"apiece" poems
Your leadership is like the air,
With presence, only whispered,
You live far & further,
Furthest from our hands can find,
Your haste has filled our hearts,
Hating you like hell, that highly feeds on flesh
What else will I compare your leadership that hurts,
Better the typhoon wind that destroys quickly and leave, than your leadership that destroys slowly over years
What else will I compare with your leadership that destructs.
Better the lion that kills only to live for that day,
Than your lingering greed of wealth that outweighs your weight,
Taking all gain, from all day five
They say, the world has wealth for all to live well,
But not for you, one vested with immense greed!
What else will I compare, a leadership that is great with greed.
Better the drought and famine that withers our wealth, with equal measure across
But with humility of nature,
leaving pieces of trace, to rejuvinate all again,
Than your leadership that is out to loot all,
Lending little to your loyalists,
Leaving none to the rest
Your leadership is like the air,
With presence, only whispered,
You live far & further,
Furthest from our hands can reach,
Your haste filled our hearts,
Hating you like hell, highly feeds on flesh
What else will I compare your leadership
Better the typhoon wind that destroys quickly and leave, than your leadership that destroys slowly over years
What else will I compare with your leadership that destructs.
Better the lion that kills only to live for that day,
Than your lingering greed of wealth that outweighs your weight,
Taking all gain, from all day five
They say, the world has wealth for all to live well,
But not for you, one vested with immense greed!
What else will I compare, a leadership that is great with greed.
Better the drought and famine that withers our wealth, with equal measure across and humility to leave a apiece, than your leadership that is out to loot all, lending little to your loyalists.
Better the diseases that kills with slow eating the body, with no prevention and cure than your leadership that
etter the diseases that kills with slow eating the body, with no prevention and cure than your leadership that
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 9:25 AM UTC
let's make love
let's push and shove
let's leave our skin
out on the rug
burning
and turning over
back to back
to smack me sober
Let's make love
let's kiss and hug
and **** until
we get rid of
the liquid
that keeps us
from being released
and fitted
with riches
two gemstones apiece
let's make love
let's push and shove
let's leave our skin
out on the rug
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:14 AM UTC
There might have been a time
When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off
Like a gassy sombrero
like a burrito left in the
Sun to bake and there might have
Been a
Time
When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito
landlocked
In New England, locked in a small state of
Fear and knowing that knowing
just isn’t
Enough.
There might have
Been
A time when luxury was a nickel
apiece paperback
Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale
to raise funds for
Their roof.
To raise their
Roof.
And there
Might
Have been a joy in my spark
Plugs,
A joy
In my canter
A Joy in
My legs that preceded my
Fears.
There might
Have
Been a time:
When I would pick one of the seven records we owned
And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will
Have my own money and
buy my own music.
When I idly lift the leaded paint
from the 200 year old wood
And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma.
And put my hand on the glass pane
Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be
1838 again.
Oh where are the people?
Oh where
when there might have been a time
Did I not see who they are?
Or they did not register.
I must have watched them everyday
Observant
so keen to be seen
Is it possible to feel so much
for feeling so little?
Or did I feel gulfs of embrace
that were not there?
I wanted and I desired and I dug.
I craved and thought and speculated
and clung.
And there might have
Been
A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty
Roads of my town.
Invoking our gods.
Invoking my claims.
There was a time when I stuttered with
Compassion and could
feel a touch observed
There was a time:
Across the street in a
lit house at dusk.
Their curtains are open, their lights are on.
Oh, the sun has settled down
There is that time, golden, when I
Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is
Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on
Them and your walls are mustard gold.
Your plates are unbreakable
I see them lustre in the
Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel.
Guns ablazin’.
Trails awash.
There might be a time when I can slip back
Into your kitchen
lick the plates and then
Run my fingers over
the wall paper.
Tracing the outline of the oil
lamps imprinted.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
Long ago,
I remember,
we paid the lone-guard
twenty pesos apiece
to camp on
top of the temple,
to experience
something cosmic.
And after he left,
we stripped down
to our bareness
& kissed under
the milky-stars
with howlers squealing
a backdrop melody.
I lost myself that night.
Tracing your lips with my tongue,
I felt the cool jungle air
swirling around us,
you did not fight me
as I melted inside you.
I swear the jaguars
rejoiced that night,
as we had rekindled
the acts of the sacred gods.
It was more than cosmic,
more than stellar,
I felt the poles shift
our hearts.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
PIETRO has twenty red and blue balloons on a string.
They flutter and dance pulling Pietro's arm.
A nickel apiece is what they sell for.
Wishing children tag Pietro's heels.
He sells out and goes the streets alone.
2.2k
All perish whence they quest for immortality,
Such foolish dreams will result in fatality.
Critters struggle in nets of ersatz reality,
Hormonal clashes unbalance our morality.
Under the influence by budding, ravishing thyme,
Oft' that sunny beam leaves me doing pantomime.
Chaste clues and envy droughts left me mellowing,
Such pain ipso facto I can't kiss this porcelain.
My seat of notions drives me to calculate,
While undead, fatigued, I falsely formulate.
Floundering in viscous fluids, I am drowning...
My verdant sail is half-mast: lonely, frowning.
Within moon-lit meadows, shadows flow cursively,
Beyond the kaleidoscope lay a rustic key.
Beg you pardon the rust and blackened fissures,
Pardon those slights to open eternal treasures.
To crave two heart beats align in synchrony,
To sluice my fingers through the strands of memory.
Embracing silvery asps soaring on the breeze,
My sight spies thy adieu and I shatter apiece.
Un-writing errors, distantly, unstumbling,
The abyss: now a star, wings unfurling.
'Tween the heavens fell meteoric golds,
Sinusoidal cascades of such sublime codes.
Traversed steadily upon the gilded firmaments,
Was so small, blind to the unseen monuments.
To be offered aristocratic absolution,
From my humble plebeian resolution.
I am sublime. 'Hold my dichotomous, nay,
Such cantankerous introversion within, eh?
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 3:40 PM UTC
LET it go on; let the love of this hour be poured out till all the answers are made, the last dollar spent and the last blood gone.
Time runs with an ax and a hammer, time slides down the hallways with a pass-key and a master-key, and time gets by, time wins.
Let the love of this hour go on; let all the oaths and children and people of this love be clean as a washed stone under a waterfall in the sun.
Time is a young man with ballplayer legs, time runs a winning race against life and the clocks, time tickles with rust and spots.
Let love go on; the heartbeats are measured out with a measuring glass, so many apiece to gamble with, to use and spend and reckon; let love go on.
1.7k
In Abraham Lincoln's city,
Where they remember his lawyer's shingle,
The place where they brought him
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories
From Tallahassee to the Yukon,
The place now where the shaft of his tomb
Points white against the blue prairie dome,
In Abraham Lincoln's city ... I saw knucks
In the window of Mister Fischman's second-hand store
On Second Street.
I went in and asked, "How much?"
"Thirty cents apiece," answered Mister Fischman.
And taking a box of new ones off a shelf
He filled anew the box in the showcase
And said incidentally, most casually
And incidentally:
"I sell a carload a month of these."
I slipped my fingers into a set of knucks,
Cast-iron knucks molded in a foundry pattern,
And there came to me a set of thoughts like these:
Mister Fischman is for Abe and the "malice to none" stuff,
And the street car strikers and the strike-breakers,
And the sluggers, gunmen, detectives, policemen,
Judges, utility heads, newspapers, priests, lawyers,
They are all for Abe and the "malice to none" stuff.
I started for the door.
"Maybe you want a lighter pair,"
Came Mister Fischman's voice.
I opened the door ... and the voice again:
"You are a funny customer."
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories,
This is the place they brought him,
This is Abraham Lincoln's home town.
1.6k
do they sell emotions
in teapots by the street
i'll take the blue and white one
checkered like a dorothy dress-
could i buy emotions
to pour them out in porcelain
what's the cost? a penny apiece
for the teapots by the street-
drink them up, for an hour
maybe i'd feel love
recipt, madam? yes please
i'll take my penny-bought tea-
i would buy emotions
in teapots by the street
here you are, love- take it please
one less teapot by the street
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
The Brits were twits in '29,
I reckon mandates were not their cup of tea.
I suppose silence speaks louder than a noose,
And that as long as one is civilized, we may agree to disagree.
