"abscission" poems
The knife of life carves indiscriminately without warning
said the runts of the pumpkin patch now lined in mourning.
A farmer plucked biggest one, cutting vine, as the runts cried
a black harvest, Mama being carted off, as she died.
Sad black crows circle the day and night sky abreast and stressed
as the winds of fate wielded its teeth at the oppressed.
A blur of orange is all the crows saw amongst the quivering patch
as the farmer tiptoed the pasture wide-eyed on getting his ******
Now at the hour of her death angels play harps of fruition
in wake of the wide-eyed farmer's wayward act of abscission.
Billows of black smoke followed, taking to the ominous skies
as the incinerator took matters in its own hands as she lies.
Then all that was left were the ashes and whispers of the past,
a eulogy, as her quivering kin sat in the storybook downcast.
Pages cried out, tears filled the chapters of a great pumpkin patch
her roots holding each on the vines with love that's hard to match.
No day came off, of a jack-o-lantern smiling in a window frame
for in this family house cancer snatched mothers life just the same.
Logan Robertson
8/4/2018
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
In every one-word world, exotic spaces' gradual state of life proclaimed as a melon . As the urges to divide the pleasures of the infernal forth from the happiness which has closed in to the square-shaped restless less rolling boxes. And what the treat is if all of the souls from the cypress take the higher breaths of the shrew and belabor them unto the points of humanity, uncivilized humanity that is quite bountifully.
During this autumnal abscission where the alizarin and pallid arms and edges, crooked and afraid, steep in the sullied tatterdemalion and the mysophilia that emimart
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC
Altered by the winds laced with a threnody tune,
life in the northern woods will never be the same without its bloom.
The deceased puppet master continues to pull the strings of the dehiscence heart,
one of this game is forced to take part.
The ears of an indecisive mind take in the plaintive sound,
which provides an ongoing reminder of how these feet are forever bound to this ground.
With the chances of escaping this monochromatic box slims,
one might begin to take a swim.
The ideal way of living becomes a compromise,
the old personality leaves only the eyes.
Shed away in a abscission fashion,
and along with that goes all the passion.
Sitting down to confabulate with a higher knowledge,
carry on the dreams of going to college.
Storybook barriers leave no saltant mood.
Being passed by society is quite rude.
A misnomer indeed,
being labeled wrong because of greed.
Hunger of such has taken a life,
of one upon a lake that was never a wife.
Letters that hold such wicked silence,
that can never be undone even with science.
This blue body surrounded by an invisible malediction,
or maybe that is all just fiction.
He has nothing left from his unmanly lies,
upon keeping secrets he thinks he is wise.
Knowing it all is never enough,
but with an abecedarian brain on might just call it a bluff.
Eventually farewells must be given without hate,
and one might hope to return as if all was in a somniferous state.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
Today, 4/9, turned 29;
in '94, 9th hour born;
4 craves stability,
9 thrives on change;
if you believe in
that sort of thing.
But like the dogwood,
its burnt-edge blooms;
the same each spring,
abscission looms.
Roots in the past,
leaves up for the storm
in '94, 9th hour born.
Apr 10, 2023
Apr 10, 2023 at 6:00 AM UTC
Is life a story, is life magick dreaming to love?
I gazed up. “Standing below the elephantine magnolia,
the ground still bore Tuscany ochre from autumns last kiss.”
My eyes solivagant orbs fed on spring’s dews in mourning
──jewellery clinging opulently to her naked form.
Dawn chilled the breeze caressing her body as abscission
demanded she undressed her emerald gown of leaves.
Magenta and cream blooms sprang “loudly” seducing
─ blushing mauve crowned centres,
a population of endless figurines perched motionless on aching
naked branches.
Solomon’s seal burned white within me drunk impending suns arrows, opulent words of silver Verbus diablio kissed in a cauldron
of Magnolia words, a banquet for mortals that seek loves gold.
A lone spider echoed silence bearing the sigil of Jupiter’s
vermillion and white spun striations luffing on the breeze
warming. “Magnolia dressed the day ardent in perfumed
── glorious plumes that each set sail across waking skies.”
Ablaze I am luscious dreams wrapped in sweet nectar,
travelling limbic memories breathing deeply, held captive,
wanton within her labyrinths of silk caresses, petals whispering,
sweet love as she engulfs my last resolve.
In raptures white velvet gown my hem sweeps over gold russet
and brittle autumns words forged in winters need for warmth──mind leaves crunching beneath life’s changing seasons,
stitched I cling enamoured to mortal honeymoon summered fields.
I am the female of sapphire tears twisting, glittering melting ice shards, bequeathed of pained black stars travelled on passionate magick fires, breathed on melodious Roma nights.
Rested among the branches a mantel crucified- drunk once more,
a bloom held silent in time weeping, exploding fragrant in a coloured soul, a luffing flower creature to life──crowned
──to sun hope thorns.
©ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens)
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
The abscission of inner voice comes,
storm from a vein of clouds,
cut that bleeds a profusion of thoughts.
She trails a finger through confusion,
seeks coagulation, anything that solidifies.
Free but lonely --- an epitaph signed
by empty arms from lip to heart,
extended to a faithless world.
Something more than silence ---
tears form a haptic prayer.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
the vivisectionist comes to call
when I am separated from you
his palsied incautious hands
removing the hours from my body
one
at
a
time
dragging his dull rusted scalpel
across my psyche
in his leaden deliberate pace
whistling
tunelessly
monotonously
in my ear
he will have no truck
with anesthetic
I am bathed
in the sanguine gore
of his butchery
which others mistake
for sadness
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 7:37 PM UTC
I remember when I was six there
was a hint of it
even then.
I was six.
Six and already acting as if!
trying to catch a setting sun.
As if
a last apricot
snapped of its thin, pendulant
node, were falling into
abscission, and the pulp, and the flame
orange
flesh, and the
seeds
about to rupture.
Would lay an open hand, one hand
(I think my right)—lay it on
the frail bark of a tree
outside, together, alone. As if
even then
asking the skin
of what rises and holds
organic and tall the
living and strong
not to peel away
leave me.
As if I thought
I don’t know who was beyond,
watching.
But laid it there, still, all popely
and saintly and, really, quite foolishly.
I was six.
Six, and wondered,
had somebody
watched?
I don’t remember what I wanted.
But a trace of something
important
remains
ruptured in me. As if
all along I had known
not to hold out the hands. Known
I am six-teen years later.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 5:47 PM UTC
slap pensive light;who's already harnessed
the enormous blot ******* at visual horizon
domineering uncouth lazy mammothly tiny
mounds of mountain yet oft and unnecessarily
gigantic the ***** whitish vaults cooly my pane
crashing quiet yellow dashingly dashes on the
around of the scent of this space and its outside
is 東京 simmering pink buds extrapolating everywhere
and i hearken to the texture of the city wafting
instinctualy in all my little cuts and i think we're we
and not her or i. this slight abscission of my logic
and i tongue its purposeful tenor and i'll walk in
the garden of neon and it's outside it's tokyo
and it's: 東京...
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 11:56 AM UTC
several dozen leaves fall
all at the same time
around me
on the
ground
and there
is no wind
its abscission.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 8:37 PM UTC
I've always fallen in love in autumn
always to fall apart early spring--
call me deciduous, the abscission just happens,
I've considered my winter coats, my shields,
the neat places I've tucked myself away
were we to overwinter?
to hibernate until further notice?
the titles were frightening, impending and
ominous, each one a textbook on subjects
we had no knowledge of, dark leatherback novels
featuring versions of ourselves we never meant
to be or never knew we could --
wrapped in sleeping bags and white down duvets
best during the winter becase we were both
raging fires, flames licking at eachothers doors
stopping short of our naked toes, put out by the
here and there snow, but sometimes
we were embers, pulsing stones of coal
settling, wishing, waiting, kissing wounds
breathing secrets over bruises--
but migration comes suddenly,
i've been in and out dormant for years
a sputtering volcano rumbling and groaning--
were we to overwinter?
I lost the dream woke with a start,
the caldera gave way and sunk in
terrified I'd take you with,
but travelers don't pause for eruptions
or make their way through magma --
and volcanos don't plead
for them to
stay
were we to
overwinter?
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
To me, it was nothing but a forced attraction
I needed a filler for my soul,
a soil to fill my cracks and crevices
I pitied him for his self-love, always unrequited love
When I worried about his heartaches and abscission
he worried if he’d get the chance to light up a cigarette
While I pleaded him to live forever, we could be forever
Eternity, like evergreens
I’d wait forever.
The life I planted in his soul was slowly losing touch,
Or perhaps it had never even rooted
The forests flourishing in his eyes
turned to charred dust,
singed to the heart of the land
He burned us down to the single ****
that we are left with to remember
The beautiful landscape that once was
captured in a measly moss
And I am unsure whether to admire the audacity of the wildflower
Or hate him for the ruins that were once my roots
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
Tell me why I can't sleep.
I'm staring at my phone,
Draped in darkness, all alone.
Solemn, silent, joy agone;
Sorely sick of feeling nothing.
I can't muster any old ambition.
Time winds down but won't abscission.
Slowly it keeps moving, and yet I'm sitting still.
The happiest I've ever been... about three years ago.
It's cathartic don't you know?
Just to sit back and remember.
Is free verse even poetry?
It's purely unperpetuated,
Obnoxious, and inebriated
Slowly slurring slurries of distinguished eloquence and grace
With no outstanding reason, rhyme, or measure of it's pace.
It's disgusting, and undignified;
An element of haste.
Or am I just upset with all my words that hit the page?
My emotions, things of rage... or longing
My mind feels like a cage.
Oh I just hate feeling this way
And yet I do.
Oh take me back in time
To a world where she was mine
When all my poems weren't so...
Depressing.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 8:11 AM UTC