"affording" poems
Is burrowing a web
weaving a collection,
accumulating an anthology
For a far gone day
Stash them away
set them aside with a
what, when, why
rather than right
now ambitious zeal
discoverable.
findability.
Its the nature of the undertaking.
My minds an unavoidable reciprocal
Gratified by wasting time,
It’s just there filling space
Tucked away for a rainy day
In every nook and cranny
Tickling the fancy.
Affording a kind of intellectual gusto
that's borderline deplorable
accumulatively downright trifling.
Nonetheless,
even if it's unnecessary
I'll never get my fill
paper to hand typing away
uncovering all of life's mysteries
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 10:09 AM UTC
service failure the ***** will offer
there's something medically askew with it
the usual role is proving so unfit
a second chance in a transplant's proffer
another dies to bring life back again
wellness being redeemed by precious gift
the recipient receives a big lift
living's joy restored out of the rain
someone's kind donation affording breath
so that the period of existence stays
a healthy liver performing its job
for not to have this giving there'd be death
the bestowment allows those future days
gratitude felt within a person's cob
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
I remember the Tropicana Beau from Syndale,
She delivered my order at the welcome pub Dazzle-
It was the smile she was affording that day,
And now she is the jealous infection from the social bay…
I looked at her same contours hesitantly,
And they have been exposed much sharper delightedly-
She appealed me her demystified glory,
Two weeks later she left her job for the clearance money…
I remember her tears washing the ***** streets in the market,
She was refused by every seller for credit-
Those scanty clothes she was affording that day,
And now she prices her perfection in that way…
I looked at her eyes and she believed in me,
And ma editor startled me, “Sir, who is she?”
She gave me her perfect look and the rest did my camera…
We worked hard to frame her saying, “Love You…Rihanna!”
Feb 16, 2010
Feb 16, 2010 at 10:46 PM UTC
and this
I suppose,
is the life I'm living;
bundled up,
walking through the snow
with a hundred and two fever.
handling money
all day,
more and more and more money:
never enough.
taking money from those with too much,
giving it in turn to those with disgustingly too much.
alienated, dehumanized,
I work for those who think of me as a number. 60 hours a week,
I sweat and sweat,
selling a product I could never afford.
alienated and dehumanized;
I toil.
there is no pride.
my eyes: they no longer sparkle.
there is no pride,
there is no relationship with my product.
there is no pride in barely affording rent.
there is no pride in not being able to visit the health clinic.
there is no pride in being exploited.
go ahead, vamanos comradita,
speak out against, you know the worst they can do.
add a black mark next to your name,
call you:
radical,
dissident,
extremist,
in a word: othering
you are othered because you wish to eat the fruits of your toil.
you are othered because you're a human, you're not a number,
you're not a spot to be filled when scheduling, you're more than the recipient of corporate pay checks.
toil, toil comraditas,
there will one day be pride
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
I was looking when I got lost
ignoring the bill when I saw the cost
Saw my future in the turbulent waters
Of the porcelain pool into which I was tossed
Bemoaning yet accepting the fate I was enduring
Upon hearing the sound of the handles clank
I relinquished all control
as I began to roll
Gave no fight of self preservation. as I sank
The echoing swoosh left its sound in my ears
Then solid darkness closed in tight
So much more vivid than night in absence of light
The water was thick and seemed to be swallowing me down
Any oxygen of life seemed a fast fading memory
As all the while I could feel a gathering momentum
Like a ride through some putrafied tunnel of .... well...now all ephemeral in it's sudden ephemerality
As I was
Blasted loose from that officious muck
Propelled far far beyond the cascading flow
as a lust for life returned in a flash
I flicked one fin and then the other before allowing sweet gravity
To carry me down affording me that glorious splash.
Wow! It thought ' this is an enormous and wondrous bowl '
Oh oh oh!
That poor little goldfish that had suddenly become the hapless to happy victim
Of a frustrated and angry parent who had lost all control!!!
GOOD LUCK little one...you will need all you get!
Question/ riddle of sorts.
Anyone know the reason for my naming the. poem this ... bit of
i _ _ _ _ _ twist?
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 12:24 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, don't hide it---we miss them:|
me being a runaway flying in the black hinges
soaring in the twinkling skies
I crave you as a hungry wolf that knows no boarders of freedom
in there in the shady street
as I dive into my vulnerability you sense my need
you sense my desperation
its like you read my locked lines
among the flowers of the highs
in the publicity of tamed crimes
you have me
running on rage
screaming on blades
the cake comes and you appear none
lying down
hating the crowds
the bargaining weight of these suicidal sounds
where are you???
nowhere to be found
leave me in yells when the time ends and dwells
this is a first in a hell
do you intend to choke me to death again???
it is me who you pressed undamned on your wided chest
and carried it all away in a mild stance
when no one dares
to a slightest bare of your cans or cares
don't forget me still not lying
still breathe for your touch
and your essence on that spot
just tell me where
and my heart will voluntarily beware
to be awaiting a hold of torments in the bliss of fair
when you mindlessly gear
affording to disappear
a night changes its shades into a million gleams
you seem to draw on my warm sheers
------ravenfeels
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 1:56 PM UTC
Are better days possible?
and to whom may this concern:
the modern lonely
affording the air we breathe,
for wood and brick to make an abode.
Hiding in uncertainty
without a glimmer of a prize
I so long to be fickle and harvest
upbeatness along the pathway
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle,
closed up tight within a box.
My memories lay scattered.
Some are even lost.
Mixed in with those memories,
are events that shaped my world.
Tangled, twisted, interwoven.
Like so many cheap strands of pearls.
Reach right in and pull out "Roller Skates",
one that might have a smooth edge.
But stuck to it might be "courage",
as I faced report card day with dread.
Grab up the piece that shows "kiss".
The first one with my boyfriend.
Underneath is disappointment,
as he chose another girl, by days end.
Dig around an you'll find "Trust".
lying beneath "Corporate Bile".
It seems to be stuck into,
the notch of "Legal Files".
There, in the bottom layer,
sits "goals", though now quite ragged.
From having been bumped, rubbed raw,
it's borders are now jagged.
Somehow "Life's Lessons", though quite large,
Tends to, at times, elude my grip.
It shuffles down between the layers,
affording me a glimpse of its tip.
Each mismatched piece represents,
a moment, I've put away.
There within the puzzle box,
to be recalled another day
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 12:20 PM UTC
Morning:
My taken place at the faucet, a peer
Staring into eyes, not sworn to me
And I was standing, looking in the mirror
Speaking as my reflection
Spoke back to me.
I was shocked when he took my hand
Starting speaking about identity
I was shocked he knew so much
More of me
Than I.
He talked about my too-long hair
Or how good I looked in green
Or how messy my morning face could be
Or whether I was feeling smart or lean.
He knew it all:
I’d go so far to say more of me than I.
Evening:
Look to the east! A sun set
—Bravo! At least consistent and THEN gone.
Me? I’ve no such liberty
I couldn’t even tell, bereft a mirror,
The thing I like to call me.
Walking the roads, lined with lights
Bustling, living,
Lined with sights
Constituting the parts of me, invisible
—Added to nothing, they’re indivisible
Closed, exposed, fall and drizzle
Without the gall keep hold
From doors and boughs
In the windows—I’m there now
And THEN I’m gone.
Night:
The stone church’s door where
The righteous moor their souls
Piety flows
In its golden veins
And I’m there no more.
Their God does hate me
Without presence in the
Pews; I’m dross
Since the saint I chose
Was Saint Me beatified
Confirmed from the sinner Laity Goss
—So I turn
To the school affording play in my words
And a tact therefore
But rejects
All but their templates in blue shoes
Who sleight my for company
Only when within them
Or drowning in *****
—So I turn
To the wilderness
Blooming in virginal grapes
Disrobed save the skin
Unfamiliar,
Self-aware but only on a whim
And whirlwinds that blow
Ice and shrapnel and
Exile me to the country
Where not but dearth may grow
In a single season of mine
—So I turn
Too afraid of that winter
So much more the fall
And me in the mirror
Knows it all, knows it plenty
A casual drop in a casual chat
About identity
—So I turn
Back to the mirror
Back to it all
With showers and pictures in its wall
Staring into eyes, sworn not to me
Speaking as my reflection
Speaks back to me
I was not shocked he knew so much
More of me than I,
Since he strides alongside mine
And only in a certain climb
Telling me
It’s almost time, I’m almost there
But it’s not clear in which direction,
Or where.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
time stands still....yes
awake at last
much less hurt.
superb splashes of colour
ingenious maker dabs
deep strokes
lightning-fast!
no words needed
silent canvass
awaiting
bold moves
timeless heart.
riding on a wave
yet to be discovered
such delights....
reality tilts in surreal way
no apparitions
hiding
pitch-black night.
atoms split
from unexpected quarters
undeservedly
so, grateful for support.
in your eyes
not yet seen,
layers of
insane aliveness.
sweet and simple sounds
lead to redemptive road
beauty
beginning
affording faith leaps
believing strains of truth
finding forever sought.
:)
S T, 27 April 2013
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
“Yes, master.”
A shrill groan slithers
Across the gray stones
Of the tower, spiraling upward
Until it is trapped in loftier cobwebs.
“The lever is down, master,”
And the darkness is whipped by electricity.
I beat out these lines with a bare
Foot, tapping to every syllable,
As the madman donning
Green-tinted goggles and
A tumbleweed of hair curls
Closer and closer to the cluttered lab table.
“Need more light, master?
I’ll hold the lantern,”
And the light begins to praise his smooth hands,
Sloping precisely to pink fingernails
As the needle dips into his
Experiment like an eel
Flowing beneath the sea’s wake.
“Are you close, master?”
Illuminated are the gashes that mar
The ridges in my knuckles,
The calluses etched into my fingertips,
The wiry hairs that strangle
My throbbing, grey veins.
A life of delicate accomplishment,
Filled with a strictly inward turmoil;
It has never been mine to choose.
“It isn’t fair, master...”
And his lips purse in the effort
Of affording me a cursory glance.
“...That your genius go
So unrecognized,
Sir.”
Grunting satisfactorily,
He grins only toward his beloved creation
While I continue pondering
How a pencil might feel against
The paper if I knew how
To make the words.
“I want to write, master.”
“Poetry?” he mumbles to the scalpel,
and I nod my head vigorously as
His rumbling laughter becomes
Smoke that snakes leisurely toward
The skylight.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
Draw The Lumberjack
His toque screamed French Canadian,
Jacques perhaps, prominent nose
broken in a brawl over a woman named Suzette or
a close brush with a widow maker,
****** Niagara soaking his flannel shirt,
dripping from the delta of lines describing
a beard reeking of cigarettes and bug dope
trimmed, if he trimmed at all,
with a sliver of band saw blade
stuck fast in a lump of tree gum,
whiskers, after all, affording
a degree of protection from clouds of black flies,
one twinkling eye nesting in a profile
crinkled by wood smoke and ribald
bunkhouse jokes, widening in mock surprise
at a sour note from a squeezebox broken
on a drunken Saturday night,
fanciful elements I avoided drawing
in a slow, steady hand, embellishment
sure to queer my chances with the juror
poised to swing a bottle of champagne
against the stern of my boat
load of God-given talent, a launch
I await patiently after all these years
taking a break from the two man
cross cut saw, smoking
in the shade of all these doomed trees.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 11:01 AM UTC
Oh, cynic-
All those years of abridging the files left for you-
And whittling away at your own tusks-
To annex wild nerve and stove-top instinctivity-
Extemporising on an instrument that you actually did invent-
And then using it to pry open the kitchen window-
Asking the neighbor for a sword of keratin straight to the belt-
“It would show that I am, literally, made of (fitfully) lifeless halves.”
Anyway-
There’s that old-dresser where you stored plans of-
Delineating a white-white city for you to call home-
and then instructions to call it anesthetized due to it’s lack of horses-
Destroy it and all matter within a one-hundred mile radius of your current location.
I’m aware the end-product has cradled you since the first day you were alive-
but, it doesn’t anymore-
I do-
and I will not let my arms grow soar without affording them your recognition.
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 4:19 AM UTC
be blunter not, be no folly still:
this is our heartland's voice.
we are not this land's tenant,
nor are we the shadows that inhabit
light — this is out highest meed,
we go on with nobler steads.
languorous scraps of warfare
and a ****** of metal heed the
clarion call of our oneness yet when
it rains all shall rend in rust
as how our nation
furiously drowns yet emerges
victorious past the renegade of hours!
in it and from it
shall rise the true meaning
of our blood.
our large voices mellow down
in our guts outdoing our smallness - there is a river of
phantasmagoria yet its
rustle is same in its breadth in
our deep land. o, yelp never a lie!
consider truthfully brutal
affording solace:
it is our form reshaping our body.
it is our wills carving our flesh.
it is the dreams that are ensanguined
in us that forge the arms of
our fatherland: language!
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 6:55 AM UTC
They dreamed of one another when they were just little children, they just didn’t know who it would be when that dream came true. Still, they both knew it would, indeed, come true, … Some Day! They would see the various playmates, best friends, even young lovers, that crossed their path throughout their lives and they would wonder, “Is this the best friend I have always dreamed of?”.
The Best Friend of their mutual dreams was the kind that would be the one person in their lives who would be constant, grounded, and solid! This Best Friend would make them laugh at life, … and at themselves; hold them when they needed a hug; be patient with them when they weren’t quite themselves; encourage their dreams, their hopes, their prayers; be their sounding board when trying to figure out Life. But most importantly, their dream Best Friend would accept them and allow them to be the equivalent of such a Best Friend and to return -in kind- such an honor to this unknown person, … this Unknown dream come true.
Life lead them in different directions, affording them both their own individual experiences that would offer valuable lessons of Life, if they would just not let go of their dream! It wasn’t always easy, but they knew it would be worth it, they just had to Believe! So through trials and triumphs, catastrophes and celebrations, and solitude and solidarity, they became who the other one dreamed of, … who the other one needed. They became known to their Selves, obtaining a sense of clarity in who they are, what they need, what they desire, resulting in the perfect dream of a Best Friend for the other.
As they met, finally, a half of a lifetime later, they saw in each other’s eyes the reflection of themselves at age 5, dreaming of the Best Friend who would be their constant. And in each other’s hearts, they saw the answer to that dream.
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
In the darkest days of our humanity
I often wonder why we thought not
To turn on the lights
Why we condemned wrongs and injustices
To small rooms
And only entered them through back doors
Why the judges of damning deeds
Didn’t dismantle the decay done by guilt
And instead locked that guilt away
Not erasing it but not affording it the right
To catharsis either.
Keeping it in the dark leaving it to fester in and from itself
Why not expose guilt?
I asked
Then thought it strange the answer was in the question
Who does that help?
When has the airing of guilty feelings brought on by damaging deeds
Benefitted the one who owns no stalk in guilt
It is the guilty it helps
It clears their conscious and frees their soul
But so
If theirs is the one tainted shouldn’t it be they
Who have to live with guilt - a punishment
That doesn’t have a casualty count.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
*pausing at the playground
under a watchful full moon
recalling perfect summer nights
dreaming and dancing on the grass
...suddenly mere heartbeats away...
a part in the drapery folds
affording a glimpse of home
thoughts of impending entry
the tingling flush of awareness
...on the threshold of revelation...
as novel as premonition
as familiar as memory
a hanging rose decorates the door
a fleur-de-lis adorns the passage
...laying bare the soul...
embraced in a coat of arms
warmed by the promise of fire
where candelabra feeds flame
upon a hearth of touchstone
...grounded by ageless emotion...
absinthe makes it grow fonder
cherry pie serves it by the slice
feelings enough to give pause
especially to the faint of heart
...overwhelmed with welcome...
guest towels hung for love
epsom baths for the spirit
laughing through the tears
smiling through the ecstasy
with the passion of tango
...lingering in the vestibule...*
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 9:35 PM UTC
i guess when you're pretty, you can be androgynous,
and that's hardly the worry for the next skin head kid of
great Ormond St. -kneecap feeling of guilt - but hell,
i'd rather **** "Nicole" Maines than his twin
(wortschatz von herrzensor) -
pretty face akin to the river of binging
on looking at philippe i, fluke of orléans
******* it off while ensuring his wife
entertained a brother's calm to juxtapose
figurines worth a thousand souls
akin to blowing out of candles -
so why bother dreaming a coercion for
fakes and faeces into supposed applause,
that those nearest to you cannot afford your company,
yet afford it by being affording debt?
no smaller duty over a dress at court,
than it should be relative to the least exercise of power
undressed, and un-courted, to be anticipated courting,
given one's personal allowance as having wavered the king
toward crown and gravity, rather than anointment
and god... how thus disguise a caricature of
one's former serious argumentation for competing
sentences that disallowed sentencing via treason
thus, years later, allowed? is the crown
the joke? the king? or god? or maybe it is
man's laws that are the donkey's tail being pinned,
as forever in lover's jest best exemplified:
a man of actions will never be a man of words -
hence muscular actions gratifying easiest
leverage of the abomination of lexicon lost,
impede quickest and most versatile as those replacing
a forgotten heart, best kept secret between
however disgraceful the ******* of brotherhood
is given toward worship for a Narcissus not smashing
a kindred resemblance, instilled the widower swan
the blackened pupil with vigorous rubric:
repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat... only a conquered
woman is comforted - a freely reigning woman
ought be sacrificed with her belief of interpretation:
thus crucified; well, she damns the brothel,
but she isn't crucified enough to encourage
love freely born; but born under torture.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
His heart twas bursting with love to bestow
Her terrain had but endless emptiness
The loving embrace he'd gift to her show
Affording shared peals of happiness
A merging of these two to make a pair
Wouldst bring spring's blooming of adoration
His fondness showering her in sweet fair
Their worlds filled with sublime elation
This wonderful day of sunlit brightness
Twill come to her vacant piece of terrain
Whence he pours his mirth on her loneliness
Gladdening songs shall be sung in refrain
Distant miles keep them apart to-day
Were they as one how lovely the array
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
*I’ve seen you walk on air, not necessarily
Putting on airs, instead balancing modesty
And pride on weighing scales on which you dictate
The standardization units.
When push comes to shove.
I’d like to see you get down to some funky tune.
How’d you carry yourself, I can’t help wondering.
Would you let yourself be carried away?
Or would you instead wrap caution tightly
Around yourself barely affording a twitch of your brow.
I fancy finding out.
May I have this dance?*
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
Fooling yourself with alluring transitory pleasures, this world leads you astray.....
Examining love from all different angles, one can come to appreciate the connection
how it is so often used as the vehicle, by which we share with others our deepest affection
and this love no matter how much we have, never do we seem able to get enough
yet had we been forced to live without it, we would find living in starvation just too tough
This constant need to possess a measure of love in our life, must be part of that divine plan
enabling us to maintain our emotional health, and affording us a way to become a better man
perhaps an additional reason might also be, to share a little of our love with those in need
we can become so lost in our materialistic world, easily forgetting to pursue this noble deed
The greatness of man’s creation exists from within, and lies dormant for us to find
accepting the fact that we are spiritual beings, and the most unique of our kind
innate potential to reach the highest of heights, in the service of our Creator
choosing wisely to do good, while rejecting evil, and thus becoming even greater
Fooling yourself with alluring transitory pleasures, this world leads you astray
fleeting momentary happiness, causes you to believe you are here to stay
furthest from the truth you could never be, because ultimately all will see
when the end of that long road arrives, you too, will be just another deportee
Only with constant toil and unremitting effort, could we think it possible to overcome
to successfully subdue evil that is now a part of you, would be nothing short of awesome
better to consider the end, when your immortal soul will be in need of an abode of its own
what a tremendous loss it would be indeed, for your soul to be left in the dark and all alone
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 9:20 AM UTC
I am not allowed
I sleep here
I walk into these walls
I lean
I lean
A rectangle
No longer affording rest
I change my sheets
It doesn't change a thing
A sea, full
Like my mothers house
A row of coral
Beautiful and rough
& I wonder where my home is
I wonder where her home is
In doing this
Tiny bits of purple
flowers crumbled
I try to calm your
Exhausted heart
Your feet up
Your head down
Who am I to know
When nothing stays
And nothing is saved
Or amazing
who are we to grow
At this age
And I thought I knew
(something)
About you
Daring
Dared
I dare you to tell me what you're thinking
You never really do
I can't dissect
Or just won't
And reaching out
I feel pulled
Pulling like
Judgement
Nasty, jealous
Waiting
For me to
Tear it all up again
But you
You, like a quiet dog
Heavy sigh
heavy sides
As you lay down
Next to me
And me
Like a mouse
Never calm
Until I'm dying
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
naming my father's victories
past monoliths trapped
in glass case
and tracing my mother's tenderness
across the film negatives
we've no use for anymore.
yesterday was
a victory for my kindred,
while i still drag the augury of
yesteryears lovelessly
athwart the narrow corridors
yet this
man is still the wind
or a bamboo in duress
forced to
breakpoint.
the dinner clatter in the
kitchen mellows down to
wary dregs. my brother laughs
affording atonement
and everything at the verge
of palpable revelry,
i the unspoken yet
heard. my mother often wonders
from who did i inherit
such mood:
all dark
and trudging the infinite.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC