"amoungst" poems
I walk into school,
and find your unique Blue glowing outline amoungst
the average outlined people.
i lean on your locker
as you tell me how the last
episode of the walking dead ended.
as i listen to your unique voice
i taste buttered popcorn.
it wasn't an unusual event.
It wasn't till the day,
I walked into school,
And i saw you,
you were sick and your voice was raspy.
but my brain refused to accept,
that it was you.
because you were lacking a ring of colour.
and your voice tasted of caramel,
and not of buttery popcorn,
and i asked you where your,
colours went,
it wasn't till then did i realise,
that i was not normal.
and thats when i was told,
that i had synesthesia.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
My future and my heart, I'll share them both with you, you're happyness my goal in life, nothing i wouldn't do.
To live amongst the countryside where we both enjoy the view, where birdsong greets the rising sun and the day begins anew.
We'd lay amoungst the scented grass and watch the sky change hue, as there's nowhere else I'd rather be than in the arms of you.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 5:36 AM UTC
My weapon is voice today
'tis careless
a spell amoungst curs
it puts close friends in their places
and worried
(behind my back)
It kisses with mischeif
and muddies stray-fully
My weapon is played
a trial
a tool
to bring about my isolation
Then i may exit without notice
and unfollowed
a relief, in release
My real work shall begin abroad
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
love the person whom it isn't easy to,
where we find hearts hardest beat.
past pain holds us back from bloom
don’t hang that heart in defeat.
Petals will still spring buds anew,
love is closer than you think.
for ‘Love’ is,
to love the ‘you’ you’re offering.
grow strength from within, to reach out.
the way roots spread, to hold longer branches,
and fall short, when watered with doubt.
turning trust into lust and torn into ashes.
loves whisper can’t be heard if we shout,
for time, is worth it’s weight,
and to find yourself amoungst it.
As the wiser stars above will say,
if you love yourself little,
so will be your love and what you own.
so love yourself a great deal,
and grow colours you’d forgot you’ve sewn.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:01 AM UTC
The scarecrow, solitary in the field
Tatty coat, all astray
Looks out over all his land
If he could talk, what would he say.
Summer,autumn, winter too
Wind and rain, clouds of grey
He never flinches from his post
If he could see, what would he say
Children play amoungst the crops
Neatly parcelled bales of hay
Days grow shorter, crisper, cooler
If he could hear, what would he say
Invisable tears and a broken heart
His lonely vigil every day
Timeless days and empty nights
If he could walk, would he walk away.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:23 AM UTC
If drinking were a sport.
I think Id take the gold.
Even without your support.
But if it there were such a whiskey laced dream.
I think id have to start my own drinking team.
You know in wine.
We could clean house.
With Baths everytime.
For the wild turkey relay yours truley Gary and Jack
would hold it down.
Make the whole team hello including Elliot frown.
Chris can drink his weight in Guinness.
and so easily win us a god medal for sure.
Who need rehab were in trainning no problem to cure.
All the rest of the HP family will hang there head in
shame.
Cause when it cause when it comes to beer pong
weve never lost a single game.
Thank God for Paula. and Kerry cause sombobodys
gotta stay sober to remember the story.
And we always got Golden to write about are glory.
And amoungst are group Danny is the youngest in
are humble dive.
Even if he doesnt have a license .
Id rather let him than my drunk *** drive.
In the showcase are medals shall gleam.
Do you think your liver could handle.
Being part ofthe pubs drinking team
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 5:50 PM UTC
These storybooks woven with leathery imbrication
Filling my palms with vile indication
Detailing such wickedness and strife
What ethereal threads cling to life?
Such labyrinthine desires scrapping in my mind
My soul from body; that body which isn’t kind
To delve deeper within the wounds that sever
To fellow wolves, demons and toothless beggars
Unholy martyrs preach from a podium underground
Ablaze in hellfire, monsters of the ravenous mound
Black tongues and cheeks full of worms and leeches
Coals flung and burning over deafening speeches
Sumptuous in eloquence, these tossers and man-boys
Evocative displays of violence, hushed by silence and toys
Beseeched, reprimanded in city squares with common folk
Feeding dogs in heat slop with a pail and tote
Children waving hi to people in cages, smiling indifferently
Don’t they know what this is? Yes and no, forever in shame
Don’t they know there be wickedness afoot?
There be shadows of molestation
And whips of industry
Eyes removed and replaced with bar-codes
There be devils amongst the valiant
And dark angels amongst us
The few and proud
Recite aloud:
“Darkness brings uninvited guests
And our bodies are bare
Give us a blessing, a crumb or drop
Of life that we all can share.”
Veins full of rubies and auburn sapphires
Creepers laced in the cowls of cadavers
Red water thicker than mud and spit
The fatherland sicker than a rotten ****
There be dark angels amongst us, telling tales deep-seated
They be grave and weary, their lives left defeated
Now in the wilderness they give slothful lectures
But it’s only fools who listen to these rambling specters
And soon no one listens
Save for the moon that glistens
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
Long after my injust exhile from this site I began a time of deep thinking.
And after many cervasas and long nights with ***** women I thought.
Where is my life going besides to the free clinic every other day to cure
the ******* of fire.
It was then I remembred a wise amigo a man amoungst many men
not because he was strange they just happend to all gather togather in that spot.
Unlike a bathhouse once I only went to a few times to have some male bonding
time and to enjoy a nice backrub.
But enough with my college years.
My once mighty amigo told me.
******** dont ever let them hold you back for the evil forces are many
yet you cant **** crazy well maybe with a gun but that would take many bullets amigo.
It was then i knew I must return to the land of Hello.
To bring joy to many and annoy young teenage writers who think vampires can walk around in daylight and werewolves run in large packs with other amigos in Alaska.
How I wish i lived there as well.
It had been far to long since this gravyard of like button zombies had taken off
there pants turned off the lights and had a hot oil ****
At least I hope that was oil.
It had been a cold summer south of the boarder but that doesnt mean there wasnt fire down below.
Much like with older women.
So I packed the pinto and like a really fast minded person moving at a well
much slower gear I was off.
For where there is a need there is well a place people
probaly want something to suit that need.
So spank my spandex wearing *** and call me MR Pickles.
Cause The ******** has returned amigos.
Ole!!!
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
As we float here two miles high
Around us flocks of birds fly by
Without a density of less than one
We're well aware there'd be no fun
We like the view and have no wish
To plung and fall amoungst the fish
So please dear Lord for God's sake try
To keep us floating two miles high
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
The pearl necklace fell
From her ivory neck
They did scatter amoungst
The cracks and crevasses
Of the empty tomb
Emotions that had long
Since been scattered
Scurrying along the stone
To the sound of rats and mice
She counted as they ran
From her fingertips
Not wanting capture
By her cold cold hands
Not wanting to entrapment
On a cold cold neck
The string had broken
Much as her spirit
The golden clasp has rusted
Much like her heartstrings
She sat down alone
As withered as the roses
In the vase dusty crystal vase
Remembering a time before
When youth was best wasted
In the undergrounds of Paris
Where beauty, her beauty
Reigned effulgent
When she never gave a thought
To anything other than dark desire
She feels my presence around her
She knows that I have come
I pick up the white orbs
That did escape from her
To place them all
Back in her rigored
Dead hand
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
There's something very sad about
Watching a big boulder erode away
Into millions of tiny grains of sand.
There's something very sad about
Finding the big dipper amoungst the stars
But never finding anything else.
There'a something very sad about
Realizing that this is your last horra
And the party is over.
There's something very sad about
Putting on a blindfold
And taking a sunset stroll on the beach.
There's just something very sad.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Forgotten fights lost conversations and past conquests loom heavy in this scene of good times and past regrets .
Can you take me to that place we know exists and all to often ignore sweetheart I'm not looking to change just be in the moment.
Dim lights and what never was the fire is a passion that never dies just is passed to another group for more of the same .
One last line and maybe take another home the emptiness suits some as time will bury us all.
Tonight is all that matters .
As we taste the wine that yesterday will never recall.
I'm the poet in the chaos and the writer in the moment That need be
Just a pawn of The words sweetheart I will be gone tommorow just the same.
Its all in a good time and a chapters end .
I will miss it one day.
Question is will they ever miss me.
Adios
Gonz
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
The streets were not as mean as history
said they would be,
especially after a night out
at the bier haus,
where we filled our grosse steins
with litres of hops
& barley
& natural carbonation.
It really wasn't a nation full of crazies,
but rather
one full of serious frunken fun
& frolicking amoungst the bauchnabels
with liebe.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
The permafrost recedes and the animals peeking their heads out of the burroughs they were buried in and they begin their quest for a lover, to repopulate the species again and to feed after the long harsh winter, and to gain experience and memories of how to do so.
The frosty winds turn cool and the sun warms their faces and souls. The hope of meeting their potential partners are enough to defrost and soothe the ice on their coats, rendering them capable to breed. With their legs stretched and active, they search.
They hunt and breed for the whole spring within their respective community. The revirie of their population gaining on other predators give them a better chance for survival amongst all odds.
I have been buried in ice for thousands of years. I have been waiting for my turn to hunt and search for my lover, my community, and my wife. I have been straggling behind my species for a lifetime.
Is it my turn yet?
Is it my chance to do well amoungst the Mohikans?
I certainly hope so.
Happy Spring, poets.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 11:24 PM UTC
There's fierce work
Amoungst the Butchers
Tooling upon a diseased cattle cull
A mutter of meats
and turned pieces
To be discussed
by the Monies in charge
stained
wet and heated
Thick knit
Behind clothed doors.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 8:47 PM UTC
Tall and dark
A handsome face
She walks amoungst the thorns
Pricking them first
Laughter in angst
Remorse in the joyous
Eyebrows flare, eyes rolled to white
She dulled the jewels on the beetles back
She convinced the bird to veer from flight
She crushed the soul of the earth’s core
Crunched it like a pit
And let bloom decay.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 11:51 PM UTC
#
#1
I’m no good at merrymaking
I do it alone
I do it dark
And I go at it with rabid excess
I am fellow to it
Until morning
And I make the morning hurt
A mark is embed
#2
Amoungst great company
I am dog unwanted
In the comapany of one
I am villain bird
I am influence
I hit a drinking partner in the weak knees of weak truths
And things go madly south
But tonite I am alone
As I ought
And not sought out
#3
Astray from the fireside
Into the woods
In the territory
Where I fear to thread the pathways
I shall recover my work
In the graven woodland
I shall face myself down
And bed darkness
Where I am truely wed
#4
Thriving and well hausted
I strain and clamp upon the energy
I face my enemy
My power
I bide from his readings
I make ****** pleasings
Form verbal greeting
And extend a hand
For this
The first of many a meeting
#5
Upon this connection
This Faustian reflection
I make the primal
The woe in me
And the red wash of ravenous pages
My activity
My moulded tool
My rage
My howl against creativity
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 8:14 PM UTC
On Cabbage Mound the birds tweet gold,
So says the porridge eating man,
The spontaneous trek up that grassy reserve
(To see the flocks and frolics of finches conversing)
It’s a matter of season he said,
In joyous spring they produce song of glitter, but
Catch them under the wave of a solemn winter
And you shall only hear a dull twitter.
Often he leaves bowls of porridge upon that place,
Abandoned to absorb the view,
Wilting amoungst the bush and flora,
Like a planted trap for the lurking fauna,
Their ceramic bodies sit unnoticed and unaware,
Soaking in the sunrises and
Mourning the day’s ending
When the sun crawls under the horizon.
Early dawn conversations leak
From the finches’ rookeries,
Where they dwell cooped up
Amoungst feather and trinket,
Their endless nattering awakens the sun,
Coercing it to rise, and
Bleaching the ground in tints of orange.
A breakfast awaits them
Outside their homes
Of woven branches and loose fur;
Berries and scattered delicacies
(From the Sunday morning ramblers),
And perhaps a touch of porridge too.
They bury their beaks into the thick pools
Of weathered oatmeal,
And perpetually pick at plastic wrappings
Until their brandished beaks begin to go blunt and sore,
A monotonous task even for an eager flock,
But they never end their labour without reward.
After breakfast,
The porridge eating man
(With porridge in hand) arrives,
He approaches with a staggered limp,
Perhaps a scar from some late night disagreement,
He approaches holding his lower left limb,
The finches have come to learn his routine.
First he stops (whether to take in the view
Or to rest from the trudge up Cabbage Mound,
The birds have not yet asked),
Second he takes out a package
From his right pocket,
He undresses the wrapping
And produces a small pad of paper,
A pen follows, signifying
The start of settled concentration:
Strings of ink,
Intertwining lines and shapes,
Letters touching letters,
Forming meaning and breeding words,
A sharp coo startles the man,
Breaking his focus, and anchoring
Him back to sobriety,
Finally he disembarks from Cabbage Mound,
Turning his back to feathered insight
And slowly sinking behind the hill,
A bowl of porridge takes his place,
And so, it shall stay
Until the finches start to natter
And their hunger begins to ache.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 7:00 AM UTC
The flowers have risen
Rose from the dead they did,
From winters grip did the flowers spring
A Scarlet Carson blooms again.
The old oak tree trumps over me
As the leaves of green shadow consumes me
Aghast I walk amoungst the forest crops
The summer sooths me again.
Warm air arose to bring
A summer swell for me to keep
Neat old sights from a clear ol' night
The flowers sleep on a calm Ravine
Watered slightly by a shallow stream
With warm air, to aid there care
The summer smooth fixes those summer blues.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
Do you ever look in the mirror and hope to see what you're not,
for all of your worries and frown lines to have been banished from your face,
the hurt from your sunken eyes to have gone whilst you slept,
the knots in your hair to have unraveled themselves,
for your knuckles to no longer ache,
and for you to have more strength,
for your shoulders to become less tense,
your body to be light,
to drift amoungst others,
who envy your ease in this world.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 8:11 AM UTC
So often i feel the words
on my tongue
and you can taste them
when you kiss me
you know they exist on my brain
So often we manipulate
and distort our paragraghs
to ensure those words protection
but we know
silently we stare at dim lights
and we smile
like overused expressions
we test our limits
making sure not to repell
eachother away
And we love it
we hide that word combination
amoungst dizzy
and scattered body language
thrown into dust
We fear unknown implications
of the destructive beauty
caused by the words
" i love you "
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
All that's left is lonely markers
silent words hardly ever read
where no one talks to their neighbours
centuries old stones at crazy angles
mourners heads bowed and hushed
wraiths moving in the mist
treading carefully amongst dead flowers
where even the poets rest their bones
- to sleep the longest sleep,,,,,
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 9:28 AM UTC
The life you live is but a lie.
An iniquitous mind,
A cataclysmic sign.
You know why you do it,
You know that you lie,
You know it’s delinquency every time.
But is it so nefarious to lie?
I only do it to be liked,
I desire to be loved,
So I cry.
Trying to find a way to get by,
Screaming out for someone to mind,
For being alone is an anguish on the soul,
A soul looking for a home,
Amoungst those that do not know,
That really you’re just alone.
Would they hate you,
Berate you,
Best you down with their scorning cries,
If they knew what was happening inside?
That’s why I lie,
That’s who I am,
It is my reality.
So please forgive me,
Love me,
Don’t make me hide,
I just need someone to confide in,
And tell me it’s all going to be alright.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC