"bastion" poems
*Let me be captured by the night.
Engrossed in the conversation
between the stars.
Syncopated twinkling like...
thousands of fireflies
trapped within sealed jars.
Let me be enslaved by the moon.
As I drink her glow in
greedy insatiable gulps.
Crestfallen...
Her beam with an agenda...
As the landscape she sculpts.
Let me be ensnared by my solitude.
But I hear crickets...
Chirping and chipping away at my
bastion of dreamstate.
Persistent calls
I try to shun
that never abates.
Let me be trapped in my thoughts.
So I could harness...
And immortalise them in
indelible careless scribbles.
Erecting and...
Rebuilding them from the
rubble of conflicting squabbles.
**Let me be overwhelmed
by the mess of my being...**
Let me wallow
Then emerge strong from this
decrepit state of mind.
Let me breathe heavy from my
punctured lungs.
So I could heal in time before
true solace
in this dark,
I would find.*
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 12:05 PM UTC
To taste the bittersweet nectar of thy lunar lips.
Lie me hope, sing to me the song of the helix.
Proffer me the chance to breach thy bastion,
encompass thee in my love and compassion.
Sanction me to be that one whispering love stories
in thine ear while bathing in the Aurora Borealis
dazzling and clear.
You and I, a rickety tent and a love nothing less of
heaven sent.
In mine heart thou shalt forever remain.
My panzer maid grant me...the fall of rain.
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
A hippodrome as smoke adjourn
those can wrap Havanas blunt
while Manila fish for sordino
they reek of harvest yet exhume Moro
then San Mateo shall not a maraschino bane
whether they've sought bastion in Italy then
once their hopes shall keep ships ahoy
and Sabatini sing San Marino here
that sandcastle star await his lover in
"The Sea Hawk" a fine costume whence sail
those Antilles with a conquistador as buttress
in this play they call Those Philippines alas meet
El Duarte in a duet with his song set aflame with
great sleeves in such kleptocracy worldwide again.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 8:35 AM UTC
I wake up
Each morning,
Head to my closet,
And arm myself
With clothes
Thick as brick walls.
I rummage
Through various
Pairs of greeve-like
Pants
Looking for
The right foundation
On which I
Will build
The day's
Exoskeleton.
Fix my hair
Like the rest
Of mankind.
Hair that
Acts as the cloak
That ascribes me
To anonimity.
Before I leave
I put on the
Weight of
My outer person,
The one which
I have carefully
Built out of
Various yous
And none of me.
The skin
That I Have worn
To see my soul
Forlorn.
I go, parade myself
Like a sentinel
Emblazoned
With all the
Merits;
Look and behold
A hero that
Beckons to all who pass
A hero who
Hides all the dross
Of the Inside.
The inside
of whatever is left
Of my
Dying kingdom.
I go as a bastion
With jutted spears
And sharpened pikes
Wounding those
Who advance
Whether in peace
Or in strife.
No, I will not
Let anyone
Through the gates
Of my starving
King.
All my life
I was being
Built as a
Stronghold.
Father, as a mason,
Taught me
That strength
Is measured
Through how
Much pressure
My structure
Can endure.
Mother, as an artisan,
Raised me
As a dam
That will not break.
Taught me
That my worth
Is measured in the
Volumes that I can keep.
Suffering be now
The mortar
That binds all my griefs
Together.
Pain, *****
Barricades
Around my thirsting
Prince.
Comrade,
Stay as a facade;
Hide the muck
That have accumulated
Throughout
The years.
Lover,
break me down.
Strip me of all
My armor,
Break down the walls.
Turn my spears
Into soft dandelion *****
Wade through the tar
And see
Through the veil.
Unseam
All my scars;
Bleed me dry
Until you reach my core.
See me for
Who I am.
Witness the king
That I have
deprived.
Caress the face
Of the prince
That I have denied.
Satiate my famished spirit,
Oh, you, lover of my soul.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
Laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous hypotaxis apomixis strive
Rainbow mare aura roan exude emote derive
Syntactical propinquity habitation harbinger harangue stoic hive
Colloquialism vernaculars prurient adage jargon idiom clichés jive
Mirador bartizan panorama stalwart bastion bulwark tableau live
Canny cleaver crafty cunning furtive sneaky stealthy connive
Poignant cogent piquant ephemeral effulgence temporal refraction arrive
Paradoxical dichotomy greaves gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts survive
Hectic mayhem , proximity parameter perimeter peripherals , annihilate rive
Zingy zesty zany zenithal azimuth entity zeal alive
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
.
He doesn't realise...
The weight of his actions and words that pummel her to the ground.
Beating her down for every time she rises up to undo his ropes with which she's bound.
He doesn't see...
Past the darkened lenses that she dons.
She wears them,
not to shield her pride that was wrongfully taken,
but to protect him from the repercussions that would come with accusatory speculations.
He doesn't know...
Of the soaked pillow that accompanied her.
The rivulets of tears...
She had quietly shed without a whimper.
He doesn't hear...
The silent altercation between the treasure that beats in her chest and the thing that thinks in her head.
The struggle that ensues when the mind tries to rescind what the heart had wholly given and carelessly said.
He doesn't care...
To think of the devastating waves that come.
Only to erode the last bastion of hope she nurtures...
This frail wall that she prays for nightly.
Just so that it would hold up through another day's endeavour.
He doesn't feel...
The need for empathy.
For he thinks that he's god with one devout follower.
He commands her loyalty with his deluded testaments
and his fists as sceptre.
She doesn't live...
To see future suns.
For her day finally set when it all came down.
The wall she had feebly held together with her life...
Easily gave way when he came at her armed with a knife.
.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
A monolithic sculpture stands upon a hill.
Ornate work of marble marks the artisan’s skill.
Clad as a knight of yore, with stony gaze held high.
Pilgrims travel from miles around to fall under his eye.
Epitome of courage, virtue, and respect
effused upon the villagers traits they should reflect.
Elements gnawed at the stone but failed to corrode
the manifold of lofty aims the knight would bestow.
Dark years beset the kingdom causing disarray-
Tyranny, vanity, and deceit led the people all astray.
Artisan's work above, a shining icon of probity.
A resolute bastion against the world’s impulsivity.
A day will come when the people reach distress;
crying out, they beseech the artisan’s redress,
but long has the craftsman been journeying far away
humbly allowing his handiwork, the message he conveys.
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 9:26 PM UTC
streams of salt and H2O leak
down reddened cheeks and condense
in a golden beard. a war-torn nation,
half-a-world-away, crystallizes clear as dayspring
in an insomniac's screaming and fragile psyche
at half-past-three in the morning.
what strength must a seven-year-old posses
to persevere amidst the perversity of cluster bombs?
munitions bought and paid for with the taxes
we fork over to the United States. will her blood one day
stain our hands with crimson? will her mother's?
a girl who just wanted to read, to escape
the tragedy that inundates our surroundings,
to a magical realm of pure imagination.
where we can summon spectral stags
to save us from the misery of humanity
and learn to disarm those who would harm
us with the charm, Expelliarmus!
the bastion where i found the first seeds that grew
into a rebellion opens its doors to you, Bana.
there's a crater where your house used to be,
rubble strewn in Aleppo, Syria. but know that Hogwarts
will always be there to welcome you home.
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 4:05 AM UTC
I am the pretender
You must precensor
When I'm an inventor
Who can't get centered
I'm the apologist
You're the psychologist
We have a suitable deal
You provide an even keel
And cook delicious meals
And let my fingers feel
But you do so much more
Going deeper than the shore
You make a difference
By insistence
I see your footprints
In the distance
They lead me to progress
My mind cannot process
Those things I can't fathom
You effortlessly grab them
You were my bastion of behavior
I thought you were my savior
You're more like Charles Xavier
Controlling my mind
To keep me blind
By taking my vision
When you make your incision
And put me in prison
You're Sigmund Freud
On steroids
You fill my void
Then get annoyed
You cured me of my madness
Yet instilled sadness
When I got addicted to your healing
But then heard your tires peeling
After all your analysis
You deemed me talentless
You used to be my example of what to be
Now you're my example of what to flee
You made me hate the number three
While running my car into a tree
Which made me scream ouch
My ejection from your couch
So I hide in my palace
And drink from a chalice
Filled with mindless malice
While holding my phallus
But I learned my lesson
One last confession
Someone that can calm my brain
Can also leave a permanent stain
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
treacherously torrid and torrential torrents of totally tangential tumultuous tortuous ; tyrannically torturous adjunct viably salient seethe.
procrastinating pandemic plenipotentiary prosthesis ; prosaically pragmatic parenthetical predication predilection premise prognostication
panoramic tableau preternatural propensity proclivity prestidigitation gesticulation :
gyration guidon ; ghastly gruesome grotesque hideously horrible horrendous heinous
grotty gnarly
diabolically maniacal dementia brusque macabre abrupt
awful
amalgamated anathema analysis agnate aggregate aberrance
somatalogy virtuoso cognate obduracy
worse
rudiment ebullience , confluence effluent effusion affluent , prolific profusity opulence , cogent fecund secular secund , recondite redolence abstrusely obstreperous mesomerism resonance resilience
protractive perpetude futurity
blither blandishing blabber burnishing boresome blahs
lithe blithe jabber prattle chatter tithe
morose morsel moribundness
stolid stoic
stalwart bastion bulwark
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
Have you stared into the eyes of another?
And found yourself out of breath, out of time
Where your heart beats with a flutter
In the realm of beauty, in the face of divine
Where the world begins to slow
All aggression set aside
As the purest of thoughts consumes you
You have found love and I say it with pride.
How blackened must a heart be
To see it as unclean
To mutilate our most beautiful of feature
And do it all in the name of that unseen
Is it feral in its nature?
Is there not but lust they see?
Within their own hearts they know its joy
But in the hearts of my brothers they call it blasphemy
What fear is it that besieges them?
That crept into there mind at night
So that they may stand behind the powerful
To revel in there hatred to revel in there spite.
But do they think they face fragility
A surrender of all that is right
The truth of love is that it will always endure
That is its beauty that is its might.
Know that they are driven by fear
To that their cowardice bound
But I have seen the unity of love
No greater power can be found
Know that oblivion beckons
But it will be them who answer the call
But reach out your hand to meet them
And at last into this pit they will fall.
The world may seem black
Pitiless and cruel
But know there are some who will always stand beside you
Be assured it is the privilege of us all.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
A face that envisages the intensity within
The purity of his soul is visible in those eyes.
His words are a reflection of his honest heart
And his silence says everything he wants to hide.
When he wields the willow, he becomes a warrior
Desperate to give his last ounce for his nation.
He resists all temptation with ****** mindedness
And fights the enemy hard, to protect his team’s bastion.
His passion never lets satisfaction reach his soul.
He’s as harsh on himself as he’s on the opposition
Nothing annoys him more than his own failure
The past struggles have only elevated his ambition.
He’s an epitome of innocence and simplicity
But don’t get fooled by his diminutive looks.
For there’s a reservoir of fire inside his head
Which explodes when he’s provoked by crooks.
He bats for India wearing his tri-coloured gloves
Like his 1 billion compatriots are holding his hands.
Their love strengthens his grip, empowers his bat
And runs flow in abundance as like a rock he stands!
He’s a special cricketer, selfless, gritty and gifted.
But what he is on the field is not really his best part.
The person within is more precious, like a rare gem.
Beneath that stern and strong face, there’s a lovely heart.
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 11:32 PM UTC
Is poetry the last bastion of the scarred mass of humanity lost to the subtle truth that words are signs from the divine that we are all one and nothing, because if so then I must hope that mine are worth the lasting
If what is both false and true heard by no one but the mute passed trembling from his unused lips sealed with venom by a scarlet kiss and gassed silently on by occultist grips narrowly worth the waiting
Then and only then will we learn both the where and when as the spirit goes on laughing
Falling further farther down clutching tightly golden crowns mimicking Gods with emboldened sounds riveting emotion flicker round
Theater is what we’re asking
Days upon days without any end the trigger lingers shoot again imprisoned here by our own command lost in thought not acting
What will it be our own device to save us suffering from the pain and strife the mortal coil lust and vice perpetually worth the asking
The snake he calls with warm lit clouds and the sun is ever shining
Uproot the tree out of sodden ground the branches broken crash and pound
litter ridden strewn across the burial mound the eagle cries in distance
Sparrow flies upon the wing angels make joy and forever sing our ears in whispers but never bring consistently the frequency to our brains
My foot falls but once upon the wither winds softly like a child carrying me to the end
the bridge between the forest creek meandering mends uplifting me from sorrow.
So long until tomorrow.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
New York drowns in the California-made blue
The child of the voodoo kisses the sky
Her indigo ligaments are laid bare
While she falls, chasing smoking rabbits
She is small yet she soars
With her proportions falling on deaf heads
She remembers the knights of the dawn
Tangled in her gallivanting hair
Without knowing her doors
She noses her way through her window
The modest parachute travels
With the nomadic East
She recognizes heaven by taste
Knowing that she believes less and less
Seeing all without need for the travel
Ignoring the scrutiny of a gavel
Leaving in the morning
Not stopping until the fifth night
Learning for forty fortnights
Stopping to rest every second year
What a bright-eyed soul!
A sparkling visage
Adorning all her wanders
The world is at her command
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
Her name was Hawthorn
She had long thin limbs,
But was sturdy and unwavering,
People came to her for shelter,
And like a willow she protected them,
Her name was Hawthorn
Just like her name she flourished everywhere,
She was strong.
She was a bastion,
Strength to those who had lost theirs,
Her name was Hawthorn,
Nothing could hurt her.
Until she fell in love,
Heartbreak rotted her through,
Even the strongest oaks fall,
Her name was Hawthorn.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
There once was a great beast, now but a myth, who sat atop Mr. Atlas’s throne. So the story goes, the beast had become so heavy, and such a burden on Mr. Atlas, that he enlisted some folks to tame it. ****** that beast could fight back. He fought for ages, centuries, eons, a near-bloody-eternity to stay on top of his throne. He would not be defeated, until the world stopped turning up on old Mr. Atlas’s back. After fighting back on and on, pressuring the tamers for years on end, the gargantuan beast was slowly getting tired. Energy seeped out of his body. But he kept fighting. He kept fighting until he didn’t see the point anymore, and he fought some more.
To this very moment, the beast is still fighting up there on old Mr. Atlas’s back.
The beast, our voice, our final bastion of worldly balance, should very well be tamed by now. The idea of submitting to our tamers is a very unpopular one, though popular at the same time among some. But they are the tamers, and we are the beasts, fighting back to little avail but not giving up on the mission, though thoroughly futile.
Folks, it’s time for us to submit to those who are taming us. As awful, as cowardly, as utterly asinine as this sounds to most of you, we just cannot go on if we continue to fight back.
Those in charge have ****** it up so thoroughly that we must live life through simplistic principles. We can’t afford to **** around with “the man” anymore. It simply will not work. We have to find our happiness. We have to enjoy the little things, little victories, little comforts, little joys, little hardships, and big souls with big aspirations on the little scale that we are left with. As we enjoy these things, we in turn do not submit to those above us. In fact, those above us hate that we are content. Our contentment is their pain, and if they feel pain, then they stop taming us and they themselves become the ones who are tamed, subdued by their own (now) unsuccessful attempts to tame us.
So we have to find comfort in the uncomfortable, and joy in the hardships of life, and accept that we cannot change a thing unless we are content with the conditions that these folks have presented us with.
Comfort and contentment is everything, and it is what tames the tamers of the beast.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
The Poetry Barn wasn’t really a barn
It was merely an old farm house,
It sat on the acres of Eddington’s Farm,
Surrounded by sheep and by cows.
But Poets came over from Stuttersby Dell,
Drove over from Scatabout Wood,
To write in the air of the Poetry Barn
About things, when they ought and they should.
They came from Great Orton, they came from Rams Well,
They came from Glenn Wheatley and Grey,
The best and the worst of the poets you’d find
At the Poetry Barn, every day,
The rooms had been empty for many a year
So they all sat on bundles of straw,
And when they ran out they would send up a shout,
So some would go out and get more.
The mornings would see all the Elegies worked,
The Epics, the Odes and Quatrains,
The Poetry Barn would then grumble and groan
As the Dirges would enter the drains.
By noon the fair Sonnets came into their own
With just the odd wanton Lament,
When poets would seek out the culprit to find
One grinding his verse in a tent.
By evening they’d work on the Pastoral,
The Sestet, the Roundel as well,
And those at a loss after losing the toss
Would be stuck with the old Villanelle,
They’d all settle down when the Moon came up round,
And the stars twinkled boldly in rhyme,
When one asked the other, ‘pray, what rhymes with brother,’
And he’d say, ‘your Mom, all the time.’
The poems would stick to the inside walls,
Would tear at each other like knaves,
They’d fill up the aisles and lie flat on the tiles
And would damage the old architraves.
At night you could hear all the horses hooves
As they carried the good news to Aix,
And in came the wedding guest, him with the albatross
Counting his many mistakes.
I saw that they’d burned down the Poetry Barn
With one sad, incendiary rhyme,
A poet called Glover who wrote to his lover
‘My candle, you light all the time.’
The straw caught alight in his lover’s delight
And they fled from that bastion of verse,
I just penned this missal for someone to whistle,
The one that he’d written was worse.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
Dear State Counsellor.
Once I saw you as an icon of morality.
A bastion of hope.
A ‘dancing peacock’ in a troubled world.
Some called you the ‘midwife of democracy’.
Others an ‘Oxford housewife’,
a peacock ready to show its eyes.
But now….
The Children, babies, women and men of the Rohingya
are butchered, ***** and murdered by your
soldiers as you read poetry to children.
And the rest of the world stands by waiting for
the Norwegians to take away your Nobel Peace Prize.
Another sense of justice, lost again.
The working hands of the Muslim men in Rakhine
are tied by the Buddhists, the lovers of peace.
Their guns gleaming and your army standing by.
“It wasn’t us” say the Generals
“It was the Buddhists”.
But of course we have seen this before.
At Srebrenica, Nanking, My Lai and Auschwitz,
until the gas came.
And the world stands by.
Another failure, another genocide.
Now, as your military load the death carts
and bury mothers next to their children.
The Buddhists place flowers on the mass graves.
And I call for you and your ‘men’
to be accountable for those burnt by the sun.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 9:18 PM UTC
Water of remembrance sprinkled
On the mountain crest of recollection.
Indulgent mussy memory catapulted
Stones of retentiveness into the
Courtyard of events like bricole
Of battles.
Pendulum of reminiscences swinging
On oscillating milage of roads like
Trotting horse with drippage of sweat
And itching foots.
Ghost of reminiscences restlessly
Roaming with carriage of yesteryear.
Final year educatees required
Boardinghouse,
But list of items engorged dear
Mother's treasury
"where do l raise money
to buy oyinbo mattress, Ilori?"
Mind pullulated with weariness.
Intonation of worries.
Cantillation of wants.
Deficiency of measured means.
Oyinbo mattress beyond ladder
Of reach.
Gluttonously waiting to devour
Lesser items,
But rays of compulsion unslammed
The gate of respite.
Lordly arrival warmly welcomed by
The dorm room's porter,
Walking majestically to the bed-space
With the acquired cotton wool and raffia leaves mattress.
Gamut of items passed through the eagle's eyes of the housemaster.
Silver painted pail donated by a neighbour passed through the sentry of inspection,
And got its admission.
Mother's used cloak turned bedsheets
Passed through the rigorous scrutiny.
Newly built portmanteau unlocked and neatly dissected, item by item.
Agazed eyes focused on the cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress.
Expectations rattled mumbling astonishment.
Legs stuck in the mud of mystification.
Telepathic dews covered ocean of thought.
Tranquil silence engulfed vicinity,
Deflating the balloon of hope like a litigant awaiting verdict from the jurist's chambers.
Porter's gesticulating gesture connoted nothingness of demeaning disapproval, perambulating on the hilly terrain of approval.
Akimbo stood l.
Now the verdict!
Molten volcanic magisterial command erupted in a gestapo gesture,
Spudding out from the barytone's baritone voice from the selfsame housemaster,
From the bastion of authority,
And the house generalissimo like a wild brant squalled, matter-of-factly,
"we do not accept bed bugs cotton wool and raffia leaves hand-made mattress here".
Entreaties collapsed.
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 1:30 AM UTC
Its annoyance
Anointed
In pessimistic clairvoyance
Its the avoidance
Of the simplistic
And stoical
Components
Its motion
Less
Ness
In oceans
Of lip service
Its ***** potions
For the passionate
Its fake ****
And face lifts
Its abortions
In portions
Of subordinates
As gifts
In gifs
Of gorgeous
Ordinance
Distorted
In tortured
Tapping
Of the dead
Its all the fame
In shoving
The pain
Of loving
In the oven
Of stubborn
Mothers
Blubbering
Under the covers
With other men
Its the omens
Of the oh mans
In roman
Misnomers
Of fortunate
Misfortunes
Torn
From time
Its the mine mine mines
Confined
To their own kind
Pre signed
In old blood
Its consignment killers
Its the drugs
Its timeless thrillers
Its the shrugs
Its the thunder
Plundering
Structures
Rattling out
From under the bed
Its all the thoughts
In our heads
Blaring
The booms
Of the tamed
Its the assumed
The restrained
Its this tomb
Of shame
In doing
The same
Old **** again
And again
Its been
Better
Then again
I grin
When
Cold
Its when i should fold
That i embolden
Its all the No's
Its blankets nose
Its the cut blow
And lack of flow
Its fists and elbows
As opposed
To safety locks
Its ******* flu shots
Its everything
That ****** me off
Its the the stupid robots
And the silly riot cops
Fencing in the famished flocks
Its the *****
And the *****
In plastic boxes
Giving rocks
Off
Without us
Its the gold pots
And stacked stocks
Locked
From us
Its the Rocks
Inside my socks
As they knock
The blocks
Of billy bobs
Bobbling
On the dash
Its the harsh
And its the rash
Its inside the last
Bastion
Of dummassez
passing
Through the
Blast radius.
Alas
Its the mass graves
And the paved pools
Of anyone who knew
Anyone who stood
Its all us fools
As cool kids
Knowing
No show biz
In soul ****
Its in knowing this
And ********
And barking
At the moon
Soon
To swoon
None
I am peaking soon
In looming threat
Of lost concepts
Slipping away
Under the sun
Electing to quit
While im ahead
Way back when
It was fun
Way back when
It mattered
Its a gun
Shooting blather
Blathering
As a bladder
Would
Misanthropic
And misunderstood
A changed topic
Knock on wood
Bye is good
Goodbye
Told you
Its implied
In rite
So
Good
night
Until
next
time
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
I swear I do not refrain my heart from its passion.
There was only one goal, to live as a quiet bastion.
No, not a drop of my mortality shall be leaked in fray.
Eyes will burrow, teeth will testify, my flaws, in disarray.
Yes, there was an attempt to control even the sheen of my glee.
The standards, statutes, stabilizers, and sticks I used to **** me...
**** prop, and stop any step, if the path was warm,
For that feeling meant change, and quite possibly harm.
"Why?" the question may arise, "live with such chill?"
Well, my beloved, only a loss constitutes a win, or a thrill.
At least this was my moral, as a child with no plan.
To live as man says he should, and can.
I have tried to uphold that life like a beat
Then life chimes, "To eat is to **** and to live is to eat."
Listen...
The applause's approval drowns my research in cacophony...
Whenever my stones start to slip, please run from me.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
It is not often I dream of you.
Dressed in copper and brick,
Growing green with vines,
Climbing your crumbling walls.
This castle you once kept in an
Easily forgotten part of my body.
A bastion against burial
Between shoulder blade and spine.
You who choose never to announce your
Presence when entering the room.
Simply sit in the corner, tilting your wine glass
Till I notice your ever increasing stare.
Most nights, I ignore you.
Ignore your black miniskirt and pearls,
Ignore your orange sundress
And turquoise necklace,
Ignore gladiator sandals,
And Barcelona bracelet,
First worn when we still
Had the simplicity of spring.
Some rare nights like this one
I grab you by your thumbs
And pull you under the table.
Relive our longing out of the sight
Of these new dinner guests,
Crawling awkwardly between their legs.
This is how
You have always worked.
Drawing ink from my body,
One pen:knife awakening at a time
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
At night, against the pulsing embryonic black which could
Squeeze any number of untold horrors from it’s voided heft,
There sits a door; bright searchlights unmoving, having forever
Ago found and revealed the menacing target of their feverish hunt.
The lights, beacons of vision and revelation stay still,
Afraid to ever lift their gaze from the door.
The door; a crimson sentinel of conformity’s’ demands. A gate
To a finite space of infinite secluded terrors. It’s mocking facade,
Not the true foundation of the haunting visage, but it’s chosen
Illumination against the choking nothingness around it.
There is nothing else but it, and if the lights lose
Their oppressive gleaming, there will be nothing.
Would it not be better for the deep to win the ever waging war
Against our struggles to find hints of sight and recognition?
If the door were to vanish from the othering out there,
then it would be impossible to not turn inward. A forced reflection,
a mirror that’s presence is known, existence felt, but is unseen,
only available when the absence is absolute.
Nonplussed, the bastion remains, a gravity well pulsing
In and out the night, as if the darkness centered around
Maintaining the illusion of safety from knowing ourselves.
Do not be afraid, you will not be forsaken or alone with anything
Other than the beating of your quickened pulse, the edges
Of your vision shrinking until all that you are
Is mirrored in that crimson sentinel.
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 9:28 PM UTC
Love was never as alluring
Until its gaze drew an emerald shade
And like arrows shots ensuring
From my memory they wouldn´t fade.
And from such a strike
There is no hope to defend
No bastion wall as sturdy
Or polished shield can hope deflect.
Yet your stare so piercing
Went through my flesh with ease
My heart laid bare and empty
And now with hope its filled.
A quest I will make to find
Your green emerald eyes
My life maybe forfeit, yet I must try
For before your sight, I never felt so alive.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 12:43 AM UTC