"bewilderment" poems
Living is a cross
That any one of the rock-faces
Comprehends.
We are drawn
To many seas.
We drown wholesomely
In the failures of confrontation.
The rain
Drenching
Our doorsteps
Has nothing to do
With the simplest desires
And lacerations
We bring
To the smallest acts
Of living.
The child
On the broken catwalk
Hearing the sounds of our hunger
Without understanding
Throws echoes back
To the earliest abandonments
Of love.
Minor devastations preceding
Horror
Resonate the ineffable.
The mothers that wake
At the slightest sound
And the fathers that
Smoke all night
And the rest of us who are
Vigilantes from the demons
Of oppressed sleep
Find at dawn the clearest
Images of bewilderment.
Even the best things
Collapse beneath the weight
Of ignorance.
Living is a fire
That any one of the wave-lashes
Comprehends.
_________
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
16.3k
Missing blissful memories,
Cherished thoughts.
Memories in webs,
Tangled knots.
Binding grievances
Pave the way.
Unfettered thoughts
Have their own say.
Moments felt,
Moments understood.
Times are past,
Graveness its hood.
Calm seas rejoice
In silence.
Storms are but
Reasons to penance.
Regret hopes to
Unbind the will.
Will’s infant cry
To escape.
Bewilderment stares
With mouth agape.
Confusions unfold
In graves.
Souls depart
To hellish caves.
Brevity speaks
A thousand words.
Wilderness stands
On a million swords.
Confused and petrified.
Thoughts again
To guide.
A vicious circle
So unholy.
One committed
To every folly.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
Having hope, I await your call
looking to my phone.
Hoping you'd change your mind
and without me you feel all alone.
It's foolish to have hope, I know.
It will never happen.
I told you to give me time.
My heart you had flattened.
We've been through four weeks of pain.
And now we've finally ended things.
I'm still shocked, it came out of nowhere,
and to think I was going to give you a ring.
I miss you every night, Annie.
And that's the honest truth.
How long will this pain go on?
Who knows. Just know I'm feeling blue.
You've hurt me terribly,
more than any woman before.
I hope you made the right choice,
But I can't wait for you anymore.
Some days are better than others.
At a slow pace I will find my way.
Someone who deserves me will come
Someone, somewhere, someday.
We were entwined in bewilderment
to put it at the very least.
But I talk to myself every day
to convince myself that we have ceased.
The other half of me is my voice of reason.
Encouragement, love, and hind sight.
He talks to me constantly,
to remind me to hold with might.
That's what I push to now:
My voice of moving on.
To forget and forgive
make you and I forgone.
I'll leave you with this sentiment, my dear:
We parted ways and it *****
Someday we might change but until then,
Goodnight, Goodbye, and Goodluck.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
Vermillion lips smile knowingly
across the room, so at ease it's
almost angelic to see.
He grips his wine glass to almost breaking point,
what the **** is she doing here?
More to the point ,How is she here?
Relationships are like cats, let them out,
and well they'd better be neutered.
That's what gramma said!
Slowly, sensually almost, she sashayed
over to him, she could see his tension,
but not his fear.........yet.
Face to face they smile, but her smile never
reaches her eyes, he stammers, drops his glass,
'Here, she says you need air'
Outside, he's composed
'No one knows, no one knows' he keeps repeating
Who are you talking to darling? She whispers
Not me,I'm dead, you shot me,
I was there, then kicks him hard
Vulnerable alone with his red mouthed wife he screams.
Guests rush out, to their host babbling,
Incoherent, confessing to ******
screaming over and over, blue lights in the distance
Closer and closer, guests now witnesses.
Host now completely within the pain of a mental
Eternal mind slip.
She, moves closer to him, soothes him, sirens closer,
reassures him as he screams,that yes his wife is dead
appeased he looks up in bewilderment.
Oh, me, oh darling brother in law did you forget?
Jo's twin, the one au-pairing abroad when you married
Pleased to meet you
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
*eking out the ultimate gasp in my last breath of impulsion
i collapse without a touch of grace at race's end
how i made it i will never know
dazed and in bewilderment
i reminisce upon my journey
an aggregation of barricades assailed me
with iniquitous decadent delight
seeming to writhe in triumph at my possible demise
capitulating as it devoured and spewed me out the other side
i humbly reassembled fragments of my near annihilation
temporarily rehabilitated
i recommenced the toilsome climb
to the treasured peak atop the mount
when in would come the tempest with its furor
and render me asunder
mere exhaustion is not the word
for death experienced recurrently
ground to mulch and back again
screaming, pleading, surrendering
proved futile as i newly met the same demise
near incapacitation i miraculously emerged
and scraping pulled myself with broken heart and bones
scratching my way through the darkness
toppling at the pinnacle
to victory's end
with exhilaration it dawns on me
the long dark night is over
i passed the test to realize
it is not the finish line
but only the beginning
©2016janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
A poesy to those who earn a life of little recognition.
Beneath the fabric of the world’s tainted expectations, lies what many fail to explore, few discover and the luckiest cherish.
Blessings that cannot be traded, bought, nor sold.
A benison unable to become impoverished.
Gifts that grow and sprout delicious fruit.
A colossal heart of gold.
The hue’s of their soul glows intoxicatingly bright,
and guide those in the dark.
A benevolence whose warmth is palpable to the lives of those surrounding them,
with out a demand,
and only a thirst to love.
With unfamiliar brilliance, these people fall anonymous.
Many of the carriers unaware of what beats within.
Blind to the beautiful wake of life trailing behind their actions.
They smile as if nothing has been done, where everything has.
Their inspirational hearts, when noticed shine so much beauty, you’re left in bewilderment.
As skepticism fades, cynicism falls, hate dulls, and questions are left with answers.
As fear is replaced by freedom.
You watch the kindness ask for nothing,
as only a desire to follow remains.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 11:24 PM UTC
i am
a confusing person.
i may
love things
that i hate;
i may
hate things
that i love.
sometimes
i adore the sun setting
and i close my eyes
as the sun drapes itself
with dust and memories.
then
i despise the way
the sun rises
with false anticipation
for children chasing them,
desiring to touch
even a glint of gold
and sunlight.
but i try not to love
the way your crooked smile
makes everything look
endearing.
because
i am afraid
that i will soon learn
to hate it.
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 5:49 AM UTC
Colored streaks on the pavement
Grinding stone against stone
We return our source of enjoyment to the Earth
Sidewalk chalk tastes like childhood.
Body tracings, blue skies, big fish-- our cement canvas is filled
Filled with youthful thoughts and unlikely realities
A world of our own creation;
One we can stomp on
Cross out
Wash away
The presence of an unknown friend
Everyone is a friend, we are young and naive
“Draw with us, Draw with us”
Our wonder reaped the same;
The new face shows only bewilderment
“Draw with us”
Chubby childish hands exchange colored chalk
Despite our encouragement, this outlander won’t join in
It’s now a game for us
“Draw with us, Draw with us”
Foreign motions, fast moving fingers, a frustrated face
“Draw with us”
His hesitant movements are masked
By an apologetic smile
He brings new things to our Crayola-created universe
A trumpet, its player, a lion in mid-roar,
All things ordinary
Nothing we’ve drawn before
Like the colors we immerse ourselves in
Our company doesn’t last
Our accomplice offers a wave
Leaving his silent marks in our little world.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
when i was a little girl -
i believed my daddy was the smartest man in the world.
he knew everything. everything.
if i had a question, daddy had an answer, and a good one.
always.
his degree was in biology,
but he preached from a pulpit every sunday.
his friends, colleagues, congregation, all knew him as Pastor Brett.
to me he was just daddy -
and he was the smartest man in the world.
on days when i couldn't understand my own head,
(which were, and still are, very often)
and got frustrated with myself to the point of tears,
he would kiss my cheeks and promise me i wasn't stupid.
and coming from him, the smartest man i knew, that meant the world.
as years passed and i grew, my naivety remained with me,
and so i thought i was too smart to fall into life's traps.
i fell. i fell fast. i fell hard. i fell often. and i shattered.
each time, the smartest man in the world picked up my pieces
and reassured me i was still welcome in his home.
he never loved me any less, much to my bewilderment.
however, as my faults increased in frequency and severity,
he picked up my pieces now with weathered hands and weary eyes.
his smile was weaker, and a deep pain stirred in the chocolate irises behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
my deception morphed into vines that constricted and twisted and choked out the truth.
he poured out his love onto an underserving me, and said that God would still forgive.
but i, daughter of the smartest man in the world, am a fool.
and by my own two hands, i continued to sink.
he leaves me to pick up my own pieces now, not loving me any less,
but too weak, too exasperated, too heartbroken to do it himself as he always had.
he is done. he loves me and i know it. he shows it. but he is done.
my tears bore him. my half-true stories and pitiful excuses move in one ear and out the other.
he is stone-faced, no longer shocked by my confessions so i leave them unspoken.
his kisses, sear my flesh. his love burns because i know i don't deserve a single shred of it.
i wish he hated me. i wish we could fight. that would make things easier, right?
but he won't. he just won't. he loves me so much and i can't stand it.
but he is done. i broke my father, and his heart, for nothing.
he asked me why i do the things i do,
why i don't just stop it. why i keep on hurting him and my mother.
i didn't have an answer. all i had to offer the smartest man in the world,
was a dry mouth and empty hands.
m.f.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
countdown to the
nearest thirteen;
life on the red
satin ribbons seem
like fairy-tales in disguise;
dress you in laces and frills
like a string puppet;
the monster under my bed
will bring you down
with my consent;
here's a world
where skin is thicker
than leather when
you hold the blade;
'tis all the same for me;
rush of cold metal
on your skin
rush of cold metal,
blood on your lips;
live and let live
but **** or be killed;
here's a hypocritical
world of love;
psychedelic bewilderment
and what kills you
makes me stronger;
i'll fill my pockets
with your memories,
your darkest reflections
are but a confused
midnight kitten;
hold still, my sprightly love
while i paint you
onto my soul;
blood on canvas.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:15 AM UTC
What do you think of the ****** of the Prime Minister?
Yes, what do you think of the ******
of the Prime Minister?
And what do you feel?
Are you in shock
or depressed?
A question was asked.
And do you stutter
or are you unsure of what will happen,
or do you speak with such bewilderment
because of the future or the present—
A question was asked.
And perhaps you feel stupid
or without a point of view?
Answer.
And I reply:
All that you say is right
and you are a dear person.
And I want to add one more thing:
The Prime minister died a happy man.
Peace to the dust of the Prime Minister
Husband and father and something more:
the son of Red Rosa.
Translated from the original Hebrew by Karen Alkalay-Gut.
4.2k
I dream of a society
Where the ideals of beauty
Are less focused on superficial concepts like one's waistline
Or how decrepit their smile lines made them appear
But rather one where the focal point of unanimous adoration is,
As corny as this may sound,
One's morals and where they land on the gradient of human compassion
In this utopia,
The elderly aren't seen as catalysts for repugnance and a wrinkling of noses
But rather as symbols of eruditeness and beauty
The type of beauty that influence or money can't obtain
And it may be conceivable that instead of wasting my days squandering over my physical appearance,
I can just fritter away the days
Strumming my ukulele along to the tune of my American dream
For I have yet to actually awaken from my adolescent slumber
Breifly enough to grasp my dream from the bubble floating above my resting head
And nestle it securely in my pocket
So it doesn't forgo me
In search of someone less complacent with bewilderment about their future
Who dreams of social and economic prosperity
Instead of someone who's apathetic at best about whatever career choice they've chosen for the week
Maybe that's just it
That maybe I don't want the conventional American dream of fame or fortune or recognition
Is it feasible that maybe my American dream isn't to rise from sqaulor into a soulless mansion
Whose corridors boast success
But lack warmth and presence?
I suppose that my American dream encompasses more than just America itself
It lives in the eyes of every human being on the face of the earth
It's nestled in the gaze of a starving child
And the stare of anyone who's ever felt a tongue's razor edge
And all I'd have to do is delve into their eye sockets and plant a seed
A seed of hope and compassion
Or whatever I deem fit
Perhaps I just want to shield myself
From the world's disapproving glances,
Those fleeting moments of eye contact that convey condescending judgement
Maybe I'd just like to make a difference to things sans the media’s snide opinion
But despite my juxtaposition to society's critical assessments,
I know that I can't run away from my fears or problems
So maybe I dream of a society
Where I can remain headstrong even in the face of opposition
Because I'm aware that not everyone's going to love each other
And spout sweet nothings about peace and understanding from their hind quarters
So maybe I'd like to help be a driving force
That wards off the world's shadows
So the sun can continue to shine on my American dream
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
Gray whale
Now that we are sinding you to The End
That great god
Tell him
That we who follow you invented forgiveness
And forgive nothing
I write as though you could understand
And I could say it
One must always pretend something
Among the dying
When you have left the seas nodding on their stalks
Empty of you
Tell him that we were made
On another day
The bewilderment will diminish like an echo
Winding along your inner mountains
Unheard by us
And find its way out
Leaving behind it the future
Dead
And ours
When you will not see again
The whale calves trying the light
Consider what you will find in the black garden
And its court
The sea cows the Great Auks the gorillas
The irreplaceable hosts ranged countless
And fore-ordaining as stars
Our sacrifices
Join your work to theirs
Tell him
That it is we who are important
3.2k
There are so many sides to me...
A perplexing mixed identity...
A spliced yet whole menagerie...
Of characters...
To meet each one...is to be undone...
Touched...without flesh...
I am Vesuvius...just below the surface...
Molten malice merging...swirling...
The narrow Nile...
Meandering mildly...coaxing vexing perplexing...wildly...
A temptress...a child...a bitter diatribe...holding...no...unfolding...
This story...non-benign...
And this is where you come in...
Tumultuous tide...your raging winds...
A course-less calamity...to pursue...
That is not me...THAT...is you...
Unbridled...and unabashed...
Alas our toxic story line...how well embittered did entwine...our love...
Dangerous pursuit...then...you took root...
Off with the loot...
Of my misfortune...
I attempt to fold...
Forfeit my resentment...discontentment...
My own deliverance from you...
You disappear...no...transform
Retreat...from your chaotic norm...
Another type of magic trick...to capture my bewilderment....
Fully...
Fooly...
Folly...
Tears tremble on edge...carried swiftly from ledge...where they teeter...
Behind each one...is held an ocean...
A watery well...
Endless emotion...
Navigating features...dodging dignities plea...
WE...
Toss the currency of love into the depths...
Whisper wishes on the wind...
The downward dance...a wishes chance...
The murky bottom is but wishful thinking...
I should be rich off the wonder...
That put asunder...Our love...
I am Vesuvius...
Just below the surface...
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
I am convinced
that I'm a tourist on this planet,
in this body.
Things like knowing where my legs are,
or existing in the company of a spider,
shouldn't be such causes for
bewilderment and hysteria,
but they are.
And this is besides my awkwardness
with other human beings.
I attribute this to their being tourists too.
Why else would they take lots of pictures
and leave garbage everywhere?
It's like our bus broke down,
and we're surviving in ramshackle forts,
looking out with binoculars
and waving flags made of Hawaiian shirts.
It must be appalling,
and not a little shocking,
to the natives.
Quiet and peaceful, the plants and animals
watch us from a distance,
at once unnerved and giggling
just a little bit,
as they watch us stumble about
and run shrieking from the spiders.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
before existentialism, and nietzsche in mind, philosophy was written
or spoken of accepting the socratic rigidity of words,
the rigidity of words known through
the socratic method of inquiry:
the simplest of questions imposed on
the meaning of words; e.g. what is virtue?
but with existentialism this old method
of inquiry, the poised posing bewilderment
lost its quality, in that the new method of
inquiry was given to stress not a method
of questioning but that of ambiguity,
even though this new method that simply
said the reverse of what is virtue as
the preservation of a narrative: "virtue" concedes
many variations exampled true, e.g. -
this dittoing going against - previously said /
as above - became staged against
a brick wall - since this method, the existential
method of brushing aside inquiry and entering
the realm of ambiguity was already present -
the pluralism of meaning found in certain words;
it isn't a question whether red or blue can
be ambiguous, this allocation of noun
and quality is all too pervasive - so when
an ambiguity is allowed to exercise its stressor
posit - the word in question is allocated
a verb orientation in its exercise of use and example,
further diluted by the quantity and lack of example,
and ascribed contorting
adjectivity due to the dilution of meaning: with lessened
recognition of sought out qualification to sentence
an enzymic perfection of: banker and philanthropist,
priest and maximilian kolbe, poetry and lack of envy.
even though these examples are idealistic,
they provide the obvious ambiguity already apparent,
hence the double ambiguity of opposites, ideal opposites.
in shorthand - if socrates were to come
upon reading existentialism - his questions
regarding the virtues would be bound to free floating
terms in the ditto bubbles of flimsiness of non-inquiry -
bewildered by the number of prompts to question,
there would be no necessary ambiguity to many other
terms of inactivity - such as the previously mentioned
red and blue, dog and glue, but too many, it would seem,
should a strict belief in categorising virtue as a noun
but not a verb be kept - for categorisation of such nature
only provides a linear cascade without due action
or cared for imitation - ending with the only chance of virtue
chanced and seen as an unvirtuous person
doing crossword puzzles in silence - and already
virtue's opposite is engaged in defending itself
and justifying its ills by first forcing many synonyms to
cover it in ambiguity, and asserting itself as an adjective
within a noun framework blunt: virtue v. unvirtuous
will only confiscate siamese phonetic mingling to ease the definition;
i guess that's how rhyming was born, the opposite
of alphabetical ordering: a, aardvark the violet's blue
****** a doughnut with you.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches. You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.
The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation
A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.
my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found
In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.
eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend
his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.
upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.
A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.
Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
Deep, somber, reflective pools.
Stirring by an ocean of blueish gray.
Vast as the mountain and all of its roots,
Clear and deceptive as the piercing light on a cloudy day.
Not flustered by the coming storm,
But troubled instead when it is blown off its course and swept away.
Unshaken by the torrential downpour of warming rain.
For cool inside they will ever stay.
Such pools as these are ripples away from some escape.
Yet when all other pools would've walked away,
They stir themselves and still remain.
Fixed and introspective.
Much like the tides which arrive anew with each coming day.
These waters rise and though they reach,
The wonder and bewilderment is never washed away.
From within such pools.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
written June 25, 2013
"The Helpless
She is a broken vase that was knocked over and dusted aside for no one to see
Pieces shattered and left to slowly gather dust year after year
She is the piece of glass that he would step on occasionally, a reminder of his mistakes and how he just brushed her aside like it didnt happen
And that pain he felt in his foot he also feel deep in his heart as he reminisces that feeling of love he once felt
He used to hold that vase so dearly, and delicately never wanting to let it break
But - it did
And as soon as it broke he made her believe like she was worthless
That truth emerged when months later she was replaced by a mug much more antique which lasted about a year
And the day finally came when she was thrown away
And the vase was happy once again
Until...
She is a brand new wine glass,
Beautiful and young
In bewilderment on how this all came to be
The broken watches daily, as he loves this glass just the way he used to love her
And she sits there, helpless for there's nothing she's can do about it
She's just an old forgotten broken vase
Dusted aside to make room for something better
The Powerful
She was a great and beautiful vase
That held the flowers I meant to give to her
But we couldn't be together, and that tore me apart
As the flowers withered, my love only grew stronger
Upset, I threw the vase on the floor
And cried as I brushed away the evidence
A few months later, school was starting up and it was time to move on with my life
I still think about her time to time, as I step on that broken glass piece that I must have missed..it really reminds me of how much I loved her
Now addicted to caffeine, I bought a cheap antique mug
It's beautiful and presses so gently to my lips every morning and night
It's been a year, and the mug didn't seem to capture my attention the way it used to so I threw it away
I will miss it, but I'm not much for coffee after all
Today I brought home a brand new wine glass
It's tall and beautiful and is anything an alcoholic could ever ask for
It feels right in my hand and helps so dearly with the lonely nights
When I am thinking of the past
And glance over at the broken glass
From the vase I once loved
That is now dusted aside for no one to see"
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
*your coming in with the rising sun
in soft morning light and glistening dew
made me think life could be a huge smile
and that nothing about you could be a trifle
conversation with you was like lyrical poetry
full of measured tones and profound emotion
words are wholesome food when one is enamoured
you sip their oozing nectar at every sugary pause
your voice was like a heavenly harp magically played
by expert fingers dancing to an inspired melody
that only i and they could hear, and cherish like a dream
thus see me now with my face still ravaged by possibilities
but alas, you decided to take your leave with the dying day
and i knew my bewilderment would last the stretch of eternity
you walked away into the twilight and never once looked back
those who go away with the setting sun do not always rise with it*
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
In dazzled astonishment
She looked up from her reverie
As she heard the flap of wings overhead
And saw the flash of laser beams in her dim lit room
Before her, stood a winged seraph
A radiant silhouette with such gentleness and grace
As never beholden on any human face
With its hands raised in benediction,
It saluted Mary and said
“Blessed art thou amongst women…
……………………………………
The rest she heard in a trance.
Unable to comprehend what was said,
The girl looked up nonplussed.
Again it said, “The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee
And a son shall be born of thee
Whom you shall call Jesus”
In that nanosecond of a new revelation
Did Mary’s world shatter like glassware
Or did her ****** womb thrill with new life
Did she swim in the waters of joyful tidings?
Or gyrate in the sweeping swirl of tidal waves
For the girl already espoused to a man
In whose dreams his comely form had begun
Flitting in and out
Was it a moment of silent ravishment?
Or of stupefied bewilderment
Did a dagger cut through her heart?
Or did her soul take wing in flight???
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
Addict.
Fly free unwanted conqueror-
I detest you
And your haunting illusion.
Midnight visage-
Encapsulated in wanton peaks
Of redemption.
You who scorched my fields
And ignited my fears,
Laying waste in a furious
Dervish of extrapolated ecstasy.
It might have been over
But in what I was sure
Was my final moment
Your grip became slack,
my conscious lying sputtering
in the destitute mud
That comprises bewilderment ,
And you showed me mercy-
Such bravery in the face of havoc.
And now you gladly accept me,
Embrace me in cold arms,
Wantonly smiling at the distance-
almost, almost imperceptive
But my knowledge trumps mere sense,
With the certainty of a madman.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
break the poem
open like a pomegranate
spill the seeds
squeeze the juice
and
**** the flesh
when we were kids
we played in
mother's garden:
carrots, strawberries,
rhubarb, tomatoes,
plums, raspberries,
cucumbers, pumpkins,
green beans, watermelon,
onions, potatoes
and
a goldfish named Pierre
he died after
my parents
cleaned his tank
and didn't rinse
it properly
done in by soap--
life can be such a
fragile thing sometimes
we buried him
in the garden
and marked his
grave with a
smooth river stone
one summer
we picked a great
big watermelon
from its dirt nap;
heavy as a bowling
ball and green
as a cat's eye
we heaved it onto
the picnic table
and carved it into
smaller
and smaller wedges
until each one
of us was holding
our very own
chunk of melon
everyone dug in
after admiring their
piece for a moment;
eating it with
their eyes
before their
mouths
but as I went
to bite into mine
I noticed a seed
in the way
so I peeled
at it to free it
and as I fingered
the dripping flesh
of the fruit
the 'seed' revealed
itself to be
not a seed at all
but the eye
of a goldfish
staring back at me
lodged in the melon
in its death throws
gasping for
breath in the
open air
its mouth opening
and closing like
it had a secret
to tell
I stood there
in stupefaction
when suddenly
it slipped free of
its womb
and landed in the grass
behind me
but when I
turned around
to retrieve it
I couldn't find it
there was no goldfish
anywhere in that yard
I checked under
my feet
under the picnic table--
under other people's
feet--nothing
"what are you
looking for?" someone
asked
"nothing," I said,
because who
would've believed it
anyway?--I'm not
even sure if I did--
"just thought I dropped
something."
I stood back up
feeling different
about the world--
like the mystery
ran deeper than any
of us realize--
looked at
my hunk of fruit
and discovered
I wasn't hungry
anymore
so I put
it down on
the picnic table
and walked over
to Pierre's grave
there, underneath
that river stone,
was a watermelon seed
just beginning to
sprout
I smiled in
bewilderment
and gently covered
it with fresh soil
moving the stone
a few centimeters
off the sprouting seed
'Pierre, the watermelon
fish,' I thought--
wiping the dirt
from my hands--
'I wonder what
death has in store
for me?'
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 9:45 AM UTC
There was a caterpillar that had no friends
She feared she would be alone in the end
She had all, but given in
She stayed in a trees
And hid behind the leaves
Until she ate them, or there was a breeze
She had become so very fat
All the other insects made fun and spat
Out cruel words, she no longer wanted life and that was that
But before she could eat the poison leaf, along flew a hunny bee
"Hunny child you just dont see
That one day your gonna fly like me"
She looked at him in bewilderment
Surly his brain was a little bent
Wings for her would have to be heaven sent
But she decided to hold on a little longer
Just to prove he couldn't be wronger
That bee's words she would often ponder
The other insects still showed their hate
The more they said the more she ate
She knew they was right she'd never find a mate
So she made a cocoon, to hide herself within
So she no longer heard the words that could condemn
What awaited her would be hard to comprehend
The bee seen the cocoon, and sat and waited patiently
He wanted to be the very first to see
At what a beautiful creature she had came to be
When she emerged the sun hurt her eyes
Many a day had gone by
The sun seemed way to bright in the sky
But then she got a look at her wings, they where gray
"Why didn't God paint them, why are they this way"
At the bee in disgust she shouted, "You should of let me die that day"
"But my lovely one, you are now a creature of the night
And will fly by the enchanting moonlight
And see many many wonderful sights"
"Besides my hunny chid they're wings
You can now fly to the heavens and sing
Your point of view will now change on many things"
"God painted your wings gray
So in the bright of day
Against the tree bark you can lay
And safely sleep the day away"
"God only picks the strongest
To prowl in the moon lit darkness
He only picks the bravest
That at night can help with the loneliness"
The Moth bent her head in repentance
She couldn't even finish her sentence
For she realised in that instance
The bee was talking about her transcendence
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
You had to be me
talking **** about Aristotle
then finding him in the poem on the next page.
We had been talking about how rhetoric makes students of analysis
feel like they live in some intelligent matrix.
You had to be me
to know that was very topical at that time in my life.
To know what wild bewilderment meant
at it’s actual size.
Two eyes, about the size of spare change, must of been going crazy,
but I couldn’t know unless I was you.
You had to be me
to feel as if you were enclosed in open space
feeling simultaneously,
empty objects come to life.
Tugging at the connections in mind
I was bound to make because of where
those same mechanical hands
had already fostered me.
Making me think something like god
could be construction lights over my exit sign
creating a tunnel out of the kind of darkness
night tells tired protagonists
exists to make you stronger.
You had to be me
to know that strength is a metric of preparedness,
and preparedness is a metric of memory.
I forgave mine.
I only know an instant,
the past shrinks under the weight of my experience
like a shivering body
under a bed sheet.
My strength dreams quiet fists and
sweats from voracious hips.
Unlike the stories,
the night has made me a tender man.
Unlike the stories,
that’s ok.
I’m dying just as fast as any hero with much more romance.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC