"anthills" poems
i
a wee shaft of beam
across
a sea of chilly darkness:
dashing on, dashing long
a chain
of disturbing crispy waves.
a haunting pitch
of sirens, of winging gulls.
…then
a whistle in the dark
ii
i have bled.
and ever bleeding
is resurgence.
the stones are stained now
not all are stained yet.
but i can hold no more.
no more.
iii
to listen would have been enough
but spoke i
to deaf-mutes, clayey forms.
and every uttered little word
faded like receding undertone.
and then
conspiracy of silence,
misquotations,
sharing of once
too friendly shoulders.
a nod would have been enough,
or a pat,
or any like gesture;
they turned askance
and i fled… fled away.
iv
back to my chambered shell
back to my cradle
where there are many whispers.
and every fateful swing
of the pendulum
i reel and ride the wheel of fancy,
embrace false idols
like one fearful of his god
if only to escape the haunts
of conscience;
tremble at approaching footsteps,
shriek at every shadow.
v
i shall walk barefoot again
past leafless stumps
windborn, heated, and bowed,
‘cross an oasis grown desert dry,
past anthills now dunghills,
‘neath rapid flutter
of widespread murky wings,
past cliff edges
where resound pampered echoes,
while arched in deceitful hues
a rainbow.
…i scan the blue… i pause…
vi
i await a lily-white stork
or there shall be no curtain speech.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
And I'm hopeless,
Hopeless for the countless stars, in a blueblack sky.
Hopeless for the mist in the forest after the rain.
Hopeless for new places, old places
and the old places that I wont ever see again...
I'm hopeless for your hair in my mouth,
and your pillow arms.
I'm hopeless for thunderstorms and anthills,
puppy kisses and fuzzy sweaters.
I'm hopeless for me and you,
Hopeless in wondering if you and I are hopeless.
And wondering if we were ****** from the start...what a wonderful curse to break.
I'm also a hopeless romantic, poetry, sunsets, drunken statements of love, all that jazz
I had you at a hopeless arms length, but my hopeless heart had a different agenda.
I'm hopeless for delusional fairy tails, but with a twist. I've never made a good damsel in distress. I'll be the dragon, and you can be whatever you want to be. But if you ever become a knight I suggest something besides a dinky sword.
I'm hopeless for the ocean, for the snowflakes, for the wind
for moonlight walks, for autumn leaves
Hopeless for sundresses, sad loves songs.
Pokemon, books, books, books,
Hopeless for beginnings.
Hopeless for memories of you, hopeless for any memories at all.
Hopeless for my alone time, hopeless for my time alone with you
Hopeless for small houses in the woods, hopeless for fire
Hopeless for the scars on your arms and the scars on your heart.
I'm hopeless for my friends, and long nights spent with them.
Hopeless for *** drugs and rock n' roll, sometimes all at the same time.
Hopeless for tears and laughter. Hopeless for rainbows and naps when I'm grumpy.
I'm hopeless for cigaretts and rivers, hot springs
and bats, hopeless for dancing and back rubs.
I'm hopeless because you are the reason that I am going,
and the reason that I am staying.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
*I see through magnified eyes
the binocular kind out of focus
I see with a telescope mind
but I think that the glass might be broken
your face
is a smear on the lens, a bit blurry
and my house, I can’t see from the ground
I got worries
it’s like why can I see
up above it’s so clear?
but I look straight ahead
everything disappears
the anthills have all gone away
you filled them all up with your problems
but volcanos on mars I can see
and each molecule, and their atoms
well that’s just my beauty
I can’t help what I see,
everything’s just so giant
to little old me
and my eyes
the binocular kind, out of focus
and my mind, that telescope mind
might be broken
it’s like why can I see
up above it’s so clear?
but I look straight ahead
everything disappears*
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 2:29 PM UTC
The bohemian youth are dancing with the moon
with the night
pressed firmly on their backs
the wind of a thousand seas
they tick like clocks until the world is broken
down at their feet
all around them they build up their anthills
only to play God with magnifying glasses
taking the train or bus
to broke or bust
with cackles echoing off the graying apartment walls
blowing out clouds of intoxication
into the night sky
just so they could call it art
they are building pianos out of old photo albums
and listening to all the songs
they have heard a million times
and yet still do not know
taking the missing pieces out of
abandoned cable boxes
and talking on phones of
styrofoam cups and string
waiting for the day to become night
to stop all of the nonsensical
jibber jabber
with ironic t shirts they found on the side of the road
shooting city crows from the air with BB guns
and eating greasy sandwich after greasy sandwich
in the early hours of morning
beer and beer and beer and disappointment
no noble cause of nobility
for the wannabe outlaw to hang on to
no titanic monolith of strictures to rebel against
just a pair of worn out sneakers
and an empty compass
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
Texas, you ran on me like blood,
miles of road building up for an anticlimax.
Sun on her back, begging for rust,
wringing herself for another hour of daylight.
Green and golden grass through the windshield
speckled with red.
Made me want the coming dust,
made the vibrant greens of the humid East
seem like anthills worth cementing over,
Golden red. Wind whipped through the car windows,
nostalgia in a place I'd never seen.
I wanted to break you. Time was too still,
change was too slow for me. Southwest America had my name
drawn in dead bug splatters and drained coffee cups
somewhere ahead.
Time doesn't translate to these long miles,
it's just you and me and something new, something old.
Me and the windshield and the dead bugs,
and flitting thoughts of North Carolina,
repeated songs, hard silences,
and something chilling about these dead towns.
Some salty Pacific air already on my tongue.
Something nameless to remind me that being young is bittersweet,
and I don't know what I'm running from
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
My dear, just stop
will you breathe for a moment?
stop writing lists of what you have yet to do
turn down the radio, put your bills on hold
don't fret about these college degrees and potential promotions
will you just stop?
take some time, breathe the air that scares you
as if free time makes you high on some terrifying hallucinogenic drug
darling, take some time,
just think
look at the anthills, think of what's there
look up to the stars, imagine what's more
please, I beg you
just take a minute
to scare yourself to death
to appreciate life
to set aside all they tell you to believe, to be
if college and an office job is the life for you, live it
if not, don't let them tell you that's how it is to be
you are not a brick inlaid without potential for motion,
you are the Northern lights
you shine
you move
you dance, brighter than the darkness would allow
just take a moment
please just ask why
ask, why am i doing this?
why am i saying this?
why do i believe this?
why do i live like this?
and if the answers suit you, let it be
and if not, break out running like a deer who's escaped the trap
live. please do anything you can,
why not?
i hear you whisper my old tunes, like that dreaded broken record,
"what's the point of trying to be happy when we all end up dead anyways?"
dear, would you ever let a newborn pup in the fighting ring just because one day it will inevitably see its end?
darling you deserve the world,
it is yours
with the stars in the sky and the potential for life
with the ants and the termites, we are alive
we are but condensation waiting to make waves
my dear, just stop
just breathe for a minute
wondrous is the universe
let us be wondrous with it
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
I soar on eagles wings
Above mean grey city streets
Where the seething anthills of humanity
Not truly alive but do exhists
The stinking **** stained stairwells
Where the dealers ply their evil trade
Where life is held so cheaply
Who will see another day
You walk into the wrong street
And your life is on the line
You smell the rancid stink of corruption
In these the modern times
The thermals lift me higher
Carry me to the South
Below a verdant meadow
Where wild flowers abound
Picnics taking place
'Neath the spreading boughs
Of the stately chestnut tree
And gentle dappled light
Down there in a chrystal stream
Children laugh and play
No drugs or air pollution
To Mar such a beautiful day
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
Man— master of earth,
Productive dust swarms in sands,
. . . Anthills in desert.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
None other than him
matters here at the noon.
The sun is an out and out autocrat
the sky, he singularly rules,without
any apology to anyone.
He has banished all the clouds;
not even the faint trace of
fluffy, milky white strands
seemingly unstoppable
till the far horizon.
This is when his hidden
intention to scorch all at sight
is at it's atrocious peak,
which would lead to his decline.
Under the low hanging sky
the earth parched dry,
is a cry for mercy.Sun now is
a roaring water fall of heat
waves lash one after the other.
The village of thatched mud huts
stand dazed, like it's women
in this ascending symphony of pain
not feeling any difference of tune,
this is what it always been.
It's a living miracle, it still exists
fighting the vagaries of winds and the sun
not willing to collapse as dunes of dust,
which would have been a better solution.
The little girls from a school
the only secret this village keeps,
in midday break pour out
like ants from hidden anthills,
scurrying to all directions, trying
to cheat the wind spitting fire.
