"accompanies" poems
Far on a lunatic sea, filled with tranquility and serenity, love and devotion, some flowers have made it their goal to bloom in purity,
Innocent looking, sweet and with a scent from amongst the heavens,
Tricking their foolish, mindless pray to come closer to them while seeping in spite and hatred, longing for revenge for their reflection,
A soft breeze accompanies the starlit sky, transient moonlight lurks through in a ghastly, bluish horizon as it rises to claim the heavens for his own once he had reached its fullest phase, ahh those phantoms,
Gone mad through a night full of punishment and bloodshed,
Before the petals can scatter in a dawning sky they seek for an intent,
Finally an attempt would be able to be made, a pity human draws near, weeping in sorrow and grief, causing them to shake excitedly
As then their roots would rush out of the ground and imprison him,
Twisted illusion of diversion, as they pierce through skin and bones, dragging his struggling, flailing body underground,remaining unseen
Feeding on his blood, using his corpse as a fertiliser they stay pure,
Moved for one instant, they dive deeper into the soil of this landscape
Hatred twines around them, causing disturbance in their memories,
It is alike to be left in an accelerating world of recurrance, everlasting,
Until the sunrise has dyed the sky in red and everything replicates
~ Umi
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 8:43 AM UTC
euphoric paranoia
accompanies your touch
as you finger your way
under my skin
shadows on the curve
of your neck
jitters of reality
involuntary fantasy
caverns in my body
unrecognizable reflections
disintegrating away
maybe its your love
maybe its ****
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
no one is subscribing
to the universal affection
draining subconscious ailment
that needs no treatment
quaking with fear
shaking with revulsion
looking to prolong
an hour, a minute
stretching one second
into ten seconds
where are we going,
past the streetlights
the crossroads
the commotion
inside the canal boat
that surrounds and accompanies
this road -
will it ends one day,
sometimes, somewhere
and brings an end
to the entire's generation
guilt and disease?
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 7:33 PM UTC
Let me be your Isis
I'll scavenge the land for the pieces of you they've stolen
and fit each and every piece back together with delicate fingers
Your kintsugi astounds me, each and every break so beautiful
It is not my reflection I admire as my eyes dwell along and ride
the golden rivers you try and keep from me
Let me be your Isis
let me see the melancholy spill from your eyes
the snap of your spirit when my words are like sin
I am not perfect, and I will drown in my folly like gin
down my father's throat
my father does not know how to swim.
But your pain is like a gasp of breath sometimes
when it reminds me that you are of the firmest birch tree
your bark does not bend to just any wind
and the symphony of susurrus that accompanies the midnight
breeze, escaping the ivory lamina of your leaves, each note
leaping off of every blade like a dancer,
are NOT composed by just any sultry sylph
Let me be your Isis
Be my Osiris, a masterpiece
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
I crave the silences that fill the air around me
Along with the solitude that usually accompanies it.
They are my friends.
They comfort me when the world starts to scream.
Sometimes I need them,
But too often solitude becomes loneliness
And the silences become deafening.
That is the true curse of an introvert.
Wanting to be alone but not wanting to be lonely.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
an incredible incite (the ruthless volatility of words)
~for L.B.~
the only place of solitaire solitude in the city accompanies me
like a faithful country dog that doesn’t know better to be afraid,
of moving cars, sleepless night terrors and unscripted “dreams”
where image and words say come “follow me” with ruthlessness and no cloying come hither looks and
see and take and recall with perfect midnight blue sky clarity for
the incredible incite of credible insight
surfacing unexpectedly in a intemperate pool of slushy snow,
that will be an ice storm of painful confrontations with naked
inner truths standing outside in sunny sub zero playground
there is great risk. volatility gone wild. when the speed
governor is removed and you live at 100 mph on local streets,
when the merest slight of an accidental incidental touch
transforms into an incite incident and hell is the threat
that you will not die today and your own words will ruthless
pull from the nerve places where sensible and sensual cannot
coexist and this write this script is a poetical insight inside, an
incredible incite and what your spilling is spaghetti sauce blood
when you left your brain on broil, instead of the faking daily of
slow simmering ineffectual intellectual words that just don’t
cut the crap. your addiction complete, you cannot live without
the incredible incite, the ruthless volatility of words,
otherwise why rough write what you see
in the blind
beyond the blind
1/6/18 5:03am
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 5:17 AM UTC
“Play it cool,” they said to me one afternoon.
Five years later, people drop me in their drinks. Scotch on the rocks.
The glass speaks to them from behind drunken eyes.
“I am the Twist",
the twist that accompanies the elixir you crave so fervently.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 8:16 AM UTC
Rustic colors of an autumn leaf,
Makes death look so beautiful.
Lifeless it lay telling tale of those naked trees
It once used to be a part of.
A poet's inspiration, a lover's song
The sky at the time of the dawn.
Now it accompanies me
As I lay in my grave,
For the birds have flown south.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
The evening's still and quiet
and the katydids abound.
The flag is hanging listlessly
as I listen to their sound.
Desultory the summer air,
as though the world awaits,
"Something evil this way comes."
the foe is at the gates.
A feeling of impending doom
accompanies the air.
Nothing moves.
A stifling presence hovers over there.
Like a blanket, smothering
t'is much too hard to breathe.
And yet, my arms are paralyzed
and sword, I can't unsheathe.
I watch as shadows gather
in miasma up the street.
A harbinger of evil
with an odor, sickly sweet.
I feel it getting nearer
and my heart beats fast with fright.
What imagination ...
on a stifling summer night.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC
Once upon a time, a long time ago
There was a little boy with a grimy flow
I used to hear him rap in Chicago everyday
And this is what I heard him say…….
He say **** like, he be like….
Ah! and I'm a *********** biter
The size of the incises inside ya might surprise ya
You might need rewind to decipher my cyphers
Ain't nothing on this world worth more than my saliva
I go so hard when I'm flowing
So cold my flows frozen
I'm a rowboat rowing in an open ocean
And I'm hoping, to blow up with no promotion
But dam, those explosions are so slow motion
So, I need some honey bees to pollinate my money trees
Cause fuckery of companies, accompanies that come between
A couple bucks and me, turned my orange juice to Sunny-D
Hide the cash for food stamps, no way i'm funded publicly
I'm hungry, but not for sandwiches I'm ambitious
A panhandler with gram plans and last wishes
Ask for the last table scraps you can't finish
Sell em back when you digest, and I repackage it
Abracadabra, I'm an alchemist, my magic tricks are acting as contaminates
I damage this establishment
They enacted bans on urban camping
If you ask them how they sleep at night the answer is
Happily on mattresses
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
I am so sick of love.
Loyalty, honesty, dedication, compassion, compromise, for better or for worse (when it's always worse)!
I am so sick of love, and all the drama that accompanies it.
Most of all what makes me absolutely ill, in a brain and heart exploding in anger and disappointment respectively, kind of way,
are the Lies!
"You're all I want", "I need you", "I need a friend", "I still love you", "I will always love you", "Is there any chance?", "Can we get back together?",
all the attention seeking, melodramatic, time-consuming crap!
Followed by guilt. That nauseous feeling of, what if? What If? WHAT IF?
Was it the right thing? Will I find another? What about the broken heart?
The sleepless nights of pondering how to end things, the poems written and unpublished, the practising in front of the mirror, cigarettes to channel the guilt elsewhere...
For crying out loud!
After years of guiding me, I should have given way more credit to my instincts.
And now for the new chapter. Embracing an old art, new to me. Currently so underrated and misjudged by priests, mothers and newly-weds.
The philosophy of zero expectations to infinite pleasure and everything in between.
No regrets, no time wasted (and hell was my time wasted on you!#$#$#$).
Time to give up my soul to the darkness, (God, I hope you'll understand I still love and believe you, but I prayed and prayed. I can't wait any more!) and my body to the sailor boy!
Absolutely No Strings Attached.
No bull **** no promises, just *** (and cuddles), a lot of *** (and waking up next to him?)
Anyway, NO STRINGS ATTACHED! [Except for the invisible, really strong one. He is irresistible after all and I'm a dreamer who never, ever learns, and follows her instincts way too much!]
One thing's for sure.
I am so profoundly sick of love!
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
the feeling of unwanted fingertips tends to wash over my skin in the same manner that the cold washed over yours
but heat transfers, or lack-there-of.
it was in this way that i became sick,
or maybe the smoke i've filled my lungs with had finally done me in.
i drank cough syrup either way.
i guess i was unaware at the time, but the smell of cherries was what did me in.
cherries, and i felt your hands once again
cherries, and my breathing nearly stopped all at once
cherries, and my hands began to tremble so violently that i dropped the bottle.
cherries, as i leaned over the toilet throwing up sticky sweet memories
cherries, as i drew further and further into myself and, subsequently, closer into your arms
cherries, as my eyes dried from the excessive tears and i could no longer manage any noise.
cherries, as your cold transferred into me and your hands clenched around my wrists
cherries, as the entire weight of your body was laid on top of mine
cherries, and i couldn't move, i couldn't scream, i couldn't see
cherries, as your voice echoed in my mind, preventing me any relief from this nightmare,
cherries.
no, not even the simplest of coughs could find relief under such strain.
because my cough syrup smelled like your red slushee vape juice,
i froze. and i couldn't pick myself up again
i couldn't front the storm, i couldn't slip you into my pocket
i couldn't put you on the back burner.
i couldn't erase you from my mind no matter how many times i tried i couldn't wipe you off of my skin no matter how hard i scrubbed
i couldn't close my eyes without hearing your voice telling me to stay still i cant stop smelling your ******* red slushee vape juice because the scent accompanies every panic attack and every breakdown.
and i sure as hell couldn't stop the blood from flowing once it had started.
the stress that made it hard to breathe had gotten to you, inside of me
and there was so much blood.
the doctor said it was normal for it to be about the same consistency as cherry cough syrup.
i can't drink it anymore.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
Some people like fall, but not me.
It's full of death and decay, the gorgeous pieces of fire drift
from their skeletal homes and burn out into
sodden mushy brown paper.
Hard smooth and brown pebbles, spiky holey bombs, and twirly helicopter blades fall from the same skeletons and hide
beneath the paper, waiting for an innocent victim,
lying in the perfect position to slip someone up so that
they lose their bags and packages as they themselves go
slip slide crashing into the ground.
The victims are sure to rise up again, but with some bruises and bits of soggy brown, stuck all over their clothes
In fall, all the blooms of color decease, all fruit and vegetable and good green things die and leaves the world sodden mushy and brown.
Some people say they like winter, but not me.
It's a cold cruel and heartless season, robbing any last trace of life
from all helpless and left-behind creatures.
The vegetation becomes glazed over with melting glass and is the
one spot of beauty, as the only green left resides on prickly evergreens, housebound plants, and the occasional tacky
coat.
In winter, there is no way to leave your personal fortress without mountains of clothes, and so every person becomes a
chapped lipped, red cheeked, stiff fingered puffball.
Every time you jump into a mound of the white fluff that accompanies the dread season, some is bound to creep into your shirt and boots, freezing whatever it touches, and then ever so so slowly flowing along your skin, one of Gaia's little tortures.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
It sings to me
On the dark side of midnight.
The deep, throbbing song
Courses through my veins.
It robs me of sleep
With its hurtful music;
Woven throughout me a
Sadistic opera of pain.
Screeching aria’s fill my
Head with brain-snapping sound,
While the chorus accompanies
With low, deep down thrumming.
Once begun, this opera of horror
Will sing for hours at a time.
No breaks allowed for this
Captive audience of one.
It sings until satisfied
My body won’t be worth a ****
Wrung limp from the awful music
Of the tortuous performance.
Sung to me from the dark side of midnight.
4/1/11 (c) Peggy Montgomery
Apr 1, 2011
Apr 1, 2011 at 5:17 AM UTC
Waking breath ghostly frozen, clang of pot-belly stove opening, cedar crackles good morning, sap sizzles, pops, melting. Warmth finds children sleeping, humid air, mouth-breathing. Smell of boy sweat and feet, young women ripely sweet.
Cats purring, stirring, padding quiet down stairs, weave meowing through mom's legs. Dented percolator burbles better days, snap of toast burned haze, molten mush bubbles burst, fade. Birds early on the highway Paradise-seeking, time, flash-burned, fleeting. Cobalt jay mockingly complains, chickadee sings his own name, coyote wails, thin and plain.
Children rise, sleep in their eyes, squabble over bathroom prize, eldest wins, click, locks herself in. Hurry, hurry the bus is coming, ancient driver, annoyed and honking. Brown-bag lunches crinkled running, feet slapping, seats squeaking, lungs hot and bursting. Ride the dawn breaking, hearts aching for more than this, rural bliss.
Stop sign flashes caution, young lovers in the back seat, bodies in motion. Stop, start, sway on down the highway. Engine mimics hot blood lust, accelerated diesel rush, nothing can stop us. You grab my knee - young, carefree. Brakes sigh and hiss, sneak one last kiss. You mouth - meet me later, we'll sneak out, rush to a future we haven't got, ready or not.
The old road at dusk, frog song accompanies us, bike wheels on the asphalt hum, forbidden moonlight run. Feel your heartbeat on my spine, frantic drumming matching mine. Horned owl hoots, forlorn and bleak, a premonition we refuse to heed, reckless with need. In the clearing young love begins, forget-me-knots on burning skin.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
The sun, a heavy spider, spins in the thirsty sky.
The wind hides under cactus leaves, in doorway corners. Only the wry
Small shadow accompanies Hamlet-Petrouchka's march - the slight
Wry sniggering shadow in front of the morning, turning at noon, behind towards night.
The plumed cavalcade has passed to tomorrow, is lost again;
But the wisecrack-mask, the quick-flick-fanfare of the cane remain.
Diminuendo of footsteps even is done:
Only remain, Don Quixote, hat, cane, smile and sun.
Goliaths fall to our sling, but craftier fates than these
Lie ambushed - malice of open manholes, strings in the dark and falling trees.
God kicks our backsides, scatters peel on the smoothest stair;
And towering centaurs steal the tulip lips, the aureoled hair,
While we, craned from the gallery, throw our cardboard flowers
And our feet **** to tunes not played for ours.
2.6k
Allow me...
To be your warm bath at the end of a hard day
And wash away all of your stress.
To be the long exhale from your tightly held breath
And relieve your mind for good rest
Permit me...
To be the light that accompanies you along your path
And brightens your darkest days.
To be the drink that quenches your body's needs
And the source for all that you crave.
Give me permission...
To be... Your dreams in reality...
Your fantasy in the flesh...
Your Good to the last drop...
Providing pleasure non-stop...Girl
Let me be this for you babe
© Tina Thompson
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
Cast to the valley wind,
withering into the element,
the lone rock, forlorn twig,
shivering lake of the late season.
Off he goes, off he goes, the prince,
in search of peace.
That first time when voice breaks:
the agony of growing up
in a transient world; Moments
when the rhythm of hearts
beating in unision breaks, pain
that accompanies sensation here:
of loss when age catches up with hope.
The constant, the concealed ever-present:
suffering, the shadow of life.
Off he goes, off he goes, the prince,
in search of lasting peace
in a world of transient joys.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
I imagine colored dye
Floating through my brain
Showing the inconsistent chemicals
The lack of even concentration
A dose of something unexpected
And my eyes turn round like saucers
I feel everything so intensely
I can understand the inner-workings
Of the feelings I never understood
My obsession with lost love
Finally whispered it's truth
I do not regret where I am today
I simply miss feeling the happiness
That accompanies the memories that haunt me
I must come to terms with the fact
That happiness will return to me
If I stop hanging onto the past
And embrace the beauty of the unknown
That will bring me more happiness
Until then
I will allow myself to connect with myself
No judgement
No fear
No regrets
Just acceptance and
No expectations
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 7:44 PM UTC
The splashing sound the waves make
Accompanies the frizzing sound of bubbles
Against the gargantuan stones
Sediment from the ocean salt
The distant sound of seagulls
And the whispers of the marine winds
The faint sound of wind chimes tinkling
Are an orchestra filled with gentle lulls
The sunlight radiating from the setting sun
Looks like an ocean of raging reds and fiery oranges
Reflected on the surfaces of the crystal blue waters
They are two worlds combining as one
You are like the warm rays of the sun
I notice as my eyes look over
The ends of the radiant rays of the sun cool over
Blending with the indigo of the night
There is warmth in your serene smile
As your ocean deep orbs look blissfully
To the work of art no human artist could perfect
There is warmth in your fingers, entwined with mine
The shore is our secret little sanctuary
Below the swaying leaves of coconut trees
Here may be where our last kiss of the night
Shall serve as an eternal bid of goodnight, I fright
The yearning I feel for the day to come incomplete
So big so I could keep this paradise and the summer heat
A heavy deep sigh I heave
As this passing day reminds me to leave
I have to return to land
Where my people belong and stand
Where they dance and prance about
And hustle and bustle around
As much as I want to take you with me
Alas, there are bounds even we can’t beat
Demanding that you belong swallowed in the sea
That you do not belong with me
So when the time comes by
Don’t shed your priceless mermaid’s tears
Don’t let your pain produce
pearlescent pearls tonight
It’s my turn to do my share
It’s my turn to cry
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 5:00 AM UTC
He who doubts me shall one day admire.
He he scorns me shall later revere.
He who accompanies will rise with my fire
while he who rejects dies grimly in fear.
He who will listen to here what I know
Is invited to stand-up and argue, if sharper.
He who accepts may play on my team,
Though, he who respects gets promoted to partner.
He who helps others when all else has failed
has secured my blessing in fighting the demon.
So, friend, face the storm and boldly set sail.
I share with you poise, self confident ******
Believe in yourself. Don't ever lose hope.
A dope of a man gives up on a whim.
But if I should fall, and call for a rope...
I thank you your throw. Together we'll win.
Save tomorrow for memories and smiles with no pain,
as today we face all of yesteryear's hurt.
Though, if I should slip and call out your name.
I thank you for being there, true man of his word.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
I'm thinking of a song
of the blue bird's lullabies when he sings to his babies
as the soft wind accompanies softly
With sparkling stream gushing,
A meadow of poppies swaying
The tree's branches raise its arms and waves
One cradles the birds
Darker is the sky becoming,
a new shade of indigo
The leaves flutter one last time as
the little chicks fly away to the dreams above their heads
Their hearts are filled with a comfortable warmth
Apr 24, 2019
Apr 24, 2019 at 9:34 PM UTC
The boulevard knows I don’t care
My hair’s messed up sometimes
These cobble stones remind me
That roughness has its charm
I turn a corner, find myself
In a whole new street of dreams
The fountain whispers to the wind
That nothing stays the same
As I wander unknown alleys
Each junction poses questions
Every showcase I walk by
Displays what life could be
Each passerby’s a promise
A sample story to be lived
The hilltop view reveals all
Of the possible paths to take
Strolling squares and avenues
I am searching to get lost
To find what I could never find
Where shortcuts are the norm
The cathedral proves to be the x
On my worn-out treasure map
The stained glass lays a mosaic
Of nuances on my heart
The arches paint perspective
Into my constricted reference
Their majesty lifts up my head
Compels an upward glance
The wideness resonates a truth
That shakes me to my core
The carillon sings an anthem
That accompanies new strides
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
Nectar-drugged bees throb and buzz
A dizzying, delicious hum.
A choral swell accompanies the growing surge
I, the conductor, back and forth, back and forth with my baton,
Deftly delivering a rousing, rhythmic performance,
The ****** an oh, oh!
Crescendo
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC