
stand beauty...real beauty...really understand,
take as much time as you need,
you need this time...to understand the sublime.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Twain with his wit, to some, was an ear pain
Mark, a pen name, his words to heed, no disdain
Samuel Clemens, the humorist man was a gifted teller of story
Penned, Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, innocent boyhood glory.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
I would like to watch you wrestle,
with your sheets so white.
I would like to watch you
wrestle. I would like to wrestle
with you, stand above
as a train trestle, noisy tracks
above your bed
pick you up and throw you, show
you my classic move on white
sheets in the dark, full moon casting
doubt that you will resist my
sleeper hold, afraid that
I might leave forgetting, my mask
and championship belt with notches,
for you to remember me; bye, bye,
but then in your delirium
you insult my mum and
I return to the fray, tangling
you in the sheets and warming
all the pillows coldest sides
as I do my
spinning
whirling dervish move
at the head of your bed, I strip
the bed of all its dressing,
so if and when I go you will
have to make it on your own
you are standing there breathing heavy
as I turn to gloat away you simply fall
upon the naked bed breathless
I take one last leap into the air
your eyes open wide and we connect
in that moment, I know you know
I am about to land a hammer elbow &
painfully direct.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
Every ninth wave turned red,
The ones in between, were dead
and grey, as her day was, her past,
The man with the biggest pay-check
had the biggest mouth, her job he said
almost went south, without her.
Alone with her thoughts instead of
wearing beer in sleeves, her eyes
wearied from tears as she drove here,
no co-workers to try to cheer her heart.
heart, red, same colour as the waves, every ninth
now fading with her sobs,
fading red and she knew there was
going to be no moon tonight.
Music played from across the bay
as a crab scuttled to avoid the smallest waves,
the fireworks would begin, to light fires in the distant sky,
the mushrooms began to glow about her
near the blanket of sand and grass.
She tilted her head back
and looked at the stars
begin to be lit by the night
and kicked her heel and struck
the ground hard, there was no soft
sand but a cloth bag and an
object hard, tied inside.
There was no scent, no stench,
she hefted the bag with two
hands and untied coarse twine
rolled back soft fabric open to find
a large golden egg easily
even in low light, suddenly
she looked around quickly
the only noise was that, that
the dark always made, but
in her mind a noisy trap door
to freedom fell open for her.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
Wires criss cross,
electricity enclosed,
never touch, fencing in,
the sky, the clouds, and where birds alight and touch,
Branches interweave and lace, oxygenation exposed,
roots bury deep,
as the shallow earth is
a deep canvas,
always waiting on the painter of the Light.
From the sky to the dirt tinted ground,
winged fowl to the rodents who bound,
or scurry, as coyotes celebrate a **** calling
the moon to break the clouds like bread,
with two unseen hands that reach down.
The oceans sounds are the cars that roll
by and the air crests and curls landing
against the beaches made of trees and
hedges, and sitting listening still is the wind
wanting a turn to play coyote and howl, showing teeth
wanting a turn to play rodent tossing bushes about,
wanting to play birds that dance and dance aloft below the clouds while diving to feed off of the heat of the Day, to rise way above to see the pastoral patchwork, Earth below.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
echoes
land moving
somewhere
tied to
morning mist.
morning,
she's
string
that
nothing
is two
bottles
of linen
But, whiskey-----
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 12:52 AM UTC