A frail old woman, her skin
sun scorched,dark,
deeply furrowed and folded
a true face of resistance
life capable of in the face of
the attack of armies of obliteration,
sweating all over, sits under a tamarind tree
all twigs and only few patches of weak green,
cobbling for a living, as if it is her day last here.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:40 AM UTC
DISINHIBITOR” By Ariana Reines
<>
There’s a sadness I’m avoiding
It’s why I live like this
The truth is I know I can’t hide
From it. I know I can’t
But I can hide from you
Or I somehow still think I can
& what that really means is hide it
From you. It’s not that I don’t trust
You. I’m just scared to lose
It. I’m not avoiding
My sadness I’m trying
To protect it. What I lost
I already lost a really
Long time ago. Whatever
I tried to do apart
From what I lost had more
To do with covering it
With probably some kind
Of monument than “moving on”
But I’m the only one who needs
To know that it’s a monument
Or what it’s for. Anthills
Mountains out of molehills.
Growing a roughness into
A jewel: Aphrodite’s secret.
I am ignorant of my people’s
History but I have seen the scrolls
In their crowns and gowns.
The times I won I wasn’t able
To celebrate. So I learned equanimity
But equanimity’s as tricky
As any other state. These may
Not be words of wisdom
But they’ve got no other
Place to live
Dec 17, 2023
Dec 17, 2023 at 5:54 PM UTC
I met my ghost yesterday, on the bus at a time young girls are not supposed to travel alone. I was thirsty for freedom; she sat next to me dressed like a wanderess, she smelt of some cheap perfume and her face a golden cage. We sat together like anthills and did not speak, we were immigrants of a violent history, she sold her body and I my brain.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
The sun comes up and
the day goes down,
down, down the mainline,
escaping to some solace
pressed between the thighs of the sun
and the curls of the moon;
the lovers of the sky
and all our feeble perceptions of time
waltzing behind our dew drop minds.
I press and dry my mind
between stains of earth and
prefabricated wood pulp, dried to a
leafy crisp that will singe with enough friction.
There are no echoes of ourselves
but i have my laughs
with the anthills of our skyscrapers
and the inhuman city sounds.
These things aren't precious,
that's just a predisposed opinion,
but they do exist more than i do.
Even right now i am not here
but something invisible presses down the fabric of a chair
and my soul fills with sorry
for the life it will never have.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 5:30 PM UTC
High above the cliff’s edge
you may see my long tail whip
in the cloudy crisp air
or hear the swoosh of my wings
as I move from perch to perch, landing
on anthills that are overflowing with memories.
I am not afriad of my past because my armor
is thick and impenatrable
and if an ant is somehow able to
find a flaw in my scales
and begins stinging my bare flesh
I need only dive into the sea below
to refresh and start anew.
Dragons, born of Hermes,
are adaptable to any environment,
equipped with fire, ice, and a natural
nonchalance which enables us to roam seamlessly
from realm to realm
and dwell in the in-between world
where I stand with one foot
in fantasy and the other in reality.
Perfectly content with my ever-evolving life
I only feel fear when my shadow
takes the shape of man and
stalks me relentlessly—
as his envious hand gets too close
I spit fire in hopes that he will dissapear
but it only makes him dance back and forth with a smile.
Weary of his enjoyment I spew ice to
freeze him in place and out of curiosity
I dive through my shadow and emerge as a human
immobilized and forced
to wear armor of nerves and blood
that ceaselessly cry for the scaly skin of a dragon that
my imagination created
to save me from
the pain and realization
that there is no middle ground
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 5:55 AM UTC
Consciously curating the thoughts that stream through
offering a space in mind , working the mind
not just a block of damp cheese soaking up the leftover gruel but a fine fine piece of raw chocolate sweetened a tad by maple syrup and dotted with raspberries
that's me allright.
No matter the folly
It's time to rise and shine
Self consciousness really doesn't suit me
I know I got a few bruises but and I'd rather be amused than some kind of fanatic muse to a ***** artist any day
Humor is the hotline to Unconditioned Love Centers .
Snapping and projecting at other people is really lame self-defense because i'm picking fights with these tactics,
exaggerating anthills with this mindset
and digging graves using two left shoes with this clouded vision
from which
ultimately
I'll have to climb out of
because I'm not dead and no one was attacking me in the first place.
Why is it so difficult to be honest with myself when I'm faced with an error in my judgement or an unhealthy way of life is beguiling me to stay on tap?
Ignorance of Inner life, Inner worlds and Inner vision.
Got me trippin at ego's palace , high on self-pity
Drunk and dizzy on sickly sweet aggression.
It's a scandal that these spaces of inner lands are vastly ignored as children and youth, blindly wondering the world confused
with a rhythm that is skewed
because I know more about the gossip of the evening news
when really, this is where the treasure is, this is
where the wisdom rests
this is where the magic lives!
All inside my beating chest, burrowed back beneath my eyes
somewhere where the 5 senses would be throughly surprised
accessed through quiet stillness or ecstatic joy
known to many as chills along the spine or the tingles of goose bump whispers
access to dimensions unfathomed
all waiting
for the space to become
realized , actualized and known.
I've realized, i'm a seasoned traveller through these Inner pathways and I've been holding myself back for fear I'm not beautiful enough
but
You know, if I hang around and wait for all you lot to catch up or for myself to suddenly be "like everyone else"
I'll never make it back with the goods in time
because
there is something more fun than enjoying depression
it's called not enjoying depression!
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
You're little mental stings hit my mind
But it's not that i don't know where to find
Them
I think this is a losing battle
And its better to disperse
Because nobody wants a curse
I don't what's tainted to be worse
You threw me off course
When you say certain statements
I hate negative isolation and abatement
It feels like there's anthills of misfortune and i can't stand it.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
Some miles were so long, it took whole years before we realized they were behind us.
I examined the maps you painted inside my airframe.
You were trying to tell me you were lost
and you didn’t want to be another midair collision.
Jennifer repaired me shortly
after I crash-landed in the starflowers.
Crashed it again in the snow,
outside Murfreesboro,
and she wasn’t there that time.
If I had told the people who made this thing I was going to be reckless
with it, they probably would have bought a snow leopard, or a horsehead just to keep the conversation going.
But when they went ahead and made this life happen,
they rushed thinking he was going to be a
college boy, a frat boy, an intelligent mass of cells,
who flew over the mountains instead of into them.
But what my parents got was a little ************
who stirred up anthills, and stood up nice girls
and poured gasoline on the make believers
to prove the flames were real.
This letter was taken out of one world
and hurled into the next, with you, theoretically.
I know that sunflowers make wonderful goodbyes and some airplanes crash
and typewriters hurt when they write back.
His airframe was created in 1991.
You should have known when you messed with the inside
it wouldn’t work the right way again.
I have had some things going on in my engine
that are not entirely fixable.
That is what makes us human. Our parts get better.
The problem is we turn gospels into information manuals.
And that is why I still end up at gasoline stations at 2 a.m.
searching for a bearing that says
“Follow me. I will take you where you will be happy.”
But we don’t get that, dear.
We get a paintbrush and a typewriter.
You told me I was wrong.
I told you
not to talk so loud.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
I say, status seems pychic– How! Za-zoo! And how!
O' that brain be electric as a buzz!
I'm all a'fixin' to be boxed.
These joints are a'sprainin–
Winter wind snakes done
constricted and strainèd.
Out of place. Almost out of time, I swear:
Never enough place, barely enough time.
Korean girl's all a'watchin' to see
how I sip hot tea... Out! Get out!
I got them delusions, deliriums–
All's done. I'm diluted, sayin':
*“Medicine for my grievin'–
Aye, my confidence has been gone.
Never did speak of leavin'–
I met him at the ditch at dawn.”*
And left unsaid was better yet,
coos all a'whisperin' by waters.
Water's runnin' thin now.
Creek's gone, ran dry.
He's a man of stature,
he can't just go!
Anthills and ant
burrows 'neath
sands gone mad–
O’ bore teeth! Yea!
Where's the meter
meeting the rhyme
when your bliss'd
metronomicist
loses pace
and dies?
Slows
and slows
and slower yet
his heart does beat
and the last of his words
do run across his teak frame:
*“O' bore teeth!
Bearing ‘em all;
All is a'grinding!”*
It’s but a machine to keep one’s rhythm,
to help one maintain the desired beat.
She kisses me on the forehead.
I return the gesture on her cheek.
He whispers to me through darkness:
“There are many worlds we’ve yet to see.”
It is thoughts like that which grant me focus.
Where all’s good and wishes, like prayers, be lent.
My thoughts lag behind, weighted by you.
I strain them through hot water for tea.
She watches as I drink. I waited for you–
Drank it by the ditch in the morning.
I fend off these demons in the courtyard.
Winter spells done summoned my greyest thoughts.
Here all's good! Yea, all be lent–
I tacked your name to the corkboard.
Alas, none was meant for you–
I fend off thoughts in the courtyard.
O’ that mind be broken, still-painted grey!
Not much I can do but keep the winter at bay.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
You're pulling mountains out of anthills,
every pebble in your path
becomes a boulder.
And you're far from being any kind,
of lost or wayward soldier.
All the love that you have leeched,
you emphatically squander it.
And there is no "Great Weight" upon your shoulders.
That's just gravity mother ******
don't over ponder it.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
i wanna be a Vagabond
traveling around in a
decrepit Volkswagon van.
maybe there are some furry walls inside,
but i cannot make any promises...............
i want to live on nothing but
dry Frosted Flakes.
i'll wear the thrift store clothes
that dented my pocket 15
they're faded and torn
from stories and adventures,
which is chill.
it's better than this cookie-cutter suit.............
i will admire coastal beaches
and watch their scorching sunsets.
climb to high mountain peaks
and look down upon the anthills
that us busy-bodies have made.
i'll accompany fried-chicken dinners
with twangy country tunes,
and feel the breeze whipping through my hair in an everlasting cornfield..................
You should come with Me.
we can invite people to merge our journeys
sharing the inspiration of a nomadic dream.
let's create our own home,
build our own future!
society's norms were not meant
for us free spirits.
the world is our classroom.
why are we too scared to learn from it?................
Well, on second thought,
maybe I should bring those
brownies that Nana makes.
Perhaps I'll miss home.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
& oh my dear
How these thoughts betray me
Turning anthills into mountains
& pebbles into boulders.
How I apologize
Oh how I apologize
Thank you for proving me wrong
Thank you for loving me
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
It's time the symbols took the weight
Of cement and conglomerate living
Would that I could.
cut a section
Would it be
Like half a soundwave?
The high frequency of a human scream
Is the right sort of knife needed to 2D a skyscraper
Monument of dreams, monument of money, paper building
Like a castle of cards, down, when the
Wind blows softly on.
between
Jagged openings and
Lighting pole leaves, so straight, so
Bright it burns me,
(what?)
I'm crossing.
I'm going,
I'm coming.
I'm moving.
(Moving on)
The roads and streets
are deserted by humans.
Humans crush such anthills.
We always feel safer among
the thousands. The roads
and streets are deserted
by humans.
M o v i n g a l o n g . . .
between
Jagged openings and
Lighting pole leaves, so straight, so
Wide
They'll support the weight of a new cement sky.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
there are anthills in your backyard
that I placed into existence. I gathered pieces of life from mine
and the moon
and knew you were sad
so I brought them home to you. each bug holds
crumbs atop their back
until they drip to the ground like a runny nose, meanwhile
a child
brings dead things
to the person they love
because they trust only them to bring it back to life. I do that with you –
recycling spider legs and folding moth wings
onto each other,
add twenty fly-lashes for good measure
as if anything I can find
will take the tears from your eyes. you taught me how to
caress carrot flowers
at such an angle, they can heal. my mother will drink until she dies
and I am that child holding
petals out, their extracts and oils spilling into
the last hope I'll ever have.
me and you, we communicate via ants across statelines –
today I am sending a message
that shares more like a plague than language – of sisters needing
different things the same ways. and you
tell me it can reach you
in one insect's insomniac night
if I douse the compass in primrose and my honey.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
My love សំណព្វ saamnapv
For you សម្រាប់អ្នក samreab anak
Grows like លូតដូចជា lout dauchchea
Flowers in morning ផ្កានៅពេលព្រឹក phka nowpel pruk
My heart បេះដូងខ្ញុំ behdaung khnhom
builds anthills កសាងអាកាស ksang akasa
of memories នៃការចងចាំ nei kar changcham
you អ្នក anak
The everlasting now ជារៀងរហូតឥឡូវនេះ chea rieng rhaut ilauvnih
mine, yours អូនអើយឯង aun aey eng
friend មិត្តភក្តិ mitt phokte
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 2:44 AM UTC
DARK
In the dark a rat a rat with a stench as hard as ***
Lonely than the anthills of the Savanna wishing to one day listen to the sound of passing
Cold and unwilling rapt under the cloth of fear of the unknown wishing to have taken this part or that part
Confused like a light rat keeping the record of the past instead of setting a new, Wishing time could take a nap under the forgetting tree.
Never to be found.
Immortality even in the dark
Can you see the light?
Peter praise
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC