"blinks" poems
Ilion gray
poet extraordinary
is away
learning the codes hidden in raindrops
no reason for surprise;
for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays,
neither high enough, narrow blinding,
to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities
to do the right thing
he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our
poem-dreams;
avant-garde he says,
but I laugh,
never felt more misunderstood
and reply take care, be
en garde!
no matter for he is learning a new language,
the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat
once called Indian Territory and eager
await his return so we may
walk along the Brooklyn shoreline,
beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge
where Washington’s men escaped a British trap
and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of
NY
showers that come up so sudden, so roughened, but right now,
the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature
We will walk lost in the absorption of our
different commonalities, holding the hands of
his young son, and my Wendy,
both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes
that give us poems
He calls me me friend,
I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best,
well recalling a late night message that bred
a five year conversation ongoing
not everything need be coded
what you read here
it is not coded,
for the raindrops come clear and clean
and the poems land on our tongues
bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue
7/18/18
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
I. Neptune’s Theater
A rock spins through the universal tumbler
and its warm blue pools calcify
as turquoise Neptune in his cloudy blue bath bath
builds a lace castle with his fingertips
Sculpts a submerged eden of crimson and emerald
where painted parrots chat up cardinals
butterfly and angel fry sway with wave pulse
and foliated coral fingers beckon from arched windows.
Neptune’s children are flat and bright, spined and notched
free yet entangled in lace mesh ecosystem
beneath an array of bioluminescent stars
as a gangly pretender watches and blows bubbles.
II. Sapien Siege
The hot acidic hand of death grasps
the mesh rends and tangles
the ecosystem shattered
reef’s loosed children scream beneath planet’s stars.
Butterflies impaled
cyanide-swooning damsels
mesh-tangled angels hauled heavenward
coral to potash, corpses to coal.
The pretender to the throne blinks
rubs blurry lenses,
kicks plastic fins
and moves on to the next show
Unseeing and unaware
of the luminous filament in his wake.
Self-appointed divinity,
deus ex machina.
*******************************************************************************************
Ann says: All of the animal and human characters in this poem (except Neptune and The Pretender) are named after coral reef fish. Coral reefs, one of the most diverse ecosystems, are expected to be largely extinct within one human generation. Deus ex machina is Latin for “God from the machine.”
Copyright 2013 by Ann Marcaida.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing
It must have the same effects as walking on the moon
It must trend faster than a meteor as it hurdles through cyber space
I refused to love any man, who dislikes my poetry,
My man must support my passion ..
not only the warmth of my body
but the passion within this poetess, my secretive mind he must be able to balance:
Without wondering why a woman like me is so naturally secretive
I am always embracing the dark side of my creativity
Dropping little hints here and there throughout the years,
Sidney J. Harris once said something that left pondering thoughts
He said “When he hears somebody sighs,
'Life is hard,' he’s always tempted to ask them, 'Compared to what?'
I would simply say dog-gone it: Compared to struggling poets whose tries to make a living as a writer
While an upcoming rapper like Chief Keef
signed a several-million dollar deal
with offending lyrics in today music industries:
I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing,
With lots of intense emotion bursting through each line:
Because a poem can’t exist without a poet's multiple voices
and most of all his divine missions
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
For half a revolution she spends her days
in caliginous caverns
where worms like silver thread
weave through moistened walls.
Water, endless dripping,
howling, whining, stalagmite fangs.
It began with a stranger,
shrouded with shadows.
Petrichor breath,
and beetle black eyes,
twisted root fingers,
and scattered seeds.
It was lonely at first,
death and loss and
weary wayfarers with tired souls.
An estranged husband,
a trio of rumbling growls,
and the lonesome echo of her own footsteps.
Waiting for a someday,
that will never come,
her titles, a mantra,
repeat in her head;
daughter, lover, mother and wife,
stealer of souls and giver of life.
So when the daffodils bud,
and the world awakens,
when she blinks through sunshine
and steps into the light,
she holds her head high.
She is Queen of the Underworld,
bolder than before,
she will evade their pity,
and transcend them all.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 5:54 AM UTC
HALF A POUND OF INSOMNIA WITH A LARGE DOLLOP OF TIREDNESS ON TOP
Sleep lies languidly
upon the chaise longue.
I sit uncomfortably in
an old wicker chair.
We stare at each other.
Say - nothing.
Neither of us
blinks.
I have counted exactly
two thousand and 2....3. . .
sheep.
They fill up the room
with a loud baaing.
There is no grass in the room.
But I am more awake
than ever.
Sleep and I
do not see eye to eye.
Sleep annoyed by now
goes to the window
where even the moon is
dreaming.
A hill
long gone.
Trees snore
their breath rustling their leaves.
"Why do I always
have this trouble with you?"
Sleep snaps
without looking at me.
I try to change
the subject.
"I didn't know you
could manifest like this?"
I venture for the sake
of the argument.
"Oh no...now you've gone
and trapped me in a poem!"
In the early hours
of the coming day
even Sleep
falls asleep.
I yawn
exaggeratedly .
Hum KLF's
"It's three am eternal!"
Each of the now 2000 and 4...5
join in
with a tuneless
baaing.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 5:06 AM UTC
I awaken once more.
The loneliness of my mountain hovel a constant.
The walls embrace me in their warm silence.
The wind blows around me.
My container a bubble of stillness
Perched upon stone and earth.
With too many stories for one lifetime.
If you blink the bubble pops,
Shattering the illusion of safety and solitude.
In a second blink the perch is gone,
There is now an ocean.
Six blinks ago there was nothing.
For now i'm in between a blink and a dream,
Struggling to make sense of things
in a world where nobody closes their eyes.
Where creatures assign meaning to the meaningless.
I close my eyes.
The mind as real a world as any.
Where thoughts bring me warmth and
I listen...
Above the dull hum of electricity...
Above the whir of fans
Above the sounds of distant people whose purpose escapes me
Above the screaming of the cold wind...
Above the sirens of troubled folk...
Silence.
An inner silence.
I lie motionless
Observing.
I stare into infinity.
I open my eyes and stare into another.
My heart marks time to a third.
With this i'm reminded of my luck.
What a perspective I'm allowed!
From here alone I bare witness to three infinities.
Among these I die endlessly,
and am born again.
I smile at the thought of myself smiling,
Living lifetimes between breaths.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
Bumper to bumper.
Stormy rain.
Strong gusts of wind.
Bridge closed again.
Anti clock wise delays.
Bored of radio.
Stuck in the traffic.
Light blinks...
Fuel low....
Oh no!
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 1:11 PM UTC
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plactic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyebal,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.
7k
There's something about a sunrise that intrigues me more than a sunset
Its calming and quiet and signals the rise of all mankind
Hues of blues, blinks of pinks, and passions of purples,
all blended with the cotton clouds that sit long and still
There's something about a sunrise that impresses me more than a sunset
Its sweet and loving, and kisses the birds every morning
Its lets the leaves of the trees and the waves of the sea know the day is ok
It makes me blush and smile because I know my day will start in a while
There's something about a sunrise that upsets me more than a sunset
When the pinks go away, and the purples start to fade
And the blue takes over the sky I cant help but feel despair
because my sunrise is not there
So I go to bed at night with a ping of fright
But I know when I open my eyes I'll see my sunrise,
and my heart will be at peace again
There's something about a sunrise that puts a tear in my eye
But it signals to me that my day is alright
and gives me my morning kiss good-bye
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
A day consists of 24 hours
1,440 minutes
86,400 seconds
That average person takes about 20,000 breaths a day
Every second of every day is based around my recovery
Mind games
Distractions
How many times I can look in the mirror and tell myself no
At least 4
Maybe 5
3 on a good day
A person blinks almost 28,800 times in 24 hours
But sometimes I just stare
So I can focus on something other than my recovery
My addiction
My need for something other than what I can't have
I can hear my thought process
Sometimes it's quiet
Like when I'm asleep
Other times it's the only thing I hear
So I call her because she knows how to turn down the volume
She is my recovery
Because even for a split second everything is perfect when I see her
The amount of breaths I take double
The number of times I blink goes down rapidly
My need for recovery increases exponentially
She is the calm that flows over my body
The rush of oxygen to my brain
When she talks to me my number of bad days plummet
Because she loves me and I love her
So by hurting me I hurt her
My recovery is an ongoing process
That consists of 24 hours
1,440 minutes
86,400 seconds
Of me trying not to hurt myself
1 day turns into 1 victory
And when I tell her that over the phone I can sense that she is smiling
So 1 day really turns into 2 victories
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 11:06 PM UTC
On starlight road.
Blue neon star sign blinks.
On my way out of this world.
Off a cliff and slingshot past the moon.
On the other side of the twilight.
I meet with you.
We walk the bridge of shadows.
Over the river of light.
Tomorrow songs.
Played on yesterday's light strings.
Lyrics of time.
And melodies of dreams.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC
The light shines so bright
She can feel it with closed eyes
Scared of sudden splendour
Unsure if she can handle
So she blinks just once but thinks twice
Keeps her eyes closed and instead
Waits for the brightness to fade
Into something she’s used to
She knows she can handle
Comfortably numb she waits
For her eyes to adjust to
What they only had a glimpse of
What she thinks she can’t face
With the naked eye
If she would just catch sight and see
That there won’t be a different light
That those eyes will only really see
When wide open to soak up
The radiance surrounding her
Blurring the fear of ever really looking
As far as the eye can see
Dec 19, 2011
Dec 19, 2011 at 8:08 AM UTC
A picture won't do justice,
For beauty is in motion.
Those thousand words are useless.
They don't denote devotion.
My rhymes and schemes may capture
A sliver of a moment,
While blinks of yours enrapture
And hold me without comment.
For words and verse are nothing
Compared to feelings fleet,
And just blinking's what I need
From you to be complete.
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 2:05 AM 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
Hungry filthy eyes
From every corner
It spies
Lustful desire ignition
Hardly any blinks
Sparks temptation
The growth of hunger
On youthful body
Deludes my anger
It hunts upon everyone
Especially the feminines
Carrying a gun
Streets pollute such eyes
Some cross, some straight
Most full with lies
Each day my eye meets
Such perverts
With viciously lustrous greets...
©sim
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
The eyes just stare, those two black *****
from the fabricated sockets of a lifeless doll.
As if it sleeps entranced in place,
with an eerie glance from its porcelain face.
Shivers creep beneath the skin,
at this creepy toy's disturbing grin.
Hearts are stopped at the sudden shock,
when it blinks its eyes and starts to talk.
Jul 24, 2021
Jul 24, 2021 at 4:10 AM UTC
As your reflection stares back at you, through the misty window pane,
Against the glass the silver rain comes tapping, only weak,
It masks your woe and sorrow -- perhaps it's just the rain?
And not the ballerina tears, that flow and dance upon your cheek.
You feel you live a loveless life, alone, with no one by your side,
A lonely loner, ever scared, no hand to hold or arm to grip,
With nothing to be late for, no ear in which you can confide,
You stand upon an icy peak, but no longer take care not to slip.
Suddenly the image stirs, it blinks and shows it's gentle eyes,
Life has many sides, it says, try looking from a different place,
Sad feelings can't be fought alone -- find happiness and sadness dies,
Stare into my eyes -- look your flaws and demons in the face.
You feel you're not quite normal, you've been different from the start,
Self-conscious of your looks, perhaps you dislike who you are,
But to focus on the negatives is an insult to your heart,
The depth of which is limitless, a loving, glowing, beating star.
You do yourself injustice; desire love, but can't love yourself?
Remember that your differences, are not a flaw or fault,
You're custom made, a work of art, not picked out from the shelf,
Embrace the fact that you're unique, a trait that can't be taught.
Suddenly the image shakes, another face replaces yours,
This person likes you as you are - who'll love you and embrace your fate,
Hold your hand through pain and storms, and follow you to distant shores,
I'll meet you in the future - forever yours, your one soul mate.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
The television blares, it blinks, it shakes
A cup falls out of the cabinet, it flies, it jumps
They shatter.
Someone's banging on the door, they scream, they holler
She's laughing in your ear, a witch-like cackle
Ha-ha-ha That's all she's says, that's all she does
You keep your head facing forward, don't dare to look around
It's all madness, the footsteps on the ground
Who's creeping down the stairs, you didn't have guests
Who opened the window, who made such a mess?
The laughing
The constant laughing like chimes, it intensifies
Cold sweat, warm tears,
Your body is paralyzed in face of your greatest fears
Do it! Punch a wall, kick a desk!
But sweetie, there is no time for rest.
We must go, we must hurry!
They're almost here!
Who? You feel dizzy. Not another surprise please, I beg you, not another.
The room starts spinning, the ceiling circles you like a volchar.
The small man, with the elf-like features, he's tugging your arm
He's pulling you, as she laughs with such insanity your stomach churns.
Who are these people, what is this hell
A piercing scream is released into the air,
You believe it was your own, but with all the creatures yelling in your ear, you can't be certain.
The noises crank up, the objects fly off the walls
The TV changes from loud channel to channel, from voices to white noise
This is the worst, this is the peak
But suddenly it all stops with a screech.
The tv is in its place, normal channel, normal news
All the items are in their spot, all organized, all unused
There is no laughing. There is no man. There are no footsteps. There is no pulling hand.
But it was all there. You know it was.
Silence. Eery silence.
Now you're left in the confusion of your own mind.
But perhaps you've been there the whole time.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
You smell the smoke—
so what do you assume?
That I’m dying?
That I’m weak?
Do you think you know fire
just because you’ve run from it?
I don’t flicker.
I don’t beg.
I seethe.
What did you think light was?
A comfort?
A cure?
I don’t chase the dark.
I hold still
while it blinks first.
This isn’t hope.
What would I hope for?
Permission?
You don’t like what I illuminate—
so whose lie are you defending?
I never asked to burn.
But now that I do—
Who’s going to stop me?
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 2:25 AM UTC
every morning i walk my terrier
through a winding half-mile,
but i think he’s the one walking me:
he’s always in a sprightly haste.
i don’t know how many tail wags
i miss in between slow, drowsy blinks.
elsewhere, the earth is walking her moon,
both zipping around their own usual orbit.
in the city, the suited adults manoeuvre sidewalks,
dispensing brief greetings, sparse on chatter.
punctuality is a battle through suitcase-wielding phalanxes.
overlooking the bustling crossroads, a greyed man sits,
****** from cigar compounding existing inertia.
limbs in inactivity, mind far from monotony,
slowly drifting towards a familiar wraith
in a different hurry: the one for reunion.
i think about us and wish the same.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
train to Chicago...
See it from a train.
Should have called it
the Rust Apocalypse.
Endless piles of industrial
woolly mammoth skeletons
turned red by the rust
that never sleeps or blinks.
Miles and miles of factory,
mills, and foundry corpses.
The workers long scattered
to $10 per hour ***** jobs.
Businesses gone with the workers.
Globalization at its finest.
The end of the people's value.
Amerika crumbles of dry rot.
Enjoy your stuff, good citizen.
This will all come to you.
There is no immunity
to endless, mindless greed.
~mce
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
I am an artist
i paint brilliant pictures for you to see.
i sketch out curves and shade
the world as i see it.
i do this to please and entertain.
you. me. anyone who is willing to
take a step into my mind
I am a life drawing artist.
Through techniques of rendering and
cross hatching, i authenticate the
skin of beauty mind and soul.
my **** canvas in front of me sits perfectly
still, yet is always moving.
it blinks and slowly breathes with each passing minute.
I am a 3D sculpter.
No 2D for me.
i want what is there for me to touch.
i want to grab it. turn it. inspect
every angle and then proceed with
my decision.
I am an abstract artist.
i see things differently.
I dont want to follow the norm.
no conformity for the strong and independent.
i will choose my color, my stroke, my paper, my pen.
i will choose my own pathway.
I am an artist.
i do not use a brush.
i dont like pastel, or paint, or charcoal.
my medium is my voice.
i use my words to describe the bitter sting
of love, life, and wonder.
I can paint any picture in your mind.
I can shade any thought into your head.
I can sketch any emotion so vividly into your heart,
that it will melt into the sweetest pool
of crimson.
I am an artist,
through my words, description, and mind.
i need no colors or paint
only my pen and paper.
i need no history of Van Gogh
only my imagination and creativity.
I need only what makes sense to me.
Through my writing,
I am an artist.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC