"amasses" poems
Today......in some places, heavy rains and
gusty winds rule, no way to control them
today, here where i am....sun beams with
fire.........hands keep fanning the hot spell
away, i think of ice...of snow falling from
heaven....touching the skin with coldness
that freezes the sadness in our heads...we
slowly become aware.........silently, gently
it fills spaces...seeming weightless.......yet
it soothes feelings....every drop, a comfort
we ponder more, as it amasses....painting
hills, mountains, with immaculate white
all over.....as if choking, but never slaying
cleansing........healing.......even the human
heart and mind, from bad energy......from
stubborn dirt......from being broken.....the
sparkle of white and the refreshing cold
bring clarity to one's darkened thoughts
a respite....a shedding of old, broken skin
much like new existence..............a rebirth.
Sally
Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. bayan
September 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 10:16 PM UTC
Spark kissed tinder
burst into flames
As men gathered in tight knots
Stitched up a street riot
Wood warmed and glowed
Militant revolution minds
The embers hummed with ashes
As city streets burned
Tyres and tubes were rolled
home brew guzzled
Fuelled the fires further
more streets burned
Water cannons hissed
As men aflame with anger
Lit fireplaces up alleyways
With burning brain torches
Taking the political fireplaces
To the palace of no return.
As soon as the government
Dissolved into a carpet bombing
puddle
The big bear
licked its paws.
Author Notes
The Revolution continues after a lapse of two months. Most politics start around a fireplace fuelled by alcohol and hate. Once lit the fireplace chatter
moves into the street and spread rapidly.
The Bear anticipates a breakdown of law and order and amasses its troops along the border.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
A cat stalks amongst stalks;
monkeys like old men, fingers unpick
your banana hands, curious and careful.
Too much expression.
Don’t worry, have a curry.
And from a coach window glimpses of a land
where a skeleton boy sleeps or lies dead under palm.
And the red earth chokes.
Follow the waterfall to mango pickle
down river to a jungle boogie rhythm
you ain’t ever heard before.
Cobra skins and coy carp,
the sound of cicadas amasses.
A stand still in traffic, its ‘crush’ hour
its okay to beep even if it will never get you anywhere.
A treasure trove of trinkets, a myriad of jewels.
All you see is money,
all I see is you wanting money.
Dusty rags from sandy bags, the face of
desperation is ugly.
Temples carved into caves
as markets coloured like an artist’s palette.
An elephant’s eyes say more than this poem could.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 3:51 PM UTC
Heavy clouds threaten the
bankrupt horizon like
bad book reviews.
The bottom line looms
ugly and final
under everything.
There's no money
in trying to be
a decent human being.
Evil makes good
investments, amasses
a robust stock portfolio.
Getting by is
hard enough.
Any day now,
those ********
will find a way
to tax sunlight.
The rain follows me as
I walk uphill. Ahead of me, it's
bright and dry, but the rain
keeps pace perfectly, falling
only on the backs of my shoulders, and
somehow,
this is not a metaphor.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
The jukebox plays that old time swing
What a wild sound, a jumping fling
I've got it bad today, a fever for you
Think of us, when I'm feeling blue
Sinatra say that having it bad,
Well it ain't good and I'm so glad
So when I'm down and out, I'll turn you on
That old timey jazz, for me it's the only one
Art Tatum I'll turn you up loud
Swanky Szabo, amasses a crowd
Slim Gaillard, that crazy sound
Teagarden's trombone all around
Mingus and Ayler, Rollins and Miles
Dalindeo and Niechęć all those styles
I'll dance the moonlight serenade
and these hepcats, will never fade
Dry up daddy-o and focus on sanity
Sonny still struttin' with such vanity
Wayne Shorter quartet on a starry night
Jazz has me goofy but feeling alright
I've been feeling grummy for far too long
Remedied with an old Billie Holiday song
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
A heart waits
While sifting through the questions
piled high in a mountain of doubt,
reaching heights beyond belief
and scraping ceilings of torment
A heart waits…
Now tiring quickly, loosing strength,
finding the walk longer than you expected
Closing one eye to find the other does not see
and falling to dark corners of fear
A heart waits…
As volume amasses upon weakened shoulders,
and pain breaches the avenue
of store front sale signs
on locked door close outs
A heart waits…
When it all seems too much,
memos become lists of forever paper,
words scratched in blood ink
of empty pens spilling
A heart waits…
If you have found that point
where your mind says no more
and you feel that nothing will ever be enough,
please remember…
A heart waits…and that heart is mine
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
How often do you think of humanity? Truly consider the time our species infested this ball in an abyss. These are my thoughts at their purest form. After everything else has been stripped down, I ultimately retrace everything back to that perspective. The original provocation hardly matters. Typically it's a particular situation, debate, or repetition that will set me off. Today it happened to be silence.
The vivid image of ladders, sleek and comparative to the steps to climb up on the side of a swing-set, shooting into the sky. We all get one and we climb at all our ambitions. It's an endless cycle of steps, higher and higher away from the ground. Even if you wanted to stop there is no going back down (it's time). There is never anything to truly look forwards to at the end of your ladder. You'll just fall back into the ground. This is why I think religion is so prominent. No one wants to believe that there is nothing once their time is up. Perhaps this exact metaphor is why heaven was ideologically created in the clouds.
Everything is just to pass the time.
So take another step. (the past never passes, it simply amasses)
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
Brick walls
tower above
hindering sight.
Not even tip-toes
facilitate perspective.
Her footprints lie outside
the walls like fallen leaves
Their forms unknown to her
their descriptions insufficient.
Saturated walls of distress hold
attempted depictions of footprints
engraved with hope for resemblance.
Discerning individual prints is unfeasible
She confronts this impossibility every day
Some were initiated with her imagination
Others embody a perfect resemblance
Many drawn only from descriptions
Overlapping and sharing marks.
Dust amasses and ivy crawls
Wrinkles point to her nose
Sanity escaped long ago
Her search will never
cease. A question
burrowed deep
within. What
is Truth?
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC
I would rather
be a
wanderer
a belongerer
to no body
to no country
a loose end
than to bob
eagerly
at every tug
of the yarn's
end
whose
wound-up
mass
amasses me
a wriggled up
ball of
wriggles
I would rather
be alone
than
scooped up
in a basket
with others
of my
supposed
ilk
and held in
by the
over-under
wicker
edges
domed up
for containment
ominous
clicks and
scrapes
of my
destiny
clattering
and chattering
above
fraying
frizzled
frazzled bits
smoothing out
as my length
is tugged
up and up
like a long
slurpy
noodle
I would rather
be loose
and scrappy
and stumpy
and ragged
the one that
nobody loves
the discarded
refuse of a
more discerning
eye
than be made
surreptitiously
into somebody
else's
jumper
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC
A heart waits
While sifting through the questions
piled high in a mountain of doubt,
reaching heights beyond belief
and scraping ceilings of torment
A heart waits…
Now tiring quickly, loosing strength,
finding the walk longer than you expected
Closing one eye to find the other does not see
and falling to dark corners of fear
A heart waits…
As volume amasses upon weakened shoulders,
and pain breaches the avenue
of store front sale signs
on locked door close outs
A heart waits…
When it all seems too much,
memos become lists of forever paper,
words scratched in blood ink
of empty pens spilling
A heart waits…
If you have found that point
where your mind says no more
and you feel that nothing will ever be enough,
please remember…
A heart waits…and that heart is mine
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
Down there in Knightsbridge where the dead rich rub shoulders with the dirt poor and the older I get,the more down there I am.
And I go bummin' around,around old Strutton ground and even with New Scotland yard on the doorstep it's hard to feel safe, and so I shave off a minute or two of my breakfast, so I can get through the turnstiles at the station (though they call them barriers now) they're no barrier for me,I like to travel far and free.
But I'm lost in this city where the people don't see me,don't talk,they disturb me,it's like living in a cemetery among the dead and the disinterred and I am disturbed by the lack of affection that's shown by some sections of society.
I am the cream of the crop and once was the best of the best that this country had got but then I turned sour
and every hour that passes,every hourglass amasses more ammunition to fire at me..and stupidly so stupidly I insist I am free.
Someone is failing me and I should be sailing someplace where I could be free but I'm rubbing shoulders down in Knightsbridge and getting older every day.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
an intense feeling of love that cannot be held between your hands
it’s more than what comes physically
it’s one that amasses all compassion
it’s not for one, but all
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
I'd laugh at my life
If it were not my life
But I hate
Mockery.
You can travel with me
I trust your look
And you sometimes
Make me laugh
Unselfconciously.
I have been
Hither and yon
And seen a lot of things
Blinkered and wrong
While laughing woefully.
I have danced among the stars
Too big of steps
Prancing too far
But I trust your look
And you make me laugh
Unselfconciously.
I love her like life
A bright-eyed fierce wit strikes
And she reminds me
It costs extra for the cherry.
Like God's own soda ****
He amasses the vanilla
Gives a little whip cream squirt
And darts an inquiring look
Shall I add the cherry?
I love what I love
And I know what I know
I'll go fighting to the grave
Wrestling with my own ****** soul.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 7:26 PM UTC
how wounded is my psyche when all is set adrift?
i think it true/it must be true; else it wouldn't exist
how branded is my brain with smolder-marks of you?
forever within me, you were like second skin to me
yet distanced by emotions running too high to be
quelled, dispelled, erased, removed or replaced...
i can't bear to think too hard, my dear~
one drop of you would make it all crystal
clear out my records, file cabinets in my head
down(loaded) recollection lane of memory instead
broken:solemn is my tongue as this fervor amasses
and it hurts to touch these now-disjointed flashes
but i touch them everyday, i touch them every, every...
time only ends up twisting me far worse on the inside
rate my heart at my heart rate's jump-sudden incline
you were never mine (you never were)
but you should have been (i wouldn't let you in)
but i should have back then, i should have...
listened to my heart and avoided this mess
unwillingly was i supposed to suppress you
these sensory memories are becoming affliction
the musicolors of your voice hasten forth unrestricted
eight years is too much time for us to have spent apart
if you still have my letter, then you still have my heart
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
Dark foreboding,
His Icy touch,
Destruction Amasses,
His Lying eyes,
Poison,
Her Flowery scent
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
After a long day,
I sit and pray.
I try to delay,
What I have to say,
I try to muster might.
With dwindling delight,
And fantastic fright.
I see luminous light.
For once the fear passes,
I see through my glasses.
That though fear amasses,
In the end it collapses.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
Wandering lines of water
Lost, flowing through the glass; not
known not certain,
A fragment of a lost source, vanished from begotten source,
Etching lines, deep lines, an impression into
Glass with a responsibility, a sire to
That which ridicules the world that
Stands avast in light that wanders past the eyes,
Eyes of wonder,
Peering to that beyond yonder,
A world of ink, flowing through the vast
Cacophony of falling waves, crashing, raging,
Violet indignation.
Cursing the gazing sun that holds the world
In yonder;
A pair of open arms,
Closed
To the passion that precedes the red velvet that amasses in the east.
An army that shall never cease.
They ponder on silent dreams as they plough
Through the sea that never fails
To open up the arms of isolation.
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 9:24 AM UTC
The me revolution
Is patient and passive
Inside it amasses
A gathering rage
In a riotous tempest
At bay, kept away
From the hubris-imbued
Alter egos by day
The mundane and in vain
Solar-powered display
When they do not see life
As a precious resource
And they only know peace
When it’s taken by force
Of the choosers’ illusions
And terrorists’ wars
Tax burden exemptions
On white, sandy shores
That to most appear deserts’
Oasis mirages
To me they are merely
Blood-splattered collages
On checks for the OPECs exchequers in
Texas
And Brexits perplexing new nexus of rexes
Whose tax is so lax that it’s stacked on our backs
And the hacks get away with their cyber attacks
Until crash goes the system when viruses spread
I just upload the ones that get stuck in your head
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 10:09 AM UTC