"arils" poems
Drops of red drip down my hand it
(looks like blood)
sweet red juice
the cold water is numbing my tingling
hands as I separate arils from peel
one popping bright red jewel at a time
I am learning to be patient with
(traffic and fruit peeling and anger)
myself
this sink room smells like burnt
ramen and popcorn and my socks
stick to the ***** floor
sitting on the ground
against the wall
If this is all there is I swear
I will be happy
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
It's funny how many people
will gather around
just to see one man on a building.
They don’t even know me
I barely even know me.
I’ve seen the gate but I've
never entered it;
never could find the **** key.
It's sick really,
they’re not here
because they care
they don’t even know who I am.
They just want to
partake in ritual sacrifice.
I’ll die like a Viking
a heroic death in combat.
I’ll be caught by Valkyries.
My body will be
of fire
and I will steal their children’s innocence.
They can shield their eyes,
but I’ll
scar the Earth,
I’ll
paint her red.
A mural with my brain.
And they can see everything that’s inside.
I’ll break the **** door
right off its hinges.
You can’t make people care,
but you can force them to see.
It's cold up here,
and the city is beautiful:
constructs of man
breaking the sky.
And me, in her.
At least the wind
is on my side,
the defiled king left to die
in a labyrinth of stone.
The sewers as my
burial crypt,
rats and snakes
******* my blood.
But the remnants of a soul
long forgot
still feeds the mouths that
rely on the few with food.
Their stomachs ache and
their hearts pound to
the beat of one drum.
A drum that beckons me to the edge.
Who am I to starve the hungry?
They don’t need a break,
they need to push harder.
I planted the trees.
I planted the oak
and I killed the yew.
I’ve tasted its arils
and made peace with the Ibis
that guided me here.
And as it watches me
with craned neck,
and bent beak
I leave my throne
and descend to water those
whose shade I will never sit beneath.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 7:37 PM UTC
Aligned on arrowed spine, the stance of the warrior does not stir in his thin and scaly armor. Emitting essence, breath, and a deadliness soaking his spiraled lanceolates, ridden with toxic seed, he deceives the thrushes pursuing arils. They are soon surprised by death in the guise of life. Catuvolvus, as well, cast himself away by consuming fatal seed, taken by war-pride, released by yew. The raw assassin is prepared to vanquish beast and bird, to still-battle strangers amongst his ages. And yet, he wields an ancient light. In peace, he guides departed shadows home.
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
When the leaves shrivel,
flowers faint and die.
Harvest must be gathered,
signs that winter is nigh.
"Why's the land fallow?"
We'd ask of the Earth.
She shifts on her axis,
sways her great girth.
There used to be stories,
about the changes you see.
They blamed it on Hades,
when he tricked Persephone.
She had taken six arils,
of which she did eat.
Hades grinned gladly,
upon his great seat.
They said she's doomed,
for six months a year.
To serve below ground,
Earth's kind left in fear.
Chimera existed!
People would believe.
The fantastic in real life,
has taken its leave.
Now we have science,
and it's true what it's told.
But we've lost all the magic,
in the world we behold.
Content while I sit here,
on a cool Autumn night.
We have kept it alive,
in the things that we write.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
*
*Daughter of harvest
Warm spring hands beckons death's breath
Arils strokes her lips*
*
Jun 29, 2020
Jun 29, 2020 at 1:18 PM UTC