#yore
Paved roads of cars that roam
Are sure to grow weary on my bones.
And there’s a high hill close to home
Onto which I seldom venture alone.
How I recall those many days of yore
When we’d go fresh out in the morn;
And up that hill now far across the globe
Would stare for short eons into the fog.
Mar 21, 2022
Mar 21, 2022 at 8:24 PM UTC
infinite joys tomorrow is a suggestion of change
does this mean today is a struggle
think hard about your, today
today you can make a difference
tomorrow, today is yore ....
Brian Hill - 2020 # 219
Aug 10, 2020
Aug 10, 2020 at 9:13 AM UTC
the competitors
shall be mounted on something high
and that something
stands on four speeding legs of ply
this particular sport
is presently staging a revival
as there are enthusiasts
who want to see its survival
the outfits the rivals
wear are really heavy of weight
they must feel like
they're carrying a large freight
let us now hark back
to those days of yore
when the knights would
make a galore score
if you guess the
name of the sport
Sir Lancelot will be
your tournament escort
Jul 12, 2019
Jul 12, 2019 at 8:09 PM UTC
She was
nigh as
bosh a
lar gibbon
and the
edge of
water made
hotter season
now while
sun bakes
her bread
on Formosa
Strait and
shapes Sino-Taiwan
with her
by south.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
Faith is a funny tale,
Banging!, on no ones thought of what door,
Humming and cooing and my window jail,
and trudging at my pondering floor
To quicksand it desolates -suddenly-
from titular crown of metals to pallid birch,
All cones of mono roll down on a trolley
with the tetra floss that burns the torch,
Fate is a formidable foe,
Descend itself to morrows fort,
discriminating as it comes and goes
to what it justifies at court,
Stepping to festive cascades,
lying faintly on the tomb of beds
Where the harbinger harvest withering fades,
there it cuts the echoing threads
So we alone stroll at chrono's fraud,
Brooming dust into makers state,
Sack of pennies nods; smirks at prudent gestures sad,
That is when and then we go back to old date
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
Seagulls on the beach
along them chanting, I exist.
A mountain overlap on slaying deranged.
Mind-blown,
portrait of yore.
Sweet Belfast;
Antique,
unique,
ambiguous,
get obscene, now!
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Memory
is the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesmanship unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship,
I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground.
Relief
is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you. I see
how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro.
I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your ******* red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write.
Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence.
A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda.
Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send.
They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC