"alternates" poems
though deep he sleeps sometimes,
combining this exhaustive restorative
of old age, that alternates with a restlessness
rest of old age ~ the brain's nightly self-cleansing,
both necessities absolute
so he be unsurprised, by a parallel process,
occurring beside him, as woman rumbles, mumbles,
all the while reenacting the things we dare not acknowledge
in the waking hours, much too painful, much to fearfully real unreal,
but, best unrealized
she bolts upright, looks around, attempting to cross back,
looking, investigating, ascertaining time and place, localizing
her orientation, while assessing external+imagined dreamt threats,
till satisfied sufficient that whatever dreamt, realized or dreamisized,
before, going prone once-more
the watch man observes, the critical threat level, doesn't
approach the red line, not requiring hands-on interventions,
and relieved, that she has expunged and expelled the mind's many
molecules of memories, true or false, real or revisionary, making clean
white tissued neuron+cell for the morrow
and thus he reminds himself, that he be watch man, observing, uninterfering, is too, is also, a definitive infinite
only love poetry
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 6:59 PM UTC
did not know her when she was miniskirts and high heels,
before she converted to the one true religion of
poetry & yoga
some stray dog thots raveling in a pack
cross the not-even-6am brain that alternates tween
new day Adam apple crumb crisp and
distracting lascivious Eve ones
I,
would have loved you same back then,
no different than now
I,
write in different styles
under so many pseudonyms,
but it is the same man
I,
who crawls into bed nightly with
great expectations and a list of salutations
to wake you up and commence writing how
I,
love your poetic yoga-toned long legs
snaking between mine
while I imagine them in miniskirts and high heels
which is a long way round of saying
You,
alone, my darling forever young one,
are my
one true religion...
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
Im scared
Im shaking
Im trembling
How could I allow you to have so much control
Why are you still here
I want to leave you behind
Yet you lurk like a demon
Always coming when I least expect it
You come through your own accounts
Then move onto alternates as you stalk your prey
When I connect the dots to see that it's you
You leave, but only for a bit
You keep on lurking in the murk
Waiting for the perfect time to strike
Sending your friends to incite fear within me again
And it's working
I'm trembling
I'm shaking
I'm scared
Jan 20, 2022
Jan 20, 2022 at 2:45 PM UTC
The heart has four chambers running in conjunction with one another pulsing -- The blood’s pressure alternates consistently and swiftly and is just enough to allow for our survival.
it does very little else but allow for our survival.
This is interesting to note as the heart has been known to break.
If a heart is broken is death the result or can it be repaired?
...a question which few will ask but many feel
Perhaps the surgeons can fix your broken heart. Go ask them.
Perhaps a defibrillator can revitalize what has shattered within your chest.
anything is worth a try...
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
The heart has four chambers running in conjunction with one another pulsing -- The blood’s pressure alternates consistently and swiftly and is just enough to allow for our survival.
it does very little else but allow for our survival.
This is interesting to note as the heart has been known to break.
If a heart is broken is death the result or can it be repaired?
...a question which few will ask but many feel
Perhaps the surgeons can fix your broken heart. Go ask them.
Perhaps a defibrillator can revitalize what has shattered within your chest.
anything is worth a try...
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
****
The only real word that best describes this situation
Used as an insult, for example...
**** you Woody, for making an amazing man
A far better ************* poet than you
Be removed from this site
**** your supporters
And I don't mean those who like his writes
I mean, they're okay
But **** all those who support his alternates
Big Bad Wilf and all that
R, and whatnot
**** them, you do not understand
The capacity of my frustration
That such trolls would exist
In a place as supposedly pure as this
An even bigger ****
Because I no longer have contact with him
Picking off my supporters huh?
Or just going, **** it
Let's shoot down the real "problem" here"
**** you Woody
There is a special pit in Hell
Reserved for your ilk
Just
****
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
It's official: age is no longer a restriction.
I have the anguish and the whole world in front of me.
I used to look outside my windows with admiration,
but now that I have to leave the house I flinch.
Free birds fly for survival,
but for me flying is a choice
and now my mind alternates between
willing to leave and willing to stay.
Sometimes I blaspheme against my dreams
and I regret having unlearned to be satisfied with a little
but the truth is that
Napoleon is a demon that lives inside me
and always wants more and
I can't achieve the world if I just
behold it through the windows of my room.
I must leave.
Free birds fly for survival and I envy them
because for them there is no other option.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
fear of the unknown and a desire to fly away.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
frustration and ambition.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
comparing their own way of flying with others and
wanting to make another bird's way of flying their own,
even though it's wrong
because every bird flies the way it needs to fly
and the comparison is unnecessary.
Because their minds probably don't alternate between
the cry of giving up and anything else.
They are birds and only this they can be.
But what I am I need to find out.
How should I know what I'll be,
I who don't know what I am?
Indeed, we are condemned to be free.
It's official: age is no longer a restriction.
I have the anguish and the whole world in front of me.
It's time to leave the house.
It's time to fly away.
It's time to go.
Goodbye childhood,
goodbye adolescence.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 3:44 PM UTC
My roommate and I
were talking about
The Barrel Roll the other day.
Now, the Barrel Roll sounds incredibly difficult,
rolling around the outside
of a giant imaginary barrel,
but you can do it.
Apparently.
In one of those rickety World War Two fighter planes.
The Aileron Roll sounds even more difficult.
You roll around an imaginary needle…
of infinite length.
To avoid the Germans or Chinese or whatever.
Even more difficult than those, of course,
is the ******* Roll”
wherein you stop the fighter plane
in midair
like a hummingbird.
Then, turning sharply,
you spell out the words **** all of you”
in luminous green smoke
and then you explode
into a million purple cubes that then fall to the earth
and bury themselves upon impact.
Then, with rain and sunlight and so on,
up grow an assortment of tall, unlikable trees
that bear unpleasant fruits that fall to the earth
and decompose until the seeds plant themselves.
From these, more trees grow,
hundreds of them,
thousands.
All growing inward and converging on one point
over the course of many years.
The dew of twenty summers winking
and sparkling on this forest of wonder.
Until one tree grows
in the absolute center of the others
and it has this huge fighter plane dangling on a little stem.
The plane breaks off
and flies up into the sky
and the pilot alternates between shouting **** off!” at the Germans
and raining stagnated walrus carcasses down on the Chinese
who have forgotten all about the second World War
and the fact that it was actually the Japanese who were involved.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 7:20 PM UTC
Anger, bitterness, sadness, and regret
What strong emotions these are to be felt.
What horrible things for someone to feel.
Makes me picture the colors blue and black
Makes me think of bruises and tears.
Loss, lonliness, confusion and hurt.
I want to just make them all go away
I want to make your heart stop bleeding
I want to stop your mind from aching
I want to dry your falling tears and make the world a better place for you to be in.
Lies, deceit, pain, and termoil
These make up the world now days
Everyone hurts everyone without a second thought
No one cares they are evil and selfish.
Sin, loss, darkness, and sorrow
What sad things
What lonely things
What frightening and dark things
How do I go on living with these
How do I not perish into the night.
Money, *** ***** and drugs
Thats what you do to cope
That's what you long for
It's an unquenchable thirst that can't be slaked
Alternates the way you think.
Abuse, neglect, hurtful words, and agony
The yelling and screaming
The hitting and beating
I know these aches
I have felt these things.
I detest them so much
What agonizing pains.
Stupidity, hatred, carelessness, and shame.
What things to feel
What heavy burdens to bear
What thoughtless things
What hurtful things
How does one live with these things
What a better place this world may be without all these things in it
They will eat you alive and swallow you whole
Make you black and cold
Bitter and scaved
I know about all these things
I have felt all these things....
© Ashley Rodden. All rights reserved
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
my emotional feedback alternates-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice
my dreams totter back and forth-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice
my weakness is strong-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice
her beauty floors me-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice
when they leave me alone-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice
today the pinniacle is at it's peak-
hot and cold
it is sometimes like fire and ice
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
"Ill do that" she said
She was so always eager to please
But then quick to anger
"No worries I'll fix it"
She always said
In return she got a warm smile
"I'll babysit for the coming years"she said
"I'll be a listening ear" she said
"What do you need help with " she said
"Have you eaten " she said
"You sick we need a doctor" she said
Then her cup got empty
She couldn't pour anymore
Yet she felt guilty that
she couldn't give,
That she blamed them for it
Her path became thorny
In return she tortured herself
Became her worst nightmare
And then she met him
He promised her love beyond this realm
That she was the purest soul he has met
What she was,still is ,is a torture device designed specifically for her
She should be validated
And he would make her understand that
He became he refill
A therapist she could divulge her secrets to
But she forgot he was human
She forgot her touch was sinister
She tainted him too
And he threw that to her face
And she couldn't blame him,or them for that
Because there is always more to the story
She might be her author
But what she paints,what she writes
Would never be the full story
Because even she alternates between being a victim in her story
But what stays more constant is she must be the villian in this story
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 2:58 AM UTC
foreign tropes
plastic bags
paper napkins
altophone saxo tenor-horn
you make notes into words
i take your words and break them with
harsh breaths, bent knuckles
Sometimes lets press play again
lets play again, play again
eggin me on
you off into spaces with
tenor saxophones, horns
alternates and alsos
too-high-hopes
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
I am an open book, yet not a long one.
However, I seem to not be easily read.
I am not tucked into a nook or cranny, but know some
Sticky pages should be pried to see inside my head.
At times, I feel like a journal of dreams,
Scrawled into and left beside a bed.
My cover, it alternates, older and sewn with intricate seams.
My author is only He who bled.
Do I have a title?
No, yet I was named with a purpose.
It would be unfortunate to find me an eyeful,
And stop when you have yet to scratch the surface.
I can only pray for my pages to add
Substantially to my true story.
To see experiences passed down to younger ages, I would be glad,
To share true wisdom before I am in glory.
I am an open book, but certainly not a long one
I want to share love any way possible and be blessing
Either a single work or in volumes, how ever it is done
It should be one that only adds to life, never lessening.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
I know time doesn't stop
When we want it to
never accepted love
I didn't have to beg for
Now you say
You don't want more
But I play
The worn tape once more
I break my own hurt
We don't get the ones we want
Say we learn to love the ones we get
Who wants a love like that,
Cold and unafraid?
Love is a threat, love is a weapon
Don't tell me different
My hands on his body were not enough
It's an enemy we don't understand
Just like that forsaken loop of a tape
Taunting me with images of alternates
Stuff a sock down its proverbial mouth
With eyelids squeezed tightly shut
They never fall for a pure heart
What about one stained black
With dashed hope and excuses to let go
What was it?
Love is a weapon, love is threat
You've taken away
I feel as though I am nothing
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 9:47 AM UTC
who stretches and sculpts his hair in the mirror late, all alone, on a Friday night
looking for the God-given hat to suit his frail self-imaginings to impose a distinction that exists as a gravel-clasp low-look remembrance of his eyes meeting his body meeting his head to say his whole is no social white-teeth good-look Prince Charming
but I hope I can charm you anyways.
I'm the kind of guy
who will self-righteously decide he is over you,
but one slow morning of solitude and dream will remind him of the way you used to close your eyes and curl your lips to hum, almost purr, like a satisfied cat, who meant it when you said his eyes were globes and he a globe-trotting student of the universe, and the way the early morning sun over 150 years of neighbourhood cascaded across your left ear in sleep used to birth him into the world like he had never been here before, still years from taking the judges oath or even considering a need for his own little Office of Internal Affairs, and your sweet little figure with its imperfect squalor's, and.. okay, okay.
This isn't a love poem
But I loved you
and I probably always will.
I'm the kind of guy
who cries at the end of sad movies.. studies the news as a history book in progress, yet always goes to bed with a tear in his eye realizing these aren't statistics of Stalin's collateral damage
but people as real as him walking to work in the morning only to be struck into the nether by a texting drunk on the corner of 9th and Trunk or shot in the wrong place at the wrong time for the wrong reasons or even no reasons, just primal utility or passion means suffering in Greek.
I'm the kind of guy
who alternates between knowing nothing, and knowing the absolute and knowing it and knowing you and knowing him, me, woah, what?
I'm the kind of guy
I'm the kind
I'm the
I'm.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 1:43 AM UTC
Written shots come in all shapes and sizes,
Size matters like size six, eight or fourteen.
Fortune braver the first line alternates the second so on so forth.
What becomes sizeable?
What's your size?
Little antidotes from a measured eagle size flies,
Weighs it all up from a prolific mind blasted out its circumference,
Two lines make three so on so forth.
In size short or long corridors open left and write,
Rooms of poetic justice words escape its meaning of pride,
Trying to connect its versatility,
Weighing up all its options to a third eye so on to the forth.
High five thinking outside a sizeable box,
A perfect band meets five,
Your five a day fruit flavoured squashed for you,
Drinking your rainbow colours that your taste buds acquire,
For then be hit for six.
Six like **** curves figure dressed up in silk hanged up with a second coat,
There's a cat amongst the pigeons,
A cricket high score,
A winner catches it all out from a wicket duck 0.
A severed chase far from Devon.
Sailing on the seven seas on a ocean boat ride reach so wide,
Beckoning on a horizon with the world looking so flat but at your feet,
Never reaching the edge just for evermore,
No deck of cards would collapse or fall from this fate.
My great mate who I now hate as late as it goes round and round in a figure of speech,
Rate this of the eight wonders of the world,
Paradise monuments globalisms tournaments under and over a bridge we go and we go.
Nine I'm not taking no for an answer, upside down to the left six had it all,
Too much size from those verses,
Saliva grown twitch es,
A centre forward scores a goal,
The last but not least single number,
Einstein a rocket launch..
For then ten let it be impeccable when circling around next to its dolby one den,
Fur marks of a Lion gathered round a pack of clubs five odd and five even,
Doubled up figure of been odd but really been even Steven or maybe roughed up down in Nuneaten nine mine.
O'Reily@15112014
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Your fingers like petals that fall upon my skin,
the aroma fluctuates on the membrane of
that which alternates between the
vessels
of what tells me to
gravitate
between the consequences of conciseness
and consideration. I'm whispered upon
to accept both realities..
But innuendos are the motions
that make me linger
on the words you weave within my heart.
Can you taste my smiles when I look at you
when your not observing.
They are a confectionary that is only visualized
when I steal an embrace when least expecting
my lips to collect candy from your thoughts.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
It begins at a moderate pace,
Picking up steadily like time is in a mad haste,
Confined to one dimly lit area this fever cultivates,
Stretching endlessly as this heartache alternates to a physical pang,
Emotions barbed and jagged as those of thorns the heart turns to rage
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 12:45 AM UTC
If Sallinger hadn't written Catcher in the Rye,
Or Lennon hadn't sung, Helter Skelter;
If we'd not met in August
Would I write this? This!
This counter-productive
Counterfactual.
What universe would unfold
If I had no match,
I wasn't a match.
If I stayed home;
You'd stayed.
History's a roll of dice.
Is this a good day to ask the question?
O, the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
I'll not wear a watch...
And you,
Had you gone to the bathroom
Before driving off,
Would you have returned?
Or if Disney hadn't turned my head,
I wouldn't wish so much.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
Pressing my skin tightly,
Wrapping cold, short fingers around my edges,
My middle,
Wondering,
Waiting,
Images echoing out of my lips and
Into my ears.
“Stop doing this to yourself”,
“I can’t,
I don’t know how”.
Glass
After glass
Of water and tea,
Hopes as thin as the substances
I religiously put inside me.
Trust wearing down,
I’m stuck between two alternates,
One better than the other,
I know what my choice would be.
I gave up that choice
When I let myself go.
Started off lucky,
Never thought I’d face something like this,
At least not at 18.
I’m clutching my sides,
Staring at the space between them,
Trying to make a decision.
The decision is no longer mine,
I’m stuck until the judgment is
Finally placed.
God, help me.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
i think it was the kind of love
that alternates heartbeats
and steadies breathing.
i think it was the kind of love
that yearns and wants and
pleads for some kind of cure.
i think it was the kind of love
that soothes the heart and soul,
but still destroys your mind.
i think it was the kind of love
that scratches and gouges and
spits on you when you're down.
i think it was the kind of love
that smiles at you and holds
you close, at the end of the day.
i think it was the kind of love
that changes you and hurts
but leaves you so breathless.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 5:34 PM UTC
Crow-bars as big
as an Oak,
or the head
of Egyptian alien
architects build desert
triads,
ten thousand buff
onyx oxen men
to remove the kite
height splinter
from a kitten's foot.
Somehow I'll hold
my tongue-
tied like cherry stems
cross-like
the national anthem
spools of yarn
big enough
to fill a football stadium
in colors of senescent
knit sweats
alternates with purrs
and claws.
How can one apologize
by way of ESP?
Or plead with ghost
dripped vows
stay up all night to write
while you were up
scratching the post.
I am remiss for not
admitting in all
the languages
of the world
I clearly
do not speak
in Morris code
or maybe cats
just can't read.
I thought I had,
let me try again.
I was wrong.
friends never say
goodbye
but lovers
so often do.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
The negative will always turn,
to burn the burn out of the
burned in germ
and the positive which gives a ride
to the mental attitude on which I glide
quite gracefully,
returns to me.
It alternates, this state of mind
it changes things in which I find the
energy which then combines with something,
I don't know the name,
but it makes things better all the same.
No pills involved
I have revolved to spin again and
turn to burn out all the pain, in doing so,
I'll either grow
stronger,
or I'll die.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC