#sestina
Everyone speaks of life as a sequence
The world is evil as if a sequence
A sequence
Of life and death and everything else that has a sequence
Science has a sequence
And every other class has a sequence
Everything has a sequence
All my classes have sequences
Sequence this sequence
that sequence
every second of my whole life! "I love sequences!"
Said no one ever, sequences
Are the worst, though sequences
give you a pattern to repeat, but sequences
can get so annoying after dealing withem a lot, so no, sequences
aren't fun. Sequences
of life and death and everything else carry sequences
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 10:43 AM UTC
By The Drifter From Heaven
We danced as lovers with our hearts in flame,
The ashes still glowing, the fire is cold,
Our warmth of dance has turned into ashes,
Now I carry the scars of yesterday,
My heart in turmoil, my soul aims to rise,
Passion's heat is gone, now cold and dark love.
There was no goodbye, just a fleeting love,
Heart in vain after the consuming flame,
My soul demands my weary heart to rise,
Even though the room is empty and cold,
My aching heart longs for that yesterday,
Wish dreams come true, and embrace the ashes.
Memories stay in yesterday's ashes,
A moment of betrayal, a lost love,
A heavy burden of our yesterday,
A ghost of a one night stand's burning flame,
Now that you're gone, I exist in the cold,
How could I escape this gray taint and rise.
Recurring dreams of you helps me to rise,
And even with just those golden ashes,
The flame you left behind, a painful cold,
A fleeting night, leaving my heart with love,
My heart's desire is that one night stand's flame,
The heat of that night my soul's yesterday.
How could I forget that sweet yesterday,
And live each day to look at the sun's rise,
Only to feel yesterday's tempting flame,
It burned desire into glowing ashes,
A lustful emotions that turned to love,
The loss has struck me with a sudden cold.
My heart and soul deeply scorch by the cold,
How could I ever forget—yesterday,
It must have been a true passion of love,
I need her warmth and love to really rise,
To finally reignite the ashes,
And finally find whats left with the flame.
To contain the cold my heart needs to rise,
Bring back yesterday, pick up the ashes,
A taste of true love, my warm golden flame.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 8:50 AM UTC
By The Drifter From Heaven
The morning mist creates shadows of night,
While wind whispers life's sumptuous delight,
My eyes cling to the remnant of the light.
The hue of gray spreading like a foul blight,
Shrouding all happiness straight from my sight,
The morning mist creates shadows of night.
It gives me a darker mood, my heart's fright,
A gloomy eclipse—a venomous bite,
My eyes cling to the remnant of the light.
And my soul searches in those veil of white,
Hoping to find phantom of love's true might,
The morning mist creates shadows of night.
A gripping illusions of fading light,
It dampens reasons, it fails to ignite,
My eyes cling to the remnant of the light.
As time passes by the sun did shine bright,
It gives my heart and soul the grandest flight,
The morning mist creates shadows of night,
My eyes cling to the remnant of the light.
Apr 19
Apr 19, 2026 at 10:48 PM UTC
By: The Drifter From Heaven
Under a moonless night I see a stone,
It glows with soft and ethereal light,
It freezes my heart, my yesterday’s ghost;
The painful memory now stirs my blood,
That ethereal light opens the door,
I thought it was locked forever by time.
And I thought all my wounds were healed by time;
Time heals all wounds, it is not writ in stone,
Now skeletons are walking through the door,
The vile decay of past doth bend my light,
A curtain of mist the color of blood,
The past I forget, a blood-soaked ghost.
With tears in my eyes, I stare at my ghost,
I've accepted the crime and done my time,
I cleansed my conscience and hand with my blood,
And a promise I made carved in cold stone,
The penance and fealty, my soul's light;
My heart at peace, hoping it will close the door.
In this light's presence, I step through that door,
I have exorcised my past, lost the ghost,
I feel my redemption, through divine light,
Gift for a sinner, light in borrowed time,
That ethereal radiance reflects in stone,
My soul's bind in this world is flesh and blood.
To change my ways, I worked through sweat and blood,
Good deeds I've done, my key to heaven’s door,
A promise to keep, my soul's writ in stone,
I hope to erase the taint and the ghost,
Happiness is at hand in passing time,
Now I see no gray, but a gold ray of light.
A golden ray I seek to find true light,
An inspiration to new seed and blood,
The dark memory now a harmless ghost,
The next seed will grow with no haunting door,
The moral foundation now set in stone,
Finally, freedom I find through passing time.
The golden light offered my writ of stone,
To overcome the ghost of my feared door,
My true bloodline will pass the test of time.
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 6:14 PM UTC
See me hitch, retching, and spit
An awful glob of blackened, steaming bile
A bug writhes, dying slow in the poison
Like a man whose back is pierced with a blade
I fear this is no disease in my guts
Rather waste from my pustulating self
I am clawing at my self
Cracking open a stomach full of spit
My fingers stained with the soot from my guts
And corroded through in the pitch black bile
Using my teeth like a serrated blade
My tongue stings, awash in the dark poison
It maddens me, this poison
How it managed to fester in my self
Slowly it formed like a thousand fold blade
It mingled and covered my teeth like spit
Ate away at something, this awful bile
And made its home, coating my writhing guts
As I sit scrying my guts
I must not hide the proof in this poison
I manufactured this brackish, black bile
Allowed it to well up within my self
To weaponize, to defensively spit
A subtler offense than any crude blade
In the ground I ****** the blade
Preparing to spill the rest of my guts
And I see others, smiles leaking spit
Slurries and suspensions of the poison
The byproduct of our worship of self
This self-absolving, all-filling black bile
I cannot remove the bile
Someone else and better must wield the blade
I must submit all control over self
Submit to the pain of purging my guts
The sound of my head landing in poison
My hair with the bugs in puddles of spit
As it stands, the bile still leaks from my guts
I've met the blade yet not kicked the poison
And my self, I keep a mouth full of spit
Oct 15, 2025
Oct 15, 2025 at 1:54 AM UTC
In my heart, there's always been a burning question
Of what mysteries might exist in this time
Maybe a murky planet; a storm without end
Or a dark white fog with a hidden melody
Cave under a crumbling crust lit by a campfire
And two bodies creating ashfall in the space
Between them. I want to explore each space
Finding the answers to every little question
I shoot off in my ship, landing by a campfire
On the beach in eternal storm. Some time
Passes, and I listen to the little melody
Played on a flute in rain. I pray it never ends.
But the world must always find its eventual end
And the sun's blue fire engulfs every bit of space
Before I wake up home again, humming a melody.
I follow it to a planet lit by volcanic fire. I question
its surface integrity, hoping the rocks stay for a time
But they fall and I scream, until I wake up at a campfire
I'm here again, but I shake it off and leave the campfire
A third time. I wonder when this cycle might end
But for now, I fly to two planets, spinning in time
Locked in eternal dance, with not much space
Between them. How does this world work, I question,
But behind it is a darker shape. What is its melody?
The unknown frightens me, but I hear a melody.
Within the twisted vines, is there a campfire?
Why does this place scare me? But my question
Is answered with a roar from behind. My end
Is near as I race through the white endless space
Dodging thorns as I barely escape in time.
But that all happened in a past time.
All the searching for hints of a strange melody
Led me here, to a time no-one knows. And a space
No-one understands. All I have is a small campfire
And my friends around it. Playing our song to the end.
And this all left me with just one final question.
Will my time spent here in space
Playing a simple melody at a campfire
Become the ending of an era of questioning?
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 9:43 PM UTC
For me the sestina is a perfect way to tell a story.
This is a wedding rehearsal dinner told from different points of view.
The rehearsal dinner
Father of the Bride
God, she’s beautiful. My poor blind baby
Girl. She thinks he is some kind of white knight
Tomorrow will be the blackest of days
Married to a gold digger. No more time
No, the thought…Tomorrow will be his last
Lost her to a cur. Pain colors me blue
Maid of Honor
Oh my God, he has gorgeous eyes of blue
What he sees in her, ug! She’s a baby
She’s kidding herself, this will never last
She’s so gullible. Yeah – he works nights
Like the night he’ll have with me, our last time
On to the next, tomorrow’s a new day
Groom’s Mother
What a farce! Tomorrow is a wasted day
A loveless marriage is living life blue
This smile hurts. Unfortunately time’s
Run out. She’s gotta be knocked up – poor baby
But we need the money; right now, this night
**** how much longer can this agony last
Best Man
He’s such a man whore. No way will this last
Getting married is just another day
She needs to be saved. I would be her knight
If she were mine, her life would not be blue
She’s perfect. If only she were my baby
It should be us. If only there was time
Groom
Too bad she’s not the bride, she’s a good time
God, how much longer can this dinner last
At least her friends are hot, oh yeah baby
I don’t know how I’ll get through this long day
Marriage, ick, man I’m crying the **** blues
I’m gonna bang the bridesmaid all through the night
Bride
Oh my God, he’s mine, my shining white knight
I’ll love him always, until the end of time
He’s so perfect - I’ll never sing the blues
He’s my first, my only, he’ll be my last
My wedding will be the most perfect day
Perfect, I can’t wait to have his baby
Envoi
He’s no white knight and she is such a baby
She’s doomed to sing the blues, while he’ll be caught time after time
At long last, the day will end
Kelly Rose
(c) 2/27/2026
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 10:16 AM UTC
Sun fingers her hidden hummingbird nest of skin,
Each twig, love's unfinished sonnet, found by dawn's light.
My lips echo night’s bare swim’s wild lake water,
Our steam now swirls skyward, sisters with the breeze.
Her breathless wink, a covert quest cloaked as touch,
Then silence—inhales between our lingering drip.
Her drop, carried by sunlight, feeds my waiting drip.
Wander the rainforest of our clammy, wet skin.
She slowly turns—I search her folds, lost in touch,
Her nest, crescent moon, orbits a split of light.
She shivers, wild hairs pirouette by a breeze,
My fingers press her steam and honey tea into water.
Her hips sing a ballad—our rhythm cyclones the water,
Our chorus swells red—cools—softly—a lush drip.
We bloom, finding sun’s rays—chased by a soft breeze,
Flesh cools where steam once warmly caressed skin.
Sun’s gaze lowers, tangles softened with light,
Her calf discovers mine, a fawn, frozen by touch.
Gaze locked—hummingbirds hover, skin craving touch.
We lean as one, gathering feral hair, drowned by water.
Glints of wet skin flicker through mother oak’s light.
From her thigh’s fold, a slow, golden honey drip
Marks time—stroked by a returning breeze,
Its chill paints a stream’s pebbles on cold skin.
Sun, a spider, crawls along her ******* secret skin,
Her woven silk—memories, a wisp of touch.
My lips chase her ******* last rivulets of water,
A sigh spills golden from her—deep, into light.
Between her thighs, one final honeyed drip—
Then stillness—skyward, the gasp of our breeze.
A drowned silence—death—our last honeyed drip.
Our shadows triumph where sun once ruled skin.
Skyward, the scent of our love—a nest in the breeze.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 6:16 PM UTC
What the Tide Knows
—a Sestina of one night shared with our sister moon
Night’s first blush leans low against the tide
that licks the sand; moonlight unhooks the darker seams of our skin.
The air stings sweet, crystalline breath of salt.
A feral moon, she leans close—silent, luminous, wet.
Her ******* dip the water; the water dips us—oh…slow pull
after slow pull—silk unraveling into constellations—we are, at last, bare
bare-foot, bare-hearted, bare-assed—every hush of fear laid bare;
satin chill a caress, sliding up shins, over knees, exploring the secret tide.
Between us, dampness trembles—a harp-chord plucked across our skin;
notes of brine flare and fade in the hush of moonlit salt
Desire itself echoes each pull she tightens—loosens—tightens again in the moon’s slow, intimate pull.
Night after night we bend to nature’s lust—its intimate pull
a deep, slow kiss—honey for dreams, our spirits once more bare
on a starlit shore that forgets and remembers the faithful tide
that knows each breast, each soft fold of skin
until our footprints shimmer, then vanish in a tidal pool of salt
while water’s slow tempo keeps time beneath our same bare-breasted, sister moon
Brine prisms drip between our thighs—soft, shimmering salt
as we sink into sand—breasts and breath—utterly bare;
above us, the hush of waves keeps time with the tide
while our sister, the ****** moon, unbuttons herself—O luminous moon,
her silver hand wandering, circling, stroking her own pale skin,
her gasps spilling down to embrace us oh so tight into one, shuddering, pull
Dawn’s silk-white wraps moon-bruised ******* gathering the last flecks of salt
that cling to lips—a hush of spent sighs riding every slow pull
of breath. Ocean-wet, sunrise-warmed, we rise wholly bare
beneath a sky tinted with our spent, satisfied sister moon,
and wade until cries of ecstasy between waves swell, matching the tide
washing footprints, sand, and shy shimmers from our glistening skin.
We become as one, a shared pulse—wave after wave pressing into skin,
A sousing of honey and ocean on lips—sweet with salt,
as night’s last breaker swells, arches, cups—one unquenchable pull
before it raptures. We bloom wide, throats singing, utterly bare
of nothing but vision of her white-hot spasm, our sister moon,
dragging us under—flinging us back—gasping—embraced by the heaving tide
O sister moon,
embrace our last slow tide,
your gentle hand forever filling our dreams, forever caressing our skin
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 6:01 PM UTC
“Listen here!” lulled the prophet.
“You have the power to see
your future! You only need to widen your pupils
and absorb that which is possible.
Obey my words, and I'll set you free.”
Turning his back on the crowd, he left.
His words hung dryly in the air and left
anvils dangling over the legitimacy of the prophet,
and if the cost of his lessons were truly free.
Swiftly, zealots jumped into the crowd; prying eyes open to see
that which only the prophet could make possible,
and his message spread like wild fires ignited by his pupils.
Flames of disillusion reflected in the deep black pupils
of those few teflon reactionaries left.
Fighting against the binary of what he deemed possible,
they disavowed the prophet
because they could see
what he was teaching, was not free.
Hiding behind closed doors, he was free
from the chaos brought on by his pupils.
Prescience painted its electric vision, begging him to see
if he kept on this currents path, there’d be nothing left
of the people who listened so faithfully to their prophet.
Despite the omen, he continued down the path he preached possible.
Rebels against his vision took the only possible
actions available to set themselves free.
Casting aside the teachings of the prophet;
They sunk blades into their pupils,
knowing that in blindness, all that would be left
was their freedom to see.
Wrestling with his vision, he could not see
that fate had already chosen which path was possible.
There was only one thing left
to do if he wanted to be free.
Engulfed in darkness behind his locked door, his pupils
readjusted and rejected the reality that he was not a prophet.
He could not see that what he was doing wasn't considered free.
The only possible freedom is in the mind's eye, locked behind sight soaked pupils.
All that's left holding us back from awakening, are the lies of this false prophet.
Mar 6, 2025
Mar 6, 2025 at 4:32 PM UTC
In twilight's hush, where our sighs softly fade,
Beneath your gaze, my lonely world begins to shift.
Your lips on mine, my shy resolve will melt,
As fragile walls of fear begin decay.
With every breath, our trembling bodies transform,
A silent vow to love — endure.
Through stormy nights, our passion will endure,
As the fog of past silence start to fade.
Your hands on my thighs, my spirit starts, transform,
Unfurling petals as my defenses shift.
In the heat of us, like hail, inhibitions decay,
Like sun-kissed snow, slowly, we melt.
Dawn breathes, and into each other we deeply melt,
Our roots, explore, a stronger love to endure.
What once was fear, now honeyed sweetness, decay,
As shadows of old hurts begin to fade.
With every challenge faced, our love learns to shift,
In full bloom, as seasons gently transform.
Years pass, and still our joined hearts transform,
Time's trials make us bend but never melt.
Life's rivers carve new paths, yet we still shift,
Together, building new havens to endure.
Though youthful bloom on skin may softly fade,
Our passion feeds on rich and fertile decay.
From this rich soil of necessary decay,
We nurture love, watch it grow and transform.
The first spark of desire refuses to fade,
Into each other’s depths, we willingly melt.
Our bond, forged in fire, destined to endure,
As steadfast as the stars that nightly shift.
Like tides that breathe and sway, our moods may shift,
But our deep core of love resists all decay.
This flame between us, constant, will endure,
Each touch, each glance, continues to transform.
Two souls, forever destined to softly melt,
A whispered union nothing to ever fade.
Though time may swiftly shift, and surface beauty fade,
Love's gentle decay helps us deeply endure.
We transform, melt, forever as one.
Mar 4, 2025
Mar 4, 2025 at 9:16 PM UTC
The TV hums, a vigil of static.
Its blue glow licks the sheets of my bed.
She is already here, and she says siéntate.
The room thickens, swallowing silence.
I close my eyes, recite my prayer,
but God does not come to take me away.
At seven, I thought He could take me away.
But He never saw past the static.
Never answered, no matter the prayer.
No angels gathered around the bed.
Only her voice, gentle, precise—
as if it was mine to refuse. Silence.
Somewhere, my mother believes in silence,
believes I am safe while she is away.
The house echoes—siéntate,
and I obey. The TV crackles, static
spitting nonsense, flickering across the bed.
The remote is in reach, but not my prayer.
I hold the words in my teeth—a prayer,
a plea I never speak into silence.
She smooths my hair, straightens the bed,
but the folds still hold what she took away.
The air stays dense with the static.
Her hands do not hesitate—no te muevas.
I do not move when she says siéntate.
Seven years old, I am not a prayer,
only a body sinking into static.
I have learned there is mercy in silence.
I have learned to go far, far away.
But I always wake up in the bed.
And the bed is always the bed.
The sheets whisper what she said—siéntate.
She is gone, but she is never away.
God never came; maybe I was the prayer.
Maybe the only answer is silence,
the weight of it, heavier than static.
The static stays. The bed does not forget.
No prayer unmakes what was done—siéntate.
Even in silence, I cannot get away.
Jan 30, 2025
Jan 30, 2025 at 11:54 PM UTC
The Angel oak boughs lovely to behold
This horary tree so blest a grand tree.
Old trees to behold are the huge Redwoods,
Clear cutting woods they made me quite angry.
Lay me down to rest ;my soul feels not old
Those who **** ancient forests go to Hell.
Ancient forests wrecked I'm angry as Hell,
Angraboda tree the Angel oak - behold
Other beatific trees are the Redwoods,
The red oak rusty brown bark a grand tree.
Cutting these trees down-I'm ****** angry,
And pols are vermin their plans way to old
Trees like a skyscraper th epic redwoods
And hike thru these woods when I was not old
I sat at rest beneath a cedar tree.
Those who destroy them are stupid as Hell
Old growth forests a biome please behold
Lay waist to old growth woods I am angry,
Most of the old growth gone makes me angry
I wonder what critters live in Redwoods.
The hair of Jord visit it and behold
I walked thru the green when I was not old
The forest were bare of old trees,oh hell
Old growth Cedars are one hell of a tree,
What type of vibe could I get from that tree?
Logging roads in BC grave ,I'm angry,
To lazy to help these pols belong in hell,
Love to muse beneath a pair of Redwoods.
Protest clear cutting this method not old
Clear cutting woods -a plain shock to behold..
Envoi:
I am wheelchair bound my protest days to old
Time to stop logging Redwoods ,no,oh Hell,
An Angel oak tree I want to behold.
Jan 6, 2025
Jan 6, 2025 at 6:29 PM UTC
Into a new dark age we go,
Marching with voices loud and clear,
The terrain shifts, our minds untrained,
Pioneers of a vast unexplored,
Where challenges hide in the unseen,
And bright lights beckon, waiting for us.
The condition of our hearts has changed,
As we careen through shadows and light,
Year upon year, we seek to define
The darknesses that loom on our horizon,
Searching for meaning in the dark expanse,
To harness what we’ve yet to understand.
Yet, in this vastness, a spark ignites,
A whetted appetite for tomorrows,
We march into the unknown, drawn near
To whispers of hope, where the brave may tread.
Into itself, beyond vast darkness,
The lights beckon, urging us to explore.
Nov 8, 2024
Nov 8, 2024 at 5:18 PM UTC
Can you hear the music inside you, the instruments of pure passion?
I can see it in your heart
Beams overhead singing deeply, warming and glowing
You are merely the product of my dreams
I hang sweeping this fog alone and icy
Swallowing these purple and red words, pale and invisible
And my chest opens to you, but to you my heart is invisible
I can feel my soul trembling, can you sing to it with passion
Can you hold my heart in your fingertips, cold and icy
smelling the goats and strong and mature bark, dancing with my heart
How can I forget you, when all the time I spend with you is in my dreams.
Load this gun and place your passion in the chamber and watch me fade; glowing.
Can you feel my heart glowing?
Do your eyes penetrate my soul, or am I invisible?
Can you trap my thoughts and steal away my dreams?
Can you share your light and spend some of it on me, enlighten me with your passion
Take my heart
Can you sing to it, can you defrost it, it is icy.
Be like a thief and steal me away, take my heart, and the shadows that are icy
Your bag of hearts you have stolen, deadly and glowing
These souls tormented by you also, you hang their heart
And still, I remain invisible?
I scratch at this cage, haunted by what – your passion
Let me lay here still and die in my dreams.
Why do I continue to hope, why can I only have dreams?
This aisle is deadly, gridlocked and icy
Submissive to the heights of your words in passion
Take my feet here and steal, your footprints are glowing
Mine are – to you- invisible
But they lay down structures for my heart
And so, I beg you, don’t steal my heart
Let me rest and hope in my dreams
Make yourself invisible
Cold and icy
Leave the shadows glowing
And leave me alone, struck by passion
Just let me go, you have struck this chord and left me with passion
You have left my heart glowing
And now I shall sleep again, cold and icy.
Nov 1, 2024
Nov 1, 2024 at 10:37 AM UTC
Look at them, the rain-spotted Lovers:
hand in hand under lathered moon
as the bars flood out at cold close.
The night grass is April swaying
as they bluely stroll down the road,
unaware of anyone, anything else -
there could never be anything else -
isn't that the rule of all new lovers?
No care for a bright-cheeked road,
no anxious looks at a dartboard moon,
just two pairs of shoulders swaying
closer, closer, closer...
Yet now that the bars are closed,
they must join to something else:
a long laughing file beerily swaying,
a newly louched breed of lovers
under foam-headed moon,
carried down a water-hearted road.
Perhaps they sweeten the sotted road,
these two who veer so close
& share this last garnish of moon,
carpaccio of stars and space and something else.
Cars throw dapples across the Lovers,
shy white coins in spotted sway.
We drunks of course are also swaying
vaguely down the rained road,
but how different our rhythm is; these Lovers
tie spring breath tight as twine, and close
their fingers like mating snakes - no one else
seems tide-locked like earth and stubborn moon:
since this frozen-faced scrap of moon
refuses all requests, it's we who must sway
with them, at least until we find something else
on this cloud-tented tar-sown road
to hold us oh-so-close;
they're home, these Lovers,
& so someone else must follow the lolling moon
to become the newest Lovers who will sway
on wetted road as night closes off behind.
Apr 11, 2024
Apr 11, 2024 at 8:48 AM UTC
Bleary-eyed, an old man asks for change,
coins rattling in his hand. A woman
hands him saltine crackers across the aisle.
“God bless you,” he mutters, takes a seat,
and unwraps the plastic with shaking hands.
He smiles at her before she leaves the train.
Tonight, the passengers on the train
are surprisingly quiet for a change.
We are all staring down at our hands.
And then the silence breaks - a woman
cackles aloud to herself in her seat.
Her laughter travels up and down the aisle.
I overhear a conversation across the aisle
between a couple who’ve just entered the train,
and are searching for a pair of empty seats.
They’re muttering “the country is changing”
and they say they are afraid. The woman
sighs, and reaches for her lover’s hand.
I look over at a child holding her mother’s hand.
I meet the little girl’s gaze from across the aisle.
I see myself as a child too, but to her I’m a woman.
I wonder how often the little girl rides the train.
Does she long to see something else for a change -
something other than the back of a seat?
I notice a lady who has started dancing in her seat,
snapping her fingers and waving her hands,
bobbing to a silent beat. I imagine her changing
into a sequined dress and waltzing down the aisle,
giving everyone a performance to watch on the train.
I imagine standing up and dancing with that woman
and then everyone begins to dance with the woman -
we all jump up onto our seats
and suddenly we are in a ballroom, not a train.
We are tapping our feet and clapping our hands
to the music - the little girl across the aisle
is dancing with the old man who asked for change.
The train stops. We’ve arrived at my station. The dancing woman leaves the train. The passengers change and now there are strangers in their seats. I wave my hand goodbye to the little girl as I walk past her down the aisle.
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 7:50 PM UTC
Life is a system
and i am its product
producing mosaics
and i am its robot
life gives me a function
and have a-
hand?
Here is my product
another mosaic
for i am a robot
and that is my function
but i have a hand?
That is not in the system...
Am i a mosaic?
A rainbow of robot
and then is my function
to lend you a hand?
Programmed in my system
to give you my products?
Am i a robot
devoid of a function?
An empty hand.
A useless, silent system.
No products.
No Mosaic
What is a function?
A powerful productive hand!
A hyper-intellectual system!
A booming blossom of products!
a busy
mosaic
a
straining
robot
I take from your hand
and inform my system
I create my own products
Perhaps, I am the mosaic
Perchance, I am the robot
and I function.
Bumps from the system created my hand
creating my products, I dictate my function.
For I am the robot that made the mosaic
and I think that's alright.
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 5:31 PM UTC
No picket fences. No hunting license. He has no culture
To his name. No children nor partner to carry; he’ll love
The forest floor just the same. Chickadees chattered as he muttered his marriage
Vows to the land between his toes. Rich in all but money,
He aims to accomplish what his forefathers could not: Forgive
Himself for human’s toll on nature. Their roads of death.
For hickory trees and zipping flies only understand death
As biological drivers of fear. He has seen the culture.
Slash and burn, Gnash and chop, mine and take, forgive
And forget the consequences. They manufacture love
On a rainy day to deceive people into funding destruction with the money
From the nature they claim to protect. A push-and-pull marriage.
He set aside his business coat as he set foot into the forest, divorcing the marriage
Of care and corporation. His only hope is that the rabbit cannot smell death
Still leaking from his pores like toxic radiation nor the stench of money
Recklessly thrown to culling the land mere miles away. More culture
Here than in thousands of skylines. More compassion among animals than any “love”
A vest-and-tie, bright-eyed smile grants in marketing. Corporate does not forgive.
He climbs atop the highest canopy and calms his quaking arms. If no one can forgive
His erratic exercise routine, the breeze can. All is still. The marriage
Has begun to provide. The priest above will join them in the morning; he’ll prove his love.
Tomorrow, the men with machines and sticks of death
Will come barreling through the sanctuary, claiming from destruction comes culture
And resources, but behind their faces of concern is always money, money, money.
From the first rabbit he slaughtered to the devastating loss of money
He incurred for not staying silent, the corruption he witnessed set a fire he would not forgive
His heart for feeding. The disillusionment he kept spread faster than a bacterial culture
Under perfect conditions. The merriment in progress was null, the marriage
Bands thrown into polluted rivers. He would slow the unnatural cycle of death,
One by one rooted tree. Though he does not believe it is enough, it is love.
His back aches. His eyes open with a start. His air tastes acrid. His love
Has died and fear wrests his heart. Trees around him scream for aid. All the money
In the world could not replace the thousands of years of peace they spoil with death.
He yells from his tower. A straggler rabbit screws its head to see him. Maybe it saw to forgive
Him after all this time. Rivers from his eyes and gold buried deep inside, the marriage
Between man and Mother Nature could exist. Human’s ruination isn’t nature. It is culture.
They ask him for the love of God, what is he doing up there. He smiles. I can forgive
The contractor for his need of money, but not those whose wants require a marriage
Between negligence and my planet’s death. He pleads. They stare. As is the culture.
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 9:00 PM UTC
It’s lukewarm on this lazy Sunday,
And I don’t know where I put my glasses.
I don’t even want to tear myself
From the syzygy that makes me, my blanket
And my bed, to find them. Maybe I’ll crawl out
Of my coziness and try to seize the day.
There are fourteen-forty minutes in a day,
And I can waste them all on this lazy Sunday.
I could get breakfast, but I’d have to make it out
The door — and I can’t find my glasses.
I suppose I’ll just stay under the blanket,
Spending those minutes on myself.
I could possibly make breakfast for myself.
I do so just about every other day.
Bacon does sound good, but my blanket
Weighs a hundred pounds. And after all, Sunday
is my day off. Where are my glasses?
Right on the windowsill where I left them. Out-
Side, I see people who got out
Of bed already. People as lazy as myself —
Probably… Oh, fine! I put on my glasses
And trek to entropy. At least it’s warm today.
And for a while it’s a very nice Sunday,
But it isn’t as warm as my blanket,
And doesn’t feel as heavy. As pewter blankets
Stretch across the horizon, I look out
Over the cut and appreciate what Sunday
Has to offer. That’s what I tell myself,
But I know that today is just another day;
Seeing the world with rose tinted glasses
Yet again. I stop to wipe off my glasses
That are smudged with a blanket
Of dust from the Oakland air. The day
Is only part way done and I am looking for an out.
I continue the mission to make myself
Breakfast on a lukewarm, lazy Sunday:
A not so sunny day, in my glasses,
Making Sunday breakfast in a blanket
Of optimism. Out by myself.
Dec 20, 2020
Dec 20, 2020 at 2:34 AM UTC
The noise of the cavalry was muffled by the rhythm of the crows
Cawing, they bellowed their demands, until silence
Betray the gathered armies, and the men began towing
The foreign rocks, heavy they were, scrapping the last of the lavender
From the earth. Those in protest formed a crust
That lined the crown of the castle walls, there will be no violence
Today, nor tomorrow or the next for the wives have had enough of violence
And the birdsongs have never sounded so bitter, these crows
That perch in the woven branches of the castle woods eat nothing but the crust
From shattered honeypots. Often they screech out in pain, but it is all silence
Lately for they have been soothed by the refugees of lavender
That squat in their nests. But it won’t last, for the men have started towing
Again; great metal ladders in hopes to infect their havens, men towing
Their aggression like a mere pebble in their pockets. They are cemented in violence
Like the calf to the ****** and the wife who lathers the scent of lavender
Into her hair. But not all things are so natural and sweet. The crows
Have had their heritage destroyed, they no longer follow the universe, silence
Has become permanence, just like how their rookeries have formed the crust
Upon their enemy’s world. So damp and hollow their homes have become like a crust
Of saliva upon the bathroom sink, alas there is no time to repair, for the men are towing
Again; rocks, ladders and now fallen oaks - dragging earth up as they trudge. There is silence
Before the breach, a moment of purgatory before the deafening violence
Ensues. There are no caws from the guarded rookeries, the crows
Have decided to sleep through revolution, huddled among their lavender
That will soon be found in the knotted hair of widows, the stench of lavender
Shall waft through the winds of grief, as the priest gives counsel to the fresh crust
Of tears found under the eyes of thousands. It is over now and the crows
Have come to pay their respects, they caw at the men who are towing
The tombstones of lives that never blossomed, each one reads: “there will be no more violence
Today, nor tomorrow or the next.”. And life shall proceed only with silence.
For awhile it may all persist, silence
Is king and the woods that hug the castle walls are growing lavender
Again. The treaty is kept and the cloak of violence
Is hung up neatly next to the crown, waiting for the crust
Of peace to be vanquished. It is the wives now who spend their days towing
The labour of the land; weaving seeds and chatting to the crows.
Alas, it does not take long for violence to mature, and for the silence
To pitter off. The crows have buried themselves, taking all the lavender
With them. The men are towing again and all that is left is a broken crust.
Dec 8, 2020
Dec 8, 2020 at 8:58 AM UTC
Dearest Mother,
My long lost queen.
Since you passed, the palace
Has been painfully silent.
Horribly cold.
Even without the king.
Father-- our king...
Mother,
when you died he became evermore cold.
He forced me to find a queen.
To stay silent,
Trapped in the palace.
Even in this new palace,
Even with my uncle as king,
Somehow-- it's still silent.
After all these years, I now remember you, Mother,
our queen.
And how your skin has gone cold.
Since that day so many years ago... cold.
I hate this new palace
Without a queen
And a new king.
I miss your voice, Mother
But now-- your hall stays silent.
Everything is silent
And cold.
Mother--
This palace,
This king,
We all need a queen
We need you-- My Queen
You will no longer be silent.
You will restore order and crown me as king.
You will heat the everlasting cold.
You will give life to the palace.
If only you'd return, Mother.
But-- No matter how I wish, our queen lies cold
This silent blanket stays over the palace
And my uncle has taken my rightful title of king. And I am powerless against it, Mother.
Nov 17, 2020
Nov 17, 2020 at 12:14 PM UTC
As blue
As the blood
That taints the perfect crown
I frown, watching the kingdom
I love
Fight a tireless war.
A war
Against those with scales of blue,
Where we lose far too many of those we love,
And spill far too much blood.
We say we fight in the name of our almighty kingdom.
They say they fight in the name of the crown.
A crown
Which has only seemed out hatred and war
And is willing to **** any who speak against its kingdom,
Allowing the royal blue
Blood
Shed— even from those we love.
But love
Is not felt by those who bear the crown.
We never learn the true meaning of spilled blood,
Or the pain caused by an everlasting war.
A war we fuel until every petal has fallen, mixing with the blue,
Leaving in its wake, a broken and hollow kingdom.
A kingdom
Lead by one who just never love,
Who must only mind the blue
Gem embedded in the crown,
Starting war after war,
Only protecting our title and our blood.
The blood
Which only flows through the veins belonging to the royals of this kingdom,
Who only know war
And believe the greatest weakness one could have is love.
We’re born and raised for the crown
As the world idolizes our shade of blue.
Yet— I spill my blood for those I love,
And serve my kingdom, even though I hold no crown,
I’ll fight this war, your hand in mine, stained in shades of royal blue.
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 11:07 AM UTC
The fox
runs alongside the astronaut,
who looks at a picture frame.
Around the fox’s neck, a white bandana.
There, on the spooky
moon, his only company is the fox colored aluminum.
The aluminum
fur of the fox
blends into the moonscape. The ship is empty aside from them and the spooky
remanence of the rest of the crew. As the lone astronaut
works to return home, his only comfort being the bandana
and the picture frame.
The frame
that holds a photo of a woman, standing before the ship of aluminum.
Tied around her hair, the bandana
which has since been given to the fox.
The memories it brings ever haunting the astronaut
making the moon ever more spooky.
The spooky
feeling is not eased by the frame
as the remains of passed astronauts
are trapped in this aluminum
ship, the lone survivors being the man and the fox.
He keeps his thoughts on the bandana.
Her bandana,
given to him on a dark and spooky
day, which he then gave to the fox
so he may pretend the woman in the frame
isn’t millions of miles away from them. A fox of aluminum
and a lonely astronaut.
The astronaut
chooses to focus on returning to the woman without her bandana.
He works tirelessly to get the aluminum
rocket ship off the spooky
and desolate moon, and back to earth, to see the woman in the frame.
By his side on this barren rock, looking up at him, stands the fox.
The astronaut refuses to let the spooky
atmosphere deter him from his goal of returning the bandana to the woman in the frame,
ever thankful for the company of the aluminum fox.
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 11:03 AM UTC