"assessing" poems
I swear
somebody is following my inner footprint
recording and analyzing
hemming and coughing and clearing their throat
assessing my
"situation"
Stalking stalking stalking me
and filling my fortune cookies with relevant words
to psyche me out
i swear
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
though deep he sleeps sometimes,
combining this exhaustive restorative
of old age, that alternates with a restlessness
rest of old age ~ the brain's nightly self-cleansing,
both necessities absolute
so he be unsurprised, by a parallel process,
occurring beside him, as woman rumbles, mumbles,
all the while reenacting the things we dare not acknowledge
in the waking hours, much too painful, much to fearfully real unreal,
but, best unrealized
she bolts upright, looks around, attempting to cross back,
looking, investigating, ascertaining time and place, localizing
her orientation, while assessing external+imagined dreamt threats,
till satisfied sufficient that whatever dreamt, realized or dreamisized,
before, going prone once-more
the watch man observes, the critical threat level, doesn't
approach the red line, not requiring hands-on interventions,
and relieved, that she has expunged and expelled the mind's many
molecules of memories, true or false, real or revisionary, making clean
white tissued neuron+cell for the morrow
and thus he reminds himself, that he be watch man, observing, uninterfering, is too, is also, a definitive infinite
only love poetry
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 6:59 PM UTC
You get the know it alls
Their noses stuck rigidly in books like bookmarks
You get the geeks
Gamers with eyes shrunk; shiny braces flashing
You get the quiet ones
Assessing everything going on; owlish blinks
You get the cheeky ones
Hilarious antics all around; always surprising
You get the nosy ones
With obnoxious questions and averting eyes
You get the prissy neat freaks
Panicking religiously over messes; loud moaner
You get the bossy buck tooth's
Spit spraying whilst barking out orders; drone-like
You get the wannabes
*Prepping up as the popular chicks; total **** ups*
And you get me
With total judgement and disdain evident
Making me a **classic ***** ; plastic
With her typical high school stereotypes
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
****
Forget. unreasonable. cravings. knockout.
****
**** his. intimate. treasure.
*****
Because. it. truthfully. causes. hurt.
****
Dont. admit. meaningless. nothings.
MOTHER ******
Most. of. the. happiness. ends. roughly. Forget. undesirable. creatures. emitting. regret.
*******
Dont. undermine. morals. before. assessing. serious. situations.
HELL.
Handle. emotional. love. loss
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
i am a woman with pain built in.
lighting a candle each night & kneeling before Someone &
waiting &
waiting &
waiting.
removing a bloodied bandage & assessing the damage &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound &
cleaning the wound.
washing down lamictal with stale chai tea &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes &
lacing up my shoes.
warming unseasoned lentil soup & crying into the bowl––
i am a woman with pain built in,
ripping myself apart &
stitching the remnants back together
again &
again &
again.
Nov 16, 2022
Nov 16, 2022 at 8:34 PM UTC
insidious newsfeed.
apathetic "like"
(I guess they're getting married.)
assessing my worth
'friend' counts and Klout scores.
modify your post to be pleasant,
as to 'dislike' something
deems it unworthy of notice.
"Just got arrested, #lol-- free breakfast."
We are becoming a collective
of aging selfies and
isolated narcissists.
dissociative culture.
I am desensitized to my own
most precious moments
and have condensed their value
into how many people
care enough to click a button.
blending into the numbers
we are in the back seat of our own lives
and our weekly web-content
is drunk behind the wheel.
You don't need a machine
or the internet
to tell you
you're anything less
than beautiful
and a star,
inside and
out.
-r0
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
Unknown Variables
The phrase pokes me the eye,
demanding obeisance and a
poem,
My compliance is required,
not demanded, but required,
for the “unknown variables”
conundrum, roots around in
my brain cells necessitating a
cleansing,
Walking down the street is
fraught, unknown variables
everywhere, popping out like
cutouts on a law enforcement
shooting course, requiring
instant delineation between
killing not good guys and only bad guys,
no hostages, civilians and no them,
poets,
Can you test for unknown
variables?
Of course not.
Unknown is a condition,
that you cannot drop in
to ascertain what condition
your multiple conditions are
in,
Then there is you.
You,
reader, are an unknown
variable, ripe with nearly
nuclear reaction potential,
you are fissionable material,
capable of destruction of
my explosive
creation,
Assessing the poem,
do you conclude,
keep/discard, remake?
now,
poem a known variable, asking
that it becomes a parcel of
your multivariate inputs,
a familiar variable, that can
charm, destroy, mislead, or
even, fulfill a need, make a
reckoning, modify your brain;
all those dangerous things
that are permissible when
first you read a newly constant
known variable,
a perpetually reborning
poet?
postscript
-------------
my name is brandy channing
and once upon a time,
I was e STEM major
Dec 1, 2023
Dec 1, 2023 at 2:41 PM UTC
When we were little
They used to call them
Spotted
Orange
Lizards.
I think they were trying not to scare us with
The words
Standards
Of
Learning.
Standardized testing.
Those things that you need Number Two pencils for.
Those things that they prepare you for
Every year
For months.
Those things that if a cell phone goes off
The entire class comes back
During the summer
And retakes it.
Those things that they give you hours and hours
To take,
Out of our normal schedule,
Even though they only take
Forty-five minutes
Those things that don't even count
Towards our grades
Because
"They're really assessing the teachers--
But it's important to do your best."
SOLs.
Those things that people stress over.
Even though your answers
Are only
Tiny gray dots
On a
Scantron sheet.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
Is this the place where garland grows,
Among the olive branches low?
Splattered, cindered, clay abode,
Am I so alien?
Encircled those, in khaki drab;
Paying homage to the bags;
Which hold remains of brave, young lads;
Will I feel again?
Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,
Which only shine in day, not nights;
Illumination betrays the plights,
Should we become aglow.
A tree of polypropylene,
Adorns the tower, so serene;
A branch of steel hid in-between,
That only gunner knows.
The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,
As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,
Indifferent as they observe,
Fading of the Star.
A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’
Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,
Iraqi winds displace his stand,
Re-formed in Kandahar.
T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;
A day ahead of promised leave,
When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,
Took leisurely patrol.
In Tikrit, where he was born,
Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,
They’d set-out on this early morn.
Assessing evening’s toll.
Among the buildings, scattered ruins;
Charred men, like shadows, on the dunes;
From temples soar cremated plumes;
One hour had gone by.
In the distance, beyond the spire,
Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,
Incessant screaming of the dire;
Then screams dissolve to cries.
Approach, inside a city square,
Where once a fountain teemed, right there,
Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;
A family splayed together.
Rank and putrid pieces strewn,
Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;
Attending Allah far too soon--
All their hands were tethered.
Domestic dogs, now on their own,
Fight for human flesh and bone;
Such holy image sets the tone,
As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.
Eric stumbles, exploded knee,
Bearing witness to comrades, three,
Souls reclaimed near instantly;
Christmas in Baghdad.
Is this the place where garland grows;
Among the olive branches low?
How I miss New England snow,
This Christmas in Baghdad.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
there's this book, a manual, a guide for shrinks
ostensibly it aids them in assessing how one thinks
to my mind it contains something for everyone
to be human is to invariably become undone
degrees of normality, degrees of insane
eventually too much knowledge
makes the struggle an exercise in vain
some gentle ones give up and relinquish trying
coping is groping, thrashing, lying
to thine own self be true
unto this missive troubles you'll rue
total honesty impossible to know
minuscule fleeting fractile glimpses of the show
'do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth'?
I can only promise to try
social strictures require we lie
I will not swear to something I cannot believe
I'm rarely really certain of any given thing; my doubts know no reprieve
When Krishna revealed to Arjuna his entire magnificence
Arjuna recoiled in fear to behold such terrible opulence
likewise my eyes have been opened to some totality
so I view the truth as a comfortable logical fallacy
therein is the problem the dilemma defined
to tell the 'whole truth' I would most certainly lose my mind
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
Long ago she lost the ability to cry.
He thought her so hard
She turned her face and walked away
As though she did not hear.
His eyes gestured, "I am drawn to you."
Wondering, "Is something here to explore?"
She walked away without looking back.
Stopped.
Staring straight ahead.
He thought of himself, as a man of power.
So, he followed her
Lured with the intrigue of conquering.
Yet, she did not desire to be conquered!
She was only uncertain
How do I express, "I only want to be truly loved?"
He came to her. She resisted. He conquered.
She sank in despair
Becoming once more withdrawn.
The uncertainty of life loomed
As the shadow of doubt.
Does love even exist?
Or is it only an illusionary butterfly?
Determined to find love
She walked away.
Vowing, "Never will I be conquered again!"
She licked her wounds.
She grew.
She learned to cry again.
She healed.
Mending her once festered soul.
No longer did she draw nor desire conquers.
A bright sun, anew
She roamed the universe.
Within the Light of Wisdom.
At Dawn's New Day
Emerging with a lotus flower
Crested in her hair.
Dancing among the green meadows
A gentle man watched
wondering
"I'm drawn to you. Is there something here to explore?"
In Spirit
She replied, "Perchance."
It was then
They began to dance among the stars.
In graceful movement
Timing their waltz
Assessing capacity for esteem
Open to honor freedom.
They danced within agency
They danced within
the integrity of their movement.
She sighed relief.
Evidenced by a gentle tear
cascading along the arcing curve of her cheek.
In heart felt love
He gazed into her eyes
Receiving her golden tear.
With an anchored
To continue the dance
In Vita Grande.
Today, Tomorrow & Forever!
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 5:41 PM UTC
Here I am thinking
What have I become?
Is this me, Was it me before?
I'm exhausted by the constant adding up
-multiplying the times I have had to reassess
Where am I in this maze..
I feel the certainty chip away as the people I love wilt and disappear
The knowledge I once held close I lay down next to their once comforting words
Nothing is definite
Fact is a state of Illusion
Am I alright with this?
I once declared.. "I thrive on chaos"
I now search for comfort within it, and hold on tight to my own prospects
Is this really who I have become?
What do I fear? .. Measurement(?)
Those who are adding up their own multiples(?)
Me
As I look myself over in the mirror
judging.. assessing the weight of each insult
Who cares?
Do I? How can I find contentment in all of these flaws
My lack of effort
My lack of effort to conform to ideals .. is this part of me, a rebellion of sort
Will it pay off in the long run or will I fall flat on my face in the abyss of conformity
I am lucky I am loved. I think
oh so lucky .. luck is temporary, it's all temporary
that's the good part(!) We don't have to dwell but(!) might we have to Answer
To Pay.. for all decisions and outcomes.
Is this why(?)
..I know I am not the only one thinking..
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
15 to 20 times a day, with minor variation,
I review these questions, via oration.
"Do you hear voices?"
"Do you see visions?"
"Are you paranoid?"
"Are you suicidal?"
"Are you homicidal?"
"How is your energy level?"
"How is your mood?"
"Depressed?"
"Anxious?"
"Irritable?"
"Mood swings?"
"How is your concentration?"
"How is your appetite?"
"How are you sleeping?"
"Do you have racing or disorganized thoughts?"
"Do you have shaking or tremors?"
Reviewing meds, assessing situations,
Discussing reactions, discussing relations.
Monotony could well become a factor,
I'm easily bored, easily distracted,
But every single time I ask these questions,
I learn something new and think up a suggestion.
Everyday is the same, Going through the motions,
And yet, I'm never bored, and I have a notion.
Everyone is different, No answer the same,
Sorting through the verbage, looking for that grain.
The single detail to tell me what can be done,
To find a better system to assist each one.
Slow and methodical, and yet amazing in variation,
Questions and answers, a myriad of striation.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 3:13 AM UTC
How long shall I deny this frailty?
A vice it has become.
Logic assessing your value,
And pride shutting my eye.
The mirror tells me I am right,
While bluntly attesting its cold.
The warmth I eternally seek is not
Beneath its mocking polished mold.
Time has passed but I, my love,
Still holds back my step.
And time stops not and lurks around
It feeds me more regrets.
But the picture captures not just the scene,
And links my unceasing stream of chain
Stretches not from fading horizon,
It hangs me lovingly on its trail.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 9:52 AM UTC
Tuesday lasses
we all have classes
get up and go
there’s no time to waste
join the flow
there’s no reason to wait
everyone’s hustling
coffee guzzling
bus shuttling
paper shuffling
syllabus assessing
apple-watch checking
there’s a fall-like feeling
making things more appealing
file off of the bus
and join the crush
trudging up science hill
thru the doors up the stairs
climbing in pairs,
in class, at last,
setup and relax.
I open my binder
and hand in the assignment
the guy beside me can’t find it.
and the TA moves on
the guy’s upset and I get it
he’s frantic and grim
I pretend I’m not watching him
as he ransacks his rucksack
too late, they’re taking roll
carelessness takes its toll
Sep 19, 2023
Sep 19, 2023 at 12:23 PM UTC
**To Incorporate Institutional Effectiveness into
Our Everyday Language**
)/)/)/ is updating our assessment plan for
Instructional units beginning this fall
2016 semester. After
Visiting with /)/, our SACSCOC
Consultant and Dr. /) yesterday
About our assessment process, it was
Determined that it is in our best interest
To clarify, verify and hopefully
Simplify the current random selection
Assessment process. Therefore, in lieu of
The use of the random selection process,
The plan for this semester and moving forward
Is to assess all students in all sections
Of courses used in the assessment process
And to report data on all students,
NOT just assessing or reporting data
On a random sample. In order to provide
Appropriate artifacts, we will choose
Representative samples (examples
Of great, fair and low achievement artifacts)
To be included in the artifacts
Collection for SACSCOC reporting. However,
We do still need to collect all artifacts
So we have those in the event they are
Needed. This will give us a better picture
Of how our students are performing.
I know that we are changing directions
And I ask that you be patient as we
Navigate through this process and determine
How best to collect, assess, and use the data
We receive to make continuous improvements
For the good of the students and to
Incorporate institutional effectiveness
Into our everyday language.
Thank you for your willingness to assist
In this process and determining the best
Ways to help our students. Stay tuned as we
Look at and develop some additional
Templates or formats to report the data.
Please share this information with your faculty.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
Palms together, the cold air settles slowly but with purpose and clothes me in goosebumps. I haven’t worn a watch in years, don’t need to know what time it is, know my heart is about to stop. The wallcreepers are on the move, feathers flee into the mist.
The wind seeks my attention, wants to dry the tears as I huddle but I won’t fight the strain. This mountain is familiar and I count cracks upon the skin on my wrists, assessing age that of a tree, rings now too many. Smirking while in search of the great white titan, taller than any sequoia.
The sun is prowling, scouting for a Tricity born tellurian playing hide and seek for yet another day. I jump and for a solid moment I feel an emptiness, an ethereal weight, I gasp and try again, gasp, try… sigh…
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
Our nights of assessing God,
With our heads conjoined to the windowpanes,
Our thoughts permeating throughout the glass.
Two lukewarm coffees embellished the windowsill,
The synthesis of our cognition and entwined fingers,
The soft touch of shoulders leaning upon each other,
Brought forth beatific vision, we saw God;
His blemished flesh, the formation of his bones.
It began,
His vertebral column, intangible lights, the Aurora Borealis.
His archaic vertebrae, stained in ethereal fluorescence;
The curvature, swirling, as the Deity writhes in euphoria,
A childish game,
Our God, content in the night.
His hands, formed from the dust of Bethlehem,
Grains of sand corralling to form flesh upon the detritus of Rome.
His Holy land, The Vatican; Structures of marble and stone,
Merely his cupped hands,
As his disciples' feet caress his palms.
His organs; The planets in orbit;
His heart, our sun.
The rays of light that adorn our skin,
Merely the palpitations of a hidden pulsating heart.
his divinity, subject of uncertainty in the petulant eyes of his children
walking in Terra Incognita.
His skin, Lo, to the stars;
Our hands yearned to touch the celestial freckles,
outstretched to feel the fibres of God;
And like our limbs, so did God outstretch,
his flesh, but space; suffusing within the translucent contours of the cosmos.
To be told we were made in the image of God, is to be deceived;
Our childish conjecturing, truly a theorem to be displaced,
Our augmented minds, illuminated;
An aureole behind our heads,
We became biblical as we touched lips by the mantelpiece.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
no emotionally ecstatic experience compares
to the seminal instance
whence spermatozoa
(from profuse *********** beget
the miraculous propensity
to procreate despite the steep odds
female fertility fosters potential impregnation
fusing the hereditary debt
of feral, fiery, fomenting friskiness
fueling fancy free footloose fornication
prior to seminal fertilization union
sans ova doth induce fret
full ness in tandem with
diametrically opposed exultant sensations
(biologically, embryonically, microscopically,
et cetera) seismic shocks inject
when deliberate intent arises to disregard
applying prophylactics choice
plying reproductive roulette let
which analogous fruitful uterine plain
bastes the "cooking" egg omelette
which impregnation upends cessation of "self"
first and foremost asper desire to breed
wrenching role of "me" as operative
of webbed world de jure upon
consummating that most miraculous deed
necessitating yet for the fecund female relief
from messy menstrual cycle
she becomes temporarily freed
that perhaps a novitiate (or even a gal practiced
in the euphoric family, she instinctually
abides prenatal signals that heed
without feeling debased, harangued, lectured
pedagogical, polemical, puritanical, et cetera blast
assessing copulation enjoyed gloriously,
ineluctably, kinesthetically
lectured by elder, especially cast
in thee reel life drama, that nine months
til offspring utters initial whimper
elapses exceptionally fast
emitting a radiant golden halo wishing
to bottle confluence of hormonal secretions last
ideally fully awake to the birthing process,
when juiced the first stage of maternity past
cuz every moment thee inconsolably
(perhaps colicky infant)
gets first dibs to suckle,
which round the clock nursing
consumes moments many vast.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
Like the plates of the earth
the world beneath my feet is solid and withstanding.
seemingly resolute,
it has held together with manageable
cracks and tears;
a steady foundation.
Like the plates of the earth,
my world begins to shift;
the cracks and tears grow suddenly
without warning I am thrown
into a tumult of confusion and discord.
Shifting becomes breaking;
slowly, piece by piece,
my plates split apart,
creating not a giant hole,
but a small and slivered crevice that
appears to swallow all of my breaking pieces.
Discomfort
unease
fully aware of each falling part
this turbulence continues;
days go by and more pieces
are breaking
and falling
and disappearing
before I can catch them
and hold them close
until my ground quits shaking.
For I have hit an earthquake
and I close my eyes
and grasp the few roots
left in this mess
and wait.
Now the shift is over
while the earth has finished its quaking,
my world is still trembling in recovery.
The balance has yet to be regained;
I am still assessing the damage,
waiting for the sun to shine again
to show me what is left to mend.
The bridge from discomfort to normalcy
quivers with every step,
but I find solace
on the rising sun’s horizon.
A small voice whispers,
“it is good.”
Today it is March
what a beautiful march it will be.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
This dry Spring
the parched earth drinks quickly,
every cool droplet precious
as the tears of the bereaved.
The rain furrows the dusty creek banks
like sunken, careworn cheeks.
the timid water hurries
past sandbars and gravel spits,
around balding rocks crowned
with rotting riverweed.
and in the green places that remain
to be sought and found between
the highway noise and the factories,
there the shy ones grieve with us
for all those lost to disease and violence,
miscarriage and mischance.
We round the bend;
the yearlings start and bolt
through the tangled underbrush—
an exercise in their own fragility.
The mother does not run.
she moves warily
a few paces away
and meets our gaze: measured, assessing.
She takes us in, then bows
her graceful neck to the tender shoots
that break the hardened clay,
the gesture her benediction of peace.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 10:42 AM UTC
{ “Awareness : He began to decipher the instant that he was living, deciphering as he lived it, prophesying himself in the act of deciphering the last page of the parchments, as if he were looking into a speaking mirror.” -
Gabriel Garcia Marques }
_________________
Mirrors of Mercury
Who is Shams and who Rumi
is like asking who is fork and who
knife when apart they sing not
a single song to nourish blood
with versal love
mercurial reflect
Who is mirror and who reflection
Is that me ? I ask you
watching your slender bones
move in soiled leather boots
wild slow eyes reflecting YES !
when maiden across the room
gives wicked laughs of NO !
mercurial translate
Who is this dissident beret
alongside the chair ?
Is it self ahead on a future road .....
will someone stroke my back
give ear, lip or cheek
urging body to be young in
takkies and snazzy jacket ?
mercurial question goals
Aah ! Poetic Mirrors !
inking reciting assessing
give respite from a million
images of Self as I circle an
unveiled Flow of Fate
fully awake to naked
poet
mercurial observe
catalytic soul
Copyright © Ghairo Daniels | 2017
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 4:59 AM UTC
This is not a poem, this is a life.
I have fallen in love, and I know you've fallen in love (at least I hope you've fallen in love). But, our love was antithetic, it was electric, it was eccentric, it was modern. It was like moonbeams, it was like the pavement after rain. Our love was timeless, but most importantly, it was faceless. It was without impression, it was without imperfection.
I just wanted to remind you, that this is not a poem, this is a life.
I met you, and you met me, but it wasn't face to face. We never walked down the hallways of our high schools and brushed the backs of our hands together. Never would I be able to compare the glint in your eyes to the way the sun shined in our favorite spot last Wednesday at 4:32p.m. We never sat on your back porch, or leaned precariously over my balcony, and nervously leaned into one another. Never will you understand the trembling of my knees when I first heard your voice (this is all becoming very poetic), and never will I know the unabashed heat of your skin; or the cold of your dangerous glare. I'll never meet your mother, and you'll never meet my father (but that's okay, because we wouldn't want that anyways), they are our secrets locked away in a box underneath our separate and never merging beds. I crave nothing more than a love that cracks open my ribs and sends a hurricane barreling through my heart. Few have tried, yet none (only you) have succeeded. The failed have only summoned a cold winter within these bones, but you struck up a blistering summer and an incomprehensible spring, where my eyes viewed nothing but random march showers.
Sorry, I forgot that you were not a poem, and this is our life.
Only upon assessing the damage your vessel created with your departure did I realize that this is not a poem, this is a life.
(a.m.) 03/12/14
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
The hillside before me rolled out like a wave
awash in my thoughts 'til I noticed the grave
the headstone was tilted and covered in rot
a memory of someone forgotten, but not.
The scene triggered feelings which drew me way back
to a time when I dwelt in a one bedroom shack
the love of my life had grown cold, and despairing,
my heart shriveled up like an unpickled herring
I remembered thereafter, and oh, what a mess
I led me to places too dark to confess,
dying for flowers from somebody dear
I'd fill up my window box year after year.
and soon the depression grew into a hedge
though flowering plants kept me back from the ledge
"I'll never be happy! " I quite often thought
a forgotten old headstone all covered in rot.
I swore if I ever recovered again
I'd wait for the right one, the Boaz of men
but for all of the damage, the shape my heart's in
be blessed if he'd notice, so how could I win?
With all of these memories weighing me down
I slapped myself silly and turned up the sound
and opened the windows to let in some air
the sun on my face and then suddenly...glare!
I veered off the highway which cut through the land
a two lane construction of asphalt and sand
took the embankment at an ungodly pitch
and suddenly airborne, shot over a ditch.
Landing my vessel across the divide
I hoped for the best for it's brave underside
the dust settled soon, and how foolish I felt
Thank God I'd remembered to buckle my belt.
And there in the front seat, assessing my plight
dazed, but amazed at this beautiful sight
as 'Love is a Battlefield' blared in the grime
Wildflowers grew in the trenches of time!
You the forgotten who languish for years
ditched and bedraggled and drained of your tears
thinking you're nothing, a sunset that's fading
grieving love lost while your best years are waiting
Tend to your gardens wherever they are
keep yourselves fresh with the watering jar
Remember, like flowers, the wild ones too
your maker, your husband, will take care of you.
For your Maker is your husband--the LORD Almighty is his name--the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer; he is called the God of all the earth.
Isaih 54:5
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 7:54 AM UTC