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Michael W Noland Sep 2012
[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero
this is a work in progress
Robby Jul 2020
I laid the body wounded from war,
marking the pain of bleeding scar,
they drip no blood but crying word,
scream of whys is all can be heard.

This warrior fought without a gun,
the sword was laid on the ground.
Flew in the war without a shield,
embracing the fires of the field.

The warzone is silent and cold,
daylight is starting to fold,
omitted gore has no trace,
but agony and pain mantled the face.

Alone, the warrior stood with yielding feet,
the armored belligerent took their seat.
They watched this warrior drown with tears,
their laughter bit the bleeding ears.

The archenemies took off their casque,
these are faces of the warrior's past.
Hopelessly he fell on his knee,
looking at the grinning enemies.

Armored with the sharpest sword,
strengthen by their greatest lord.
They rumbled drums with deafening sound,
plotting the line of the warrior's bound.

The warrior faced the strongest foes,
murmur of vicious wind starts to blow.
No armor can block the slashing assaults,
as these are words comes like a lighting bolt.

Words stabs deeper than a pointed knife,
blotching doubt in warrior's life.
Painted the warzone with unwanted shade,
every glimpse of light starts to fade.

The warrior with no hope to win,
carried darkness with tattered skin.
You can't win against yourself,
they will reveal voices left in the shelf.

The warrior dwelled in the cold and dark cell,
fall of the tears in every hit of the bell.
Tired of the biting lullabies marching like a band.
The white flag was raised with trembling hand.
Brennan Terre Nov 2014
How can I not love you?
For when your head is high up in the clouds
Free, unchained, holds no bounds
Drifting on endless blue

Towards the crimson afternoon
In a palette of pastel hues and gray
'Cross the canvass of our last summer day
Spilled sunset and water blooms

How can I not love you?
When the autumn breeze wraps itself around
The coffee cup warmed with traces of your hand
Melts to a morning dew

Blotching the sheets of white
Unfinished letters scattered like the sands
In a desert of aimless thoughts, profound
With oasis in sight

How can I not love you?
When your eyes burn like an ocean of stars
That swallow the winter lights asunder
Drowning all in view

All but the crowning trees
That spread their elegant twists in glory
Of imitating your hair, now tell me
How can I not love you Denise?
My first submission is dedicated to my girlfriend :D
purple orchid Feb 2014
When the painting withers
From the pungent smell of life
A new pattern shall emerge
Covering all your imperfections
Your blackened heart
Shall shimmer with vibrant hues
You'll paint in the joy
Never blotching the canvas
Not a smear will profane
Not a splatter will alter
The stroke of beauty
That shall come to life
Do you know what it’s like to love someone so far away?
He writes in his letter.
It’s like an endless ocean separating you from me, and I can’t swim.
There is a craving deep inside; I cannot feed its hunger.
Only half of a life is contained in my soul.
So far away is the other half,
Far past the echoes
Down the stream past the point where sight has no use, he writes.
The man lays his head on the table and weeps, blotching some of the ink of the letter.
It’s so hard sometimes to recall you from my memory.
To see you sitting across from me having your coffee or,
Just to recall your scent, because these days everything reminds me of you
And it all blurs into that imperfect image of you that my mind has created.
My hands shake and my body trembles.
When will you return?
Love you always.
The man sits back in his chair and lets the pen fall from his hand.
He folds the letter and places it in an envelope and seals it with wax.
The man walks the road to the post
And returns home to wait until she returns.
© Nathaniel Justice 2010
Rowena Chandler Mar 2016
Feu
C'est de ma coeur
L'amour de la chaude
C'est le gros feu orange
La rouge de ma peau

A new life
Gorge us
On the heat of your bleu base
The vastness of the ciel is captured in your core
The blanc
A bleached blank blot of light
Blotching the irises of
Nos yeux
Mes jambes burn with the blaze
My coeur melts quand tu rire
Mais tu es seulment le feu
Feu
C'est plus que ca
It is the waves and forces in my chest
The spark in mes yeux
The high of a rolling wit being exhausted
C'est la langue avec ce que j'etais nee
Et puis ca, c'est la frustration que j'avais avec
Anglais et French
C'est ma mere
Elle est la feu dans ma coeur
Tres fort
But it burns
It will always burn
Oceans of salt will not wash away the singe

I am rouge with force
Forte avec heat
I will burn on
Like fire
Victoria Rose Mar 2011
The simple crack of heartbreak
The silent tear that screams
The hurried steps of shame
The things you’re not allowed to see
Eyes rimmed red from disappointment
Stomach hanging on by a shred of hope
Numbness of sleep seeming inviting
Battling feelings that want to show
Breathing is chaotic and heavy
Blotching face buried into a pillow
Running the many memories in my mind
Devastated because I can’t let go.
Mary K Aug 2016
Light shines against my closed eyelids
So I'm seeing red.
The darkness pretends it can't touch me here
In the light of day
While I lie awake
But there are places to hide
When the sun comes out
Down, down, down it goes
Burrows into my heart and runs through my veins
While I breathe in, out
In, out
Willing the daylight to take over once again
But all my angels have fallen out of the sky
And the music I once heard has gone silent.
Even the sun doesn't shine as often anymore
And the thunderstorms of my mind have spread to the rest of the world
Allowing the darkness more time to work
More time to brainwash me into thinking that its normal
That everything is absolutely fine
But there's one small bit of my mind the darkness hasn't figured out about yet,
Or maybe it has but it couldn't win the battle,
That has a light brighter than even the sun
And maybe that's my starting and ending point
Or perhaps its some divine spirit seeking refuge in my ravaged mind
But its the only thing keeping me from succumbing to the darkness
Its the only part that stays conscious while the rest is violated and mislead.
But lately that light has been dimming
And the ink stains blotching my fingers
Feel less like the blood I know they are.
boom
Jessika Dawar Nov 2015
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder?
For I was torn between the wondrous musing
And the unfaithful, the treacherous verity.
Dad said that it lies in the wit and the wisdom,
Mom believed it to be synonymous with serenity!

I roved in reverie, pottered with presumptions;
What is beauty? From where does it emanate?
But may be, there was no oasis to my quest.
The answer breezed in and out, gusted here and there;
To catch hold of it was a big, big test!

Was it the reflection in the mirror?
The unbearable, the ill-favoured, it couldn't be.
The face that lacked glow, the face sans any sheens,
It longed for glory, for eminence.
I sighed; for was beauty the boulevard to my dreams?

There are the gifts of botany lacking blossoms,
And scads of scars blotching the moon.
But never could they blotch my view:
Splendor couldn't stop itself descending upon my eyes!
Even in murk, even in dim, I could descry hue.

'Twas in my eyes, they could life the lifeless
Like a shore serenading a cove or
The Ocean constantly kissing the shoreline.
These epitomised allure, incarnated love.
For me, it was an emotion 'divine'!

I realised: Not in the skinny legs and the fair hands
It is found in the vivacity of spirits.
Neither in the mascara nor in the mole;
Beauty has never found it's way through these,
It resides in the heart, in the soul.
Katherine Jun 2015
Sometimes I try and remember what it felt like when you left those years ago,
I try to remember the words you said to me before we went our separate ways,
And I try to remember if I slept that night or not,
And I try to remember if my mother noticed the redness and blotching of my skin when I tried to hide what was going on,
I try and remember how long I spent in the shower with my knees tucked to my chest not even caring when the water got cold,
And I try and remember if I could even eat the week after you left that night,
I even try and remember the exact date you left because; I have the date we met etched into my bones,
And I try to remember if I even cried that night or if I was too choked up to even move because you had a way of making my chest concave,
But truth is,
I can only truly remember the pain- staking memories,
Because it seems to me that the little hurts fade faster than the ones that created the scars left on my body,
The scars from every bad fight we've ever had,
And I admit seeing couples kiss still makes me uncomfortable to this day because I can still envision them being us in the back of my mind,
And I try and blame you for ruining some of my favorite songs,
But truth is,
They probably wouldn't have been  my favorites if it weren't for you,
And I admit that even the rain reminds me of you because I can remember the way you smiled when I used to go out dancing in it,
I even remember you in the ways I try and forget you,
And remember you in the ways I still write poems about you,
And I painfully remember you when my friends ask whatever happened to you and I really don't have a straight answer,
Because those are the things that impact me the most,
Those are the things I still find myself tearing up over,
But I guess time heals the pain and fades the memories; slowly one by one,
And only the scent of you now lingers on my T-shirts,
And the chest-clenching pain you had inflicted has faded to these words,
And I guess it's no laughing matter but I do find it funny how time and memory work together to try and erase the things that damage the human body,
And I guess that proves how vital survival is to us,
Even when the clock reads 4:36 AM and we lie there wishing to die.
On the way to class today
I found a bag of clouds
Bouncing on the fresh-cut grass
Making soft sounds

Sounds that touch your ears like cotton
Sounds we have since long forgotten

As I picked it up
It began to shake
Damp as all and every death
From the rain the clouds make

I ventured then to look inside
“Like Pandora” thought my curious mind
And just as She, I did then find
The contents at once left the bag behind

And soared, now free
Through ****** air
Blotching the blue
With their long grey hair
And cried upon the earth
Missing the ocean, their place of birth

Soon an ocean did arise
Between the earth and the skies
And despite my human cries
The water rose above my eyes
And so I found something that floats
And stole their cage to fashion a boat




And as these children of the sea
Rained and rained eternally
All of their memories
Washed over me

Finally my makeshift boat
Reached my morning class
I wondered where the clouds would go next
But decided not to ask.
James M Vines Nov 2016
Golden flower that annoys my lawn. Puffy white seed pod that drives my cat insane. Flower of Irish lore and a recipe for stew. How I love and loathe you. While you are pretty to look at, you cause me great distress. You come on like an invading army, blotching my landscape with your golden pimples. I cut you down yet you flourish, just a little lower to the ground. Then at the appointed time, you morph into snowballs of allergic terror, giving my sinuses fits. So oh Dandelion, I will love you from afar while trying to find a way to get rid of you. Until the frost comes our relationship will be one of love and hate. May winter find you and **** you off, as the frost helps me bid you goodbye.
Jun Lit Apr 2021
The saints would want me to forgive. That I have
done. Uphill trek, great effort, conquered the summit.
But then the witch doctors have asked me also to forget,
just forget, like nothing happened. The gray amnesia
intensely urged by incessant chants of choral animé
of aging cherubims would make it difficult, quite
difficult, to explain myself, to myself, with all honesty,
how I got the scars that run deep to the core of my unholy,
(Why not just say sinful? But what is a sin, anyway?),
heart. Unreal these demands. Abnormal? Unnatural.
Unnatural such reactions. Like a Shylock, I would have
yelled, nay, sworn (did he swear?) - a Jew also feels
pain, and bleeds - red blood, not green, not yellow –
when pricked, wounded, ******, slashed, crucified.
But I am not a Jew. Neither a Christian. Nor a Muslim.
Not a saint. Just a human.

Just a human. Not an Avenger or any superhero.
Can’t fly. No imaginary avian wings like those
of Caucasian angels. Not bat wings like those
of soot- or ember-colored devils. Outside an airplane
only my thoughts soar across the blue skies
and above the numerous species and varieties
of clouds. No cloudy mind.

Just a human. Blindfolded Science, not blind nor blinded,
called the species I belong to, just one, **** sapiens.
Wise human. Subspecies **** sapiens sapiens.
Wise, wise human. Made up of matter. That matters.
A lot. Matter not essence. Matter of fact. A living thing.
Not a germ nor a microbe nor a god but surely omnipresent.
Not a plant but may be green-minded. Needs plants.
Not a fungus but may be fungus-faced. Occasionally
attacked by the whitening, not by the illusion of being white,
but by blotching, thanks but no thanks to Tinea versicolor
Not a protist. I just protest. And protest I must.

Just a human. Classified as a hominid. A mammal. Highest
Form? Who said so? Aristotle? Highest? No! Form? Yes -
an animal. Not a microbe. Not a plant. Not a fungus.
Not a protist. I just protest. And protest, protest, I must.
Not a virus. Not white, not black, an Asian, a Filipino.
Not your virus. But like all humans, afraid, very much,
of the new coronavirus. But I am
Not the virus.

Afraid of coronaviruses, and all other deadly viruses,
because I am. Just a human.
Ojaswee Das Jan 2022
belle's rose, wilting one petal at a time
the creation of adam, gods hand yet to touch yours
you're 0.8 seconds away
from descrying the back of their head disappear into the distance
one last time; one heartbeat away
the inception of an everlasting process; the decay.

languished simply, because of the life left within
shoulders slouched, so as to crease what's in between
you let out a sigh
struggling to pick broken shards off the austere snow;
blotching blood stains so diluted by what your eyes let go
you realize what's so undoubtedly you; an overflow.

an overflow of musing so raw, each drop a crystallized sapphire kernel
burgeoning beanstalk in the hearts of every passerby
all led to the glasshouses you once vowed to unfalteringly stand by the refracting light dilating naked memories; an open invitation to pry
you lack distrust that things could ever go awry; they do.

stubborn; you never learn;
you live in denial, waiting for their return
your presence incomplete; the twinkle in your eyes masking your defeat
your glasshouses broken and beat; slow deplete
repeat repeat repeat

you fight shy of taking up space
last row corner seat, you almost always leave without a trace
your voice too mild to return an echo, your soul leaking too gentle to show
you long for warmth, yet you leave behind nothing to embrace. you know.

a paradox on your own; you're a daunting dilemma
you can love into thin air, hushed or acapella
your burning eternal, yet you soothe all fire
hollowing for your world, but there's nothing you desire

your heart's been plucked from the souls you've warmed
only to be left astray in the cold
yet you pick the pieces less frozen and hand it over for them to hold

obscure; oblivious, and obedient
to everyone but your own
you're fighting battles; for everywhere but home

withering and drifting
brittle dust in the breeze

worn out to the extreme
bittersweet; free

potpourri

p o t p o u r r i
Evan Stephens Jul 15
I.
Optimal allocation for partially replicated database systems on tree-based networks (1992)

My father the mathematician
his carapace beard slow-stained

with moon brook as he worked
at his pine wing desk, an old door

perching on cheapo steel cabinets
with a squat beige computer

whose fan hummed hymns,
strumming the dark.

II.
A lower bound on the probability of conflict under nonuniform access in database systems (1995)

Long drive in smooth maroon
the university belted by fog

Mandelbrots of rain blotching
the windshield face.

Dad sat and glowed with glass
commingled with chalk scent

I became part of Andre's posse
in an atrium bleached with cold air.

III.
Minimizing message complexity of partially replicated data on hypercubes (1996)

When Dad moved out of the farmhouse
we realized he couldn't see well anymore

a thick glaze of dust sticking to everything
coffee mugs of bourbon seeding every room,

******* glaucoma; pride and denial
kept him thorny, but my sister got it done.

When the ***** finally claimed him,
he vanished into the air like pipe smoke.
I miss my dad. The section headings are papers he wrote. He was a number theorist who also loved computer science, and was always the star of his class until he settled into a life as an academician.
there is a strange list
to ther wet reanger of clouds
stroking our fields;
heavy pheasants were
high in ther wind, high over
currernt shrubs, unknown grain

Old trees moan like a boat,
wer call their branches witch arms
They toss worn gloves at us
as if we are ready to be

shoverlerd over with dirt
Pulling damp bedding
from clips, running
great straw baskets to ther house,

Silvere-berllierd grasses lift
their cat fur, could spit
blotching us wer hurrey
Veins of wind light, we see

their color of blood

for an hour we lean on north walls
wearing blankets, ther house underwater
we see ourselves circler through
streets, gripping shingles
caught in ther highest breanchers
rising from their water, fish claws,
But all this wind
hits ther barelery field and dies
Jermon May 2018
The world holds both black and white
Dark and light... and gray

Those who canter all and day
Spreading light and painting smiles
Wearing hearts of white, they may
Scented flowers felt over miles

Those who seep through the night
Silencing hearts, implanting the dark
Who show no honour, for weak or might
Blotching all fair with borne mark

Those who stay, still and stone
Neither heeding, or fighting own
Either that or either this
No fight or might admist their gist

These colors, black, white and gray
All wear different, red, green or cray
Can never make up whether the world needs
More of a touch of this, that or knat
12.08.2017
Considering the color of the heart.
Grey symbolizes people who don't take sides, who watch and don't take part.
there is a strange list
to there wet ranger of clouds
stroking our fields;
heavy pheasants were
high in there wind, high over
current shrubs, unknown grain

Old trees moan like a boat,
were all their branches witch arms
They toss worn gloves at us
as if we are ready to be

shoverlerd over with dirt
Pulling damp bedding
from clips, running
great straw baskets to ther house,

Silvere-berllierd grasses lift
their cat fur, could spit
blotching us were hurry
Veins of wind light, we see

their color of blood

for an hour we lean on north walls
wearing blankets, ther house underwater
we see ourselves circler through
streets, gripping shingles
caught in ther highest breanchers
rising from their water, fish claws,
But all this wind
hits ther barelery field and dies
© 2 minutes ago, chevyvent
there is a strange list
to there wet ranger of clouds
stroking our fields;
heavy pheasants were
high in ther wind, high over
currernt shrubs, unknown grain

Old trees moan like a boat,
wer call their branches witch arms
They toss worn gloves at us
as if we are ready to be

shoverlerd over with dirt
Pulling damp bedding
from clips, running
great straw baskets to ther house,

Silvere-berllierd grasses lift
their cat fur, could spit
blotching us wer hurrey
Veins of wind light, we see

their color of blood

for an hour we lean on north walls
wearing blankets, ther house underwater
we see ourselves circler through
streets, gripping shingles
caught in ther highest breanchers
rising from their water, fish claws,
But all this wind
hits ther barelery field and dies

— The End —