Enemies share common grounds-
Blood to be spilled, one pair apiece of shoes,
Salaam, shalom, auf wiedersein, tootleoo.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
Hit me hard and break my heart into a million pieces
Cause only then will you see how much its worth
Don't settle for a dozen scraps, a hundred, or a thousand
Strike with passion and leave a mess upon the earth
Then watch me as I pick up every piece that was scattered,
From the loftiest clouds they perched, and crevices they slipped
Now take them from my hand and hold it in yours all together
And feel the weight of the million pieces that you had ripped
I want you to see how they still mold and form the same original shape
How a million pieces could be reattached and still reveal a heart
Yet, do not mistake their lightness for instability or lack of focus
They can also be diamond tough; my soul is the fortress, while it, the rampart
Its not some plastic easter egg thats only as good as its design
Not a false brittle shell, with a hollow and empty core
Each piece accounts apiece, a full apple with no worm
Every heartbreak meant to make it, love even better, than before
So if you're looking for commitment, let that be the trial
I'm not promising it'd be easy, it can only be worth the pain
It's only in shattered hearts, that subtle thoughts are brought to light
Neither the first nor the last, but I'd repeat it all the same,
If you're the one I'm about to gain.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
These images ask you to forget everything that might be construed as ‘of landscape’, because they are not. They are of the mind’s reflection: that closing of the eyes which brings something often unseen, certainly unrecognisable, to the back of the retina. It’s illusory, dreamlike - even though one is awake. The images defy formal categorization. They are not ‘like’ anything, and even if one makes an attempt at describing a mark, a fold, a ridge, a texture, a colour as ‘like’, it is wholly unsatisfactory. What you see carries with it emptiness of association, probably because things that you might describe won’t connect. So don’t. Let them lie there on painted linen cloth. Uneasy. The six cloths hang from two nails apiece, no fancy frame or fitting, two silvered nails, bang! hard into the wall. Watching very acutely they move so slightly under the air conditioning’s breath. A infinity of sadness lies upon their surfaces. Once sewn there could be no unsewing those marks made; and all that painting over and over, but the trace of a needle there always there. The full form, the total image scours the memory. These pieces seem to deny the sun, the action of weather; they have been removed from the continuum of nature and become preserved. The process of making and creating has entombed them. They absorb and reflect nothing except a waste of loneliness.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
*Off to sell 'market tomatoes' to those East Atlanta communist
Those long haired , know it all Bolsheviks and their
electric cars , running around half naked like they have
a clue about a farm , their buying these god awful tomatoes
for two dollars apiece , they smell like *** , wine and sun
screen haggling over my price like I'm growing food for
free , like I've no other place to be
Are these organic , absolutely don't panic , their grown
in A1 chicken **** , the finest soil I've ever been associated with ,
a secret family recipe cooked in Georgia July heat , blessed by
a 'Witch Doctor' from New Orleans , a bit of peat from lowland
forest , cow patties from a friends dairy barn , dry manure thanks to
a 'Horse Princess' from Zebulon , ****** on by a pack of ornery goats in the village of Kelleytown*
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
Your flickering tongue spiked with untruths,
A rose throttled by weeds and thorns,
The consuming darkness in the light;
A candle burnt into the eternal night.
Your mind a tangled pit of snakes,
Doors to opportunities now sealed,
An elegant dancer with blistered feet;
Drowning in torrents of whispered ink.
A slither of ice running through your heart,
A tarnished lock lacking a key,
Fragments of a crushed mirror;
Sewn apiece with angel's hair.
Your soul scorched to the pigment of death,
A glassy apple, decaying within,
Songbirds chant the sound of silence;
Tales untold, veiled poems.
Your eyes glazed by splintered glass,
Pure joy emitting as a strangled shriek,
A sweet kiss, laced with sweeter poison;
A fluttering heart locked within a fist.
Through your veins rush jets of flame,
The silver moon rains crimson droplets,
The radiant sun unleashes an ebony beast;
A star bursts into one million fragments.
You twirl upon a bed of nails,
Time's grain swept away by midnight's shore,
Wispy peaks gradually morph into shadows;
An embrace molds into a satisfying throttle.
Your brain, ribbons of foolishness and greed,
The universe crumbling within a mere breath,
The snow a shade of darkest ebony;
Rain misted with terminal acid.
Behind the facade of beauty,
Some things are not as they seem,
Under the masquerade of innocence;
Lurk twisted, deceiving dreams.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
When the fragile music dies
you put away your voice,
and with the passion
of Campion’s songs
still running in our veins
there is another duet,
and so intense its harmony
that only the need for food
brings it to a ritardando.
In the dark kitchen
I cut the crusts from brown bread,
making sandwiches, cream-cheesed,
the sliced cucumus sativus
flecked with mint and cress,
and placed on blue plates,
surrounded by olives, grapes
- an apricot apiece.
Then for the coda:
(in the bluest of blue bowls)
musk strawberries lounging
on a bed of rubus idaeus.
We troop upstairs
with our matching plates,
and I lay the Welsh-woolled rug
on the studio floor.
We place beside them
heavy glasses of mint and honeyed tea,
and eat immediately, hungrily.
Later, still aflame
from such music and its crystalled verse,
we lie amidst the studio tea
making sure we are not fiction, but wholly real.
You say, ‘Perhaps raspberry is the new fig’.
and place this fruit between my lips.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 2:25 AM UTC
Grinning wide by the riverside
two bubbly girls click shots
between them whisper confide
share the secret thoughts!
The giggly cutes they walk like dance
caught in a sunlit pause
not mind the boys stealing glance
seems not worth a cause!
Their cells follow where they go
the lens beamed right on face
one more please and then one more
frames add up happiness!
I was watching the sun go down
pretty much in a fix
light was getting dullish brown
would turn darkish by six!
The urge was great surged the will
it grabbed the whole of mind
to have a photo me standing still
with the river flowing behind!
The butterfly girls in the sun's last kiss
they readily said o yes
each of them took a shot apiece
my joy you can easily guess!
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 6:23 AM UTC
He had no idea if he would...
If he could actually do it...
When the time came,
When his sergeant gave the nod,
Let slip the dogs of war,
Unleash the copper bees,
Send missiles hurtling up or down
At targets moving now...
On men who may be wondering
If they could fire the same,
When the time came....
"Steady, men!"
"On my command."
He lay there,
On a roof,
In a ditch,
On an open field,
Crouched inside a turret,
Bellied down in a plexiglass ball,
Hurtled above a world mostly covered in cloud,
Standing far below the earth in silo'd steel,
Seeing still, through satellite eyes....
Peered into the mil dot scope,
Ignored the cross
To see through the center,
Found the circled aperture,
Punched coordinates into a seeing machine,
Saw green circles on the screen...
Aligned the circles....
Tried to breathe.
So that was how it was
For farm boys, Mowers of hay,
Grocers' sons, smashers of ants,
Carpenters, hammerers of nails,
And bakers' boys, cutters of bread,
Just in from shooting marbles and BB guns,
Transported into war,
Fed soldiers' ration:
meat and bread and beans,
Five cigarettes apiece in boxed MREs,
Sent off to **** and to be killed
With mothers' tears still fresh upon their cheeks,
With lovers' ache still glowing embered heat.
Training fresh,
Waiting command
To fire only when the order came...
To remain firing til the order came...
To hold the breath and squeeze...
To hold the sight just so...
To squeeze...
And to reload
Keeping head low,
Eyes on target...
To ignore all but the sergeant's yell,
To think of squeezing on new targets,
To wait awhile to process coming hell....
And when the time came,
He squeezed,
Felt the sudden life,
Heard little but the sound of
Clean ejection ...
Saw his bullet,
Saw his missile,
Saw his target meet,
And in the meeting,
Red,
And in the meeting ,
Fire and smoke,
And in the meeting
Knew that he could do
What soldiers do.
This boy
Now cutting hay,
Now stomping ants,
Hammering nails,
Cutting loaves of cooling bread...
Caught in the maelstrom of war
With no moment left but now,
No possible tomorrow...
Only targets,
Only targeted
In ferocious winds
Of battle.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 6:52 AM UTC
Thick silence invades ears that ache for fulfillment as
I unwrap your skin draped with
unspoken words ran thin.
My fingertips tremble with expressionless angst while
Identical intensities unravel astrological blue ribbons
Cooing sweet dividends, divine in a simple letter
Two chambers apiece for each,
For my heart has unwillingly become a fetter
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
*They're children
They're just children!*
He yelled at the camera
*And they're forced into this
Living Hell with no way out!*
He tried his best to raise
Whatever awareness could be aroused
It was wrong
These children
They were writhing
In their own
**** and ****
Curled up in little *****
Without an inch of clothing on them
When he came in
The orderlies avoided him
And his camera
They couldn't be held responsible
For the atrocities that were taking place
In the buildings where they secured the little income they had
The nurses shot ***** looks
There were few of them
Only about one was assigned to a room
Which housed around fifty children apiece
When he asked them
*Can you spare a moment?
For the camera and the lives of these poor kids?*
They're eyebrows pointed down in a sharp line
And they quickly rushed away
He couldn't believe it
Children
Not older than ten years
Running about
Bare naked
Covered in the foulest of substances
Emanating smells you couldn't imagine
Yelling incoherently
And
Just as the orderlies and nurses did
Running in the opposite direction of the camera
And the reporter
That would expose the place they called "home"
For the snake pit it was
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 9:49 PM UTC
Her birthday draws nearLets all start it with a cheerHer favorite time of the year,Winter, is not far from hereYou still live among usWe all still hold apiece of you within our hearts.Knowing that your guiding our way.When your birthday comesIt will not lead tosadness or sorrow, butHappiness and thanksgivingYour legacy ofGoodwill, kindness, and happinessare far from goneThey will live on like you always willHer birthday draws nearLets all start it with a cheerHer favorite time of the year,Winter, is not far from heremiss u :)
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 6:41 PM UTC
Your beauty is so heretic as my love is dynamic
I am in love, in love my sweetheart I am eccentric
Your graces are alluring your beauty is so exotic
When love makes chain with beauty it is so ******
Let me celebrate and praise you my sweetheart
Be in my company and never ever think to depart
I do appreciate your beauty you are apiece of art
Let us have a a pledge my love from just very start
So sweet so caring and so loving my dear in love
You are so wonderful in style innocent like a dove
You are guiding me like a star up from the above
You are awesome my love you are so beautiful now
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
Light killed night so I rose and rolled over
shaved and showered
then stood before the blinds-drawn-back
freshly foggy glass
I traced the outline of the ridgeline
of the mountains outside with my finger
in the condensation,
sat and watched the light bounce off the snow
til the misty glass dried
and suddenly all the details were clear
tufts of green
tusks of brown
standing up through the crusted-over ice
and crystalline facets of cliff-face
bits and bobs, anyway, of color on a fresh canvas
and all still
til I spied a couple specks
-and squinted-
not just spots now, but bodies on stilts
(four apiece)
and a ***** crown on the one.
Goats!
yes, mountain goats,
male and female,
traversing the treachery
in spite of it all-
though I could feel they had none,
not an ounce of spite between them
no!
not in spite, but in tandem
with the elements,
the terrain,
with each other.
The conditions aren't adverse,
I realized,
they're ideal.
here is here,
now is now,
and you're a little speck,
just like me,
just like mountain goats,
just swimming through it all
with grace
and tact
and majesty.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
the privilege
to ask these questions, was granted to me
before the long black veil of night
covered my eyes
could I?
the lieutenant gave the command
and we all fired on them
a platoon of us, against three pajama clad VC
skinny as monkeys, minding their own business
walking that trail, a thin rope through the jungle
made by the feet of thousands before them
safe they thought, so far from
the foreign monsters--US
would I?
of course, and I did
with 49 other night stalkers
who then crawled with me to find our ****
100 elbows through the tall grass
100 knees close behind
should I?
we found them, each a riddle,
riddled with a dozen holes apiece
mangled flesh asking the question, was one of those red roses yours?
did my round take off his ear? or sever his spine, or did mine
fly somewhere in the dark night, where these
sorrowful souls now dwelt forever
could I? would I, should I?
I got to ask those questions,
and pulling the trigger,
my fumbling finger answered all 3...
the signal that moved it, the message
that traveled down my spine
from a place darker, deeper
than the night
the privilege to ask
still there, a lifetime later, in waking dream
long after the fallen became part of the grass
we slithered through to see them
before they could ask,
could I? would I,
should I?
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
One day as I sit on my bed ,I hear what seems to be the pitter-patter of little feet. So,I look up from my book and notice something strange.
The doll, yes the doll, that sits on my beds face has just changed.
From its once cute smile to a hard stare with a grimace for added affect. I tell myself that its just a doll apiece of plastic couldn't move.
So I continue to read. Again i hear the sound though this time its getting closer. AT about this point i get up and call my cat inside. the moment i get back to my bed the whole doll is gone. I think it must've been the dog, so i sit down to read again. too bad for me i didn't seem to look on the celling. now you know why im dead.
- yours from the grave,
Anna-Bella
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC