#offbeat
Cushioned in the cracks till the sliver meets eye,
I am a witness,
To the spider and the fly on the table,
Taking sip after sip of a heated debate over a purpose.
Eye twitching to the sides of the walls towards a painting,
Definition in the curves of the decay,
Still aesthetic from the lines to the dripping frame,
A figure crying with a smile at the dust and the webs,
Left by the painter.
We gander on at the ghosts of an empty room,
Before the creeks from the floor stopped existing,
Before the whites and the browns of the walls turned grey,
Where the fireplace whistles a fable,
Of a light it produced even brighter,
Than the beams cutting holes in the ceiling.
If not for the rain, I could've sworn I heard the songs of the tapping,
From the infants that stabbed at the windows,
Similar to the pitch of where the door used to be,
I used to scurry to the cleft of the kitchen,
To see the gods drink the sins of the passing week,
Where they would dance against the sides of the counter tops,
Before the moss conquered most of the tiles,
Before the corrosion ate away at the sink.
The rooms I used to venture to were worlds I thought never existed,
A land made of cotton and fabric,
Where the bodies would lie upon for hours,
Voices echoed from inside of a plastic box,
And showed a story of the lives within them,
I'd always watched till the frame within turned black,
I used to itch for the morrow and the after,
I used to crave for the revelation,
I still remember.
Jul 5, 2025
Jul 5, 2025 at 11:19 PM UTC
After a hard days thinking Isaac fell asleep under an apple tree,
Woken with a jolt, with a sharp kick to the groin,
Oi! this is private land, and don’t threaten me with gravity!
Gravity? sounds interesting, sadly the weary road I must re-join.
Listen mate you kept on muttering it, gravity! gravity!
Not a clue, sorry no offence intended, my mind wobbles,
Best clear off sharpish! otherwise t’Squire will have it in for thee,
Off he went with a smirk and a wink, and lots of stolen apples!
Stopped to admire the Squire’s smart, nearly finished stable,
Enjoying a muncheon-break, he was felled by a flying brick,
Carried comatose into Smug Hall, was laid out on a billiard table,
Right on cue sat bolt upright, send for the cook and be quick!
After furtive mutterings, eureka! the apple pie was invented!
Later in a violent storm took shelter, under a handy apple tree,
Crushed by a falling bough, sadly death could not be prevented,
Body barely warm his last whispered words, gravity! gravity!
Poor Sir Isaac did sort of discover gravity, what a tragedy!
But claimed instead by Squire Smug of Smug Hall,
Not always wise to totally trust taught history!
It was on my land! Smug smugly proclaimed to one and all.
© Robert Porteus
Dec 6, 2021
Dec 6, 2021 at 7:56 AM UTC
we sing our love—
are we in the same key?
the notes seem to fall flat
our hearts are missing chords
why can’t I ever match your tempo?
the harmonies sound dissonant—
as if we’re doing our own solos
we dance, trying not to step
on each other but somehow
we are always a little
offbeat
May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 12:14 AM UTC
Flowers grow between my ribs,
and in the cracks of my mind.
While those around me call it beautiful,
it is getting hard to breathe.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 1:29 PM UTC
Like ships in the night
we pass - side by side - not breaking our stride,
not looking left, not gazing right,
barely glimpsing each other, like light-
houses, signals blinking brightly.
For the longest time we were alone
still are, no change tonight, we won't;
I've felt your presence long ago,
it was a silent gift.
How did we not recognize each other
after screaming for so many hours?
Listening to your soft cries (your blue eyes),
Norwegian wood between us guards your lies -
you pretend to be rich and pretty;
I know you're just the janitor of the ferry.
The first mate, the captain, all remotely
far away and you're all that's left -
you are the second best.
Thankfully I'm not picky,
I don't care if you're not pretty,
I only need to see your hands and heart -
the rough patches are a part - of you, of me, of all the world,
and you're so out of reach, of sight,
and I know that it won't feel right; despite that
we shouldn't feel alone tonight.
And you have a wife-
and I know but I don't care.
You won't hesitate to stare,
and I can feel your bitter look upon my back,
the fingers that won't touch my neck
no matter how much I beg and plead for you to take me
and love me, unconditionally,
before I fall into the sea,
the water claiming me fully,
the waves brutally forcing me
under themselves, generously,
drowning in my bed.
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 2:21 PM UTC
different
isn't a bad thing
the offbeat
isn't wrong
everyone is special
in one way
or another
and that's human nature
we're made to be unique
be ourselves
in front of others
that's why I love
living in the offbeat
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:57 PM UTC
I wanna write poetry
That grabs by the throat
Choking,
Seizing your secrets
From your tasty open mouth
And speechless tongue
I wanna write poetry
As wild and free
As this burnt out bleeding ash
B l o w i n g
In a soft never-ending breeze
I wanna write poetry
That howls with the loneliness
Of a cold shooting star
On a cloudy bleached day
Missing the meteor showing
By a few thousand years
I wanna write poetry
With odd jumps and
Pauses
That captures music
And dance
Andy everything
Between the odd cacophony
Of unwell put together words
I wanna write poetry
That SCREAMS with the
Silent fury of a
Self-inflicted cage
Locked by being lost and used
But open yet to like minded needy hands
I wanna write poetry
Not with rhymes
But with the rhythm
Of my off beat jazz
And out of tune,
Flat,
Voice.
I wanna write poetry.
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 7:41 PM UTC
the problem with poetry
is that not everyone understands
the crap that you are trying to convey,
the message is always encrypted in cryptic code,
you have to get past the firewall before you can see the
01011100110011110010101000111100101's
many of us
don't have the time to pursue the purpose
of a poems meaning
because we are busy deciphering
what the **** our own heart is trying to say
while simultaneously trying make sense of it,
so that we can post on hello poetry,
hoping that maybe a handful of depressed poets
might take the time to view it,
let alone like it,
or possibly even comment
or **** maybe even share it, assuming we said anything of merit.
it's in our nature to ignore
and call others ignorant
and believe that we are intrinsicly more important.
offbeat>poet
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
Can you hear that?
It's the sound of the desolate,
the ruined, the barren, the dying.
They groan and moan and cry
If you listen closely, you might hear it,
it's the same sound you make
when no one is listening.
offbeat<poet
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
I've been called
A freak
A ******
A headcase
I've been told that
I'm crazy
I'm insane
I'm bizzare
I've heard my actions are
Alarming
Unsettling
Offbeat
All of this may be true
But it's me.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC