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"boulevards" poems
i am much younger than i am my hair is dark and thick instead of pruned bald i am lean and meek feeling hollow as if weightless we are at an airport with no memory of getting there i had left my hotel room urgently in a jacket that is not mine i can't find my Swedish wife whom i miss like a panicked child and my Asian wife whom i've never never met before and know all to well is angry and could care less if i got lost forever i am going home to my parents house i remember that they are dead but we had just spoken there will be soup and Hors d'oeuvre's they wait for me on my way the streets and boulevards are unfamiliar yet old hat and no matter how long i walk i can never find their house located somewhere in Brooklyn on Haze street in San Francisco i have a business and retain no idea of what i do i left my cloths somewhere and i don't know why in a locality i cant remember for a reason that doesn't exist a beautiful woman smiles offers me *** she is friends with a girlfriend whom i'm committed too but do not know and never met i want to cheat with her but guilty kisses will ruin everything so i turn away murdering desire in an already anchor-less miasma i remember a past my life a continuum of disjointed vagaries tears well up i fear myself a figment a bodiless revenant stranded in a fog sparkles and smoke incandescence and shrouds a dis-junctured soul that clutches memories like braids of dust living in the eye of nothing a labyrinth of shades lighted by the sun of cognizance a wretched phantom transparent husk living a dark fiction my grave a womb i am the dead living
0
Aug 26, 2017
Aug 26, 2017 at 10:27 AM UTC
zebrablack
*REVENEANT
i am much younger than i am my hair is dark and thick instead of pruned bald i am lean and meek feeling hollow as if weightless we are at an airport with no memory of getting there i had left my hotel room urgently in a jacket that is not mine i can't find my Swedish wife whom i miss like a panicked child and my Asian wife whom i've never never met before and know all to well is angry and could care less if i got lost forever i am going home to my parents house i remember that they are dead but we had just spoken there will be soup and Hors d'oeuvre's they wait for me on my way the streets and boulevards are unfamiliar yet old hat and no matter how long i walk i can never find their house located somewhere in Brooklyn on Haze street in San Francisco i have a business and retain no idea of what i do i left my cloths somewhere and i don't know why in a locality i cant remember for a reason that doesn't exist a beautiful woman smiles offers me *** she is friends with a girlfriend whom i'm committed too but do not know and never met i want to cheat with her but guilty kisses will ruin everything so i turn away murdering desire in an already anchor-less miasma i remember a past my life a continuum of disjointed vagaries tears well up i fear myself a figment a bodiless revenant stranded in a fog sparkles and smoke incandescence and shrouds a dis-junctured soul that clutches memories like braids of dust living in the eye of nothing a labyrinth of shades lighted by the sun of cognizance a wretched phantom transparent husk living a dark fiction my grave a womb i am the dead living
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62
Whoever has no house now will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone Will sit, read, write long letters through the evening And wander on the boulevards, up and down... - from Autumn Day, Rainer Maria Rilke Its stain is everywhere. The sharpening air of late afternoon is now the colour of tea. Once-glycerined green leaves burned by a summer sun are brittle and ochre. Night enters day like a thief. And children fear that the beautiful daylight has gone. Whoever has no house now will never have one. It is the best and the worst time. Around a fire, everyone laughing, brocaded curtains drawn, nowhere-anywhere-is more safe than here. The whole world is a cup one could hold in one's hand like a stone warmed by that same summer sun. But the dead or the near dead are now all knucklebone. Whoever is alone will stay alone. Nothing to do. Nothing to really do. Toast and tea are nothing. Kettle boils dry. Shut the night out or let it in, it is a cat on the wrong side of the door whichever side it is on. A black thing with its implacable face. To avoid it you will tell yourself you are something, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening. Even though there is bounty, a full harvest that sharp sweetness in the tea-stained air is reserved for those who have made a straw fine as a hair to **** it through- fine as a golden hair. Wearing a smile or a frown God's face is always there. It is up to you if you take your wintry restlessness into the town and wander on the boulevards, up and down.
0
7.8k
P.K. Page
Autumn
Whoever has no house now will never have one. Whoever is alone will stay alone Will sit, read, write long letters through the evening And wander on the boulevards, up and down... - from Autumn Day, Rainer Maria Rilke Its stain is everywhere. The sharpening air of late afternoon is now the colour of tea. Once-glycerined green leaves burned by a summer sun are brittle and ochre. Night enters day like a thief. And children fear that the beautiful daylight has gone. Whoever has no house now will never have one. It is the best and the worst time. Around a fire, everyone laughing, brocaded curtains drawn, nowhere-anywhere-is more safe than here. The whole world is a cup one could hold in one's hand like a stone warmed by that same summer sun. But the dead or the near dead are now all knucklebone. Whoever is alone will stay alone. Nothing to do. Nothing to really do. Toast and tea are nothing. Kettle boils dry. Shut the night out or let it in, it is a cat on the wrong side of the door whichever side it is on. A black thing with its implacable face. To avoid it you will tell yourself you are something, will sit, read, write long letters through the evening. Even though there is bounty, a full harvest that sharp sweetness in the tea-stained air is reserved for those who have made a straw fine as a hair to **** it through- fine as a golden hair. Wearing a smile or a frown God's face is always there. It is up to you if you take your wintry restlessness into the town and wander on the boulevards, up and down.
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45
Where the sunlight splashes through The barely moving branches of the Magnolia tree It makes a fascinating pattern on the patio. Amy Lowell wrote of patterns in a lovely, angry verse When she was writing about how she hated war. I bend to trace the patterns with my toe And focus on the possibilities of now With monster canons rolling down the boulevards And goose-step imitators marching by While in the stands a devilishly evil Buddha smiles. A zephyr gently stirs the leaves And all the patterns rearrange again I look at them with half closed eyes And I can’t find the symmetry That I saw just an hour ago. The Kraken still is held by chains And though he gushes fire and venom The patterns on the wall contain him As he thrashes to replace the sun With a new one of his own creation. Amy walked a peaceful garden path In dappled sunlight long ago Creating lines that live today. I trundle down a brick-lined walk And hope that I will have tomorrow. ljm
0
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
LoriJonesMcCaffery
PATTERNS
Where the sunlight splashes through The barely moving branches of the Magnolia tree It makes a fascinating pattern on the patio. Amy Lowell wrote of patterns in a lovely, angry verse When she was writing about how she hated war. I bend to trace the patterns with my toe And focus on the possibilities of now With monster canons rolling down the boulevards And goose-step imitators marching by While in the stands a devilishly evil Buddha smiles. A zephyr gently stirs the leaves And all the patterns rearrange again I look at them with half closed eyes And I can’t find the symmetry That I saw just an hour ago. The Kraken still is held by chains And though he gushes fire and venom The patterns on the wall contain him As he thrashes to replace the sun With a new one of his own creation. Amy walked a peaceful garden path In dappled sunlight long ago Creating lines that live today. I trundle down a brick-lined walk And hope that I will have tomorrow. ljm
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26
Pleasure, oh pleasure sitting in silence Among the lime trees The silence of delight A perfect pardon Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No hurry, no hurry To go anywhere While strangers offer smiles Such perfect smiles Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Magic a specialisation A practical specialisation Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees People of all kinds Come streaming by Pilot people Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees People passing with such power Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees All power is violence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Pleasure, oh pleasure Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No power is needed here Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Only truth and justice Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No grievous ache remains a mystery Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees That purple mass made clear Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees An aroma here Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees An exuding stupefying aroma Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees That startles the sparrows Identical sparrows Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Other silence is unequal Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A quivering tenor of silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Gilded silence that flashes Hazily across the vision Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Frenzied silence, irresistible silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence split into fragments Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Fragments that remain intact Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence that vanishes from sight Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A severed silence That remains infused Golden and deceptive Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Like split up bandits On the run Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Who race up two Different boulevards Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A day return silence Always nervous and irritable Sitting her in silence Among the lime trees A softening handsome Lilac colored silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Regal in its resonance Of romance Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A silence of scarlet kerchiefs Wears a tail coat Has black raven hair Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Trying to catch spiders Rats, little devils and dogs Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Day breaks Inexorably in silence Over the poet Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees The unstoppable Silence of silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Such silence once started Is unstoppable Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Such as the strange silence One finds in snow Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence in a deserted shout Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Oh such silent noise Such silent noise Silent noise, silent
0
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
edgar-whitman-wilde
Silence among the lime trees
Pleasure, oh pleasure sitting in silence Among the lime trees The silence of delight A perfect pardon Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No hurry, no hurry To go anywhere While strangers offer smiles Such perfect smiles Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Magic a specialisation A practical specialisation Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees People of all kinds Come streaming by Pilot people Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees People passing with such power Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees All power is violence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Pleasure, oh pleasure Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No power is needed here Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Only truth and justice Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees No grievous ache remains a mystery Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees That purple mass made clear Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees An aroma here Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees An exuding stupefying aroma Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees That startles the sparrows Identical sparrows Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Other silence is unequal Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A quivering tenor of silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Gilded silence that flashes Hazily across the vision Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Frenzied silence, irresistible silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence split into fragments Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Fragments that remain intact Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence that vanishes from sight Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A severed silence That remains infused Golden and deceptive Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Like split up bandits On the run Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Who race up two Different boulevards Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A day return silence Always nervous and irritable Sitting her in silence Among the lime trees A softening handsome Lilac colored silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Regal in its resonance Of romance Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees A silence of scarlet kerchiefs Wears a tail coat Has black raven hair Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Trying to catch spiders Rats, little devils and dogs Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Day breaks Inexorably in silence Over the poet Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees The unstoppable Silence of silence Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Such silence once started Is unstoppable Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Such as the strange silence One finds in snow Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Silence in a deserted shout Sitting here in silence Among the lime trees Oh such silent noise Such silent noise Silent noise, silent
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131
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle The rabbits beneath the deck, Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery, Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead, Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach, All inquire: Was it better wherever you went? Were the: Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin, Eagles, double headed, of Russia Herring, fried, creamed, wined, From the vendors on the docks of Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn, Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm, More impressive, Tastier than our striped bass, Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently For their chronicler to return? Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen Welcome you more warmly than your friends, The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls Who overwatch your steps and safety When hiking in Mashomack Preserve? Are the interlacing tidal creeks, Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged, Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island Any lesser than those of Scandinavia? Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland, More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe, Who carry you swiftly home to us? The National Geographic people say that in Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone Is one of the ten best in the world. Guessing they have not made it yet to the Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks! Were you unaware that our isle settled before Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg, Route 114 was a traveled forest path, By settlers and Indians, not serfs. Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage, The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace, Wrote not a single word, we observe. Your attentions, they did not deserve? The answers all, self evident. Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay, Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere, Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall, Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp. Silver Beach July 22, 2012
0
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle
Welcome Back To This, Your Isle The rabbits beneath the deck, Even the pesky deer who eat the shrubbery, Sea creatures, living and spirits of the dead, Lying on the paths and in the creeks of Silver Beach, All inquire: Was it better wherever you went? Were the: Bears, hiding in the forests outside Berlin, Eagles, double headed, of Russia Herring, fried, creamed, wined, From the vendors on the docks of Helsinki, Riga, Visby and Tallinn, Salmon, smoked and cured in Stockholm, More impressive, Tastier than our striped bass, Island cohorts of yours, who waited patiently For their chronicler to return? Did the Little Mermaid and her Dolphin Guardians of the Port of Copenhagen Welcome you more warmly than your friends, The ospreys, lizards, turtles and owls Who overwatch your steps and safety When hiking in Mashomack Preserve? Are the interlacing tidal creeks, Woodlands, fields, salt marshes and the ragged, Irregular but charmed coastline of this cherished island Any lesser than those of Scandinavia? Are the sea-going ferries that transverse the Baltic Sea and the Gulf of Finland, More poetic than the Menantic or the Lt. Joe, Who carry you swiftly home to us? The National Geographic people say that in Tivoli Gardens, The Amerikaner (ha!) waffle ice cream cone Is one of the ten best in the world. Guessing they have not made it yet to the Tuck Shop for some Moose Tracks! Were you unaware that our isle settled before Peter the Great ever envisioned creating the grand Boulevards of his capitol, St. Petersburg, Route 114 was a traveled forest path, By settlers and Indians, not serfs. Of the Treasures, the Gold Room of the Hermitage, The Amber Room of Catherine's Palace, Wrote not a single word, we observe. Your attentions, they did not deserve? The answers all, self evident. Here, surrounded by the gentle breezes of Long Island Sound and Gardiners Bay, Sweet and salty flavors of the Peconic atmosphere, Words unlocked, from your eyes to the page fall, Smudged by joyous tears, for the muses of the island Have embraced you yet again and rebirthed Inspiration, within their comforting, sheltering grasp. Silver Beach July 22, 2012
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56
Everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the gutters, right outside my door. Flourishing in the streets of Tegucigalpa, like leftover confetti from Mardi Gras. Lining the paths, nestled in the gravel, the broken concrete, and overgrown weeds. Coloring the landscape with orange and green. Proliferating around garbage cans, discarded bottles, tires, and take out boxes, liberated to the acrid landscape around.    Men, cutting back the peels, devouring the tropical flesh, delectable, united to pits. Dark skin and eyes, their accents singing, so different from my own. I stepped carefully, but always underneath, a sweet stickness, clinging to my soles. A bond to the red dirt, platanos fritos, and cattle roaming the street. When I returned to the wide boulevards, pristine and meticulously clean, I stopped watching my feet, looking for mango peels underneath.
0
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
Roses79
Mango peels
Everywhere, on the sidewalks, in the gutters, right outside my door. Flourishing in the streets of Tegucigalpa, like leftover confetti from Mardi Gras. Lining the paths, nestled in the gravel, the broken concrete, and overgrown weeds. Coloring the landscape with orange and green. Proliferating around garbage cans, discarded bottles, tires, and take out boxes, liberated to the acrid landscape around.    Men, cutting back the peels, devouring the tropical flesh, delectable, united to pits. Dark skin and eyes, their accents singing, so different from my own. I stepped carefully, but always underneath, a sweet stickness, clinging to my soles. A bond to the red dirt, platanos fritos, and cattle roaming the street. When I returned to the wide boulevards, pristine and meticulously clean, I stopped watching my feet, looking for mango peels underneath.
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5
Save My Soul, (But First), Rub My Feet thus a poem auditorialy conceived, but! the sexuality of the deceiving dualities, irritates erogenous, exogenous perceptiveties, plethora of intensifying variables, a not-serious, harmless remark yet bring us to myriad of marauding reversals, add-venturing into harm’s way… much to discuss, but this topic bettered by much trading of traditional bantering brevity bettering our wordless battering insinuating, sensational signals bring us backwards & forwards to an exploratorium of wide boulevards back to new unfamiliar venues, narrowing alleyways & places we were before, places before we were before where, no unnecessary commas to separate, distingué, distinct tween the instinct of old and new, an uncommon commonality experiential revisionism now I understand what you said to me, a tenderizing of the sole synapses directing the brain, the old ooh ‘s, aah’s reigniting what what lay dormant, at long last, by opening doors to alternations, ven diagram of digressing yet intersecting old & new pathways, from the souls of her feet, to, too, two, we become diamond on souls of our heat
0
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023 at 4:50 PM UTC
onlylovepoetry
Save My Soul, Rub My Feet
Save My Soul, (But First), Rub My Feet thus a poem auditorialy conceived, but! the sexuality of the deceiving dualities, irritates erogenous, exogenous perceptiveties, plethora of intensifying variables, a not-serious, harmless remark yet bring us to myriad of marauding reversals, add-venturing into harm’s way… much to discuss, but this topic bettered by much trading of traditional bantering brevity bettering our wordless battering insinuating, sensational signals bring us backwards & forwards to an exploratorium of wide boulevards back to new unfamiliar venues, narrowing alleyways & places we were before, places before we were before where, no unnecessary commas to separate, distingué, distinct tween the instinct of old and new, an uncommon commonality experiential revisionism now I understand what you said to me, a tenderizing of the sole synapses directing the brain, the old ooh ‘s, aah’s reigniting what what lay dormant, at long last, by opening doors to alternations, ven diagram of digressing yet intersecting old & new pathways, from the souls of her feet, to, too, two, we become diamond on souls of our heat
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35
And they are doing white Cars, Nice haircuts and, Broad Boulevards, They are doing slick radio Ads, Smooth charcoal voices, And Western music, Gliding with thoughts of Cashmere, Air-conditioned Kaftan's catching the breeze just so, Dark glasses like reflective buildings Perched on tight noses, Moving forward with morning talk shows in, Gleaming white cars, Fabulous fingers prodding perfectly balanced power buttons, Opulent mechanisms, Fabulous manoeuvres, In Dehli they are moving swiftly, Their stylish Sari's, airborne.
0
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
ipoet
Dehli
And they are doing white Cars, Nice haircuts and, Broad Boulevards, They are doing slick radio Ads, Smooth charcoal voices, And Western music, Gliding with thoughts of Cashmere, Air-conditioned Kaftan's catching the breeze just so, Dark glasses like reflective buildings Perched on tight noses, Moving forward with morning talk shows in, Gleaming white cars, Fabulous fingers prodding perfectly balanced power buttons, Opulent mechanisms, Fabulous manoeuvres, In Dehli they are moving swiftly, Their stylish Sari's, airborne.
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18
I’ve got a mission To reach the destination I was destined to go on a journey, A journey which is unreached by many, This is the journey of my life. I shall walk down the empty streets Through the boulevards of broken dreams To the successfully riches This is the journey which takes years to reach, The journey of my life. This journey is not an adventure, It is a mental journey through nature With the care & support of my family and friends, I believe I can complete it with love in my hands… So journey with me Let’s push forward… There’s nothing to rewind, In this journey through my mind.
0
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 4:54 PM UTC
kim-yu
The Journey Through My Mind
I’ve got a mission To reach the destination I was destined to go on a journey, A journey which is unreached by many, This is the journey of my life. I shall walk down the empty streets Through the boulevards of broken dreams To the successfully riches This is the journey which takes years to reach, The journey of my life. This journey is not an adventure, It is a mental journey through nature With the care & support of my family and friends, I believe I can complete it with love in my hands… So journey with me Let’s push forward… There’s nothing to rewind, In this journey through my mind.
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18
They'll use Martin Luther King day to sell anything from mattresses to cars. Even he has been ripped up and replanted, capitalized, like Christmas or Easter, by the people who give us images of a white Jesus, but you bet they don't pay everyone equal. We have boulevards, schools, and libraries named after King, but streets over, we have Confederate soldiers carved into a mountain, we call 'em heroes, that's what I was taught, the ones who fought, the ones who ate lead, But, they aren't talking about who really put a bullet in Dr. King's head. What the **** is wrong with us? America will go see Selma in millions, this weekend, go back home to their all white neighborhoods, thinking about how it was bad then, but now, it's all good. Who are we really trying to fool? Stand up for the pledge in school Put your hand over your heart and forget all this country denies you telling you that there isn't a heart of a human beating inside you because you're gay, you're black, you're not like that, She was a flirt, she wore a short skirt, Every day you try to heal the hurt Justice for all? Like are you kidding me? There ain't such a thing here as liberty Do you know where you stand was Native American land? Ripped from their bleeding hands And don't even get me started on Iraq and Iran. You know that mountaintop? The one I was talking about, Did they tell you it was a KKK meeting spot? Bet not. I wonder, is the clay here red from all the blood? We hide our history, sing promises of liberty, say that racism ended with slavery, and it's Stonewall Jackson, he's a hero, they say but never speak of Stonewall Riots any day and I'm afraid for our children and what they will learn, in classrooms, will they be silenced? Come here kids, let me tell you a story, of Ferguson, New York, Hong Kong, about how people will look back and see they were wrong, But some never did, some died with hatred, some died because of it, Let me tell you about homeless LGBT youth Let me tell you about all these issues Let me tell you the truth And there are different ways of seeing it, but only one way to say it, you and I both know, You just have to listen for it.
0
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 11:41 PM UTC
controlledweirdness
State Of The Union (originally titled Freedom)
They'll use Martin Luther King day to sell anything from mattresses to cars. Even he has been ripped up and replanted, capitalized, like Christmas or Easter, by the people who give us images of a white Jesus, but you bet they don't pay everyone equal. We have boulevards, schools, and libraries named after King, but streets over, we have Confederate soldiers carved into a mountain, we call 'em heroes, that's what I was taught, the ones who fought, the ones who ate lead, But, they aren't talking about who really put a bullet in Dr. King's head. What the **** is wrong with us? America will go see Selma in millions, this weekend, go back home to their all white neighborhoods, thinking about how it was bad then, but now, it's all good. Who are we really trying to fool? Stand up for the pledge in school Put your hand over your heart and forget all this country denies you telling you that there isn't a heart of a human beating inside you because you're gay, you're black, you're not like that, She was a flirt, she wore a short skirt, Every day you try to heal the hurt Justice for all? Like are you kidding me? There ain't such a thing here as liberty Do you know where you stand was Native American land? Ripped from their bleeding hands And don't even get me started on Iraq and Iran. You know that mountaintop? The one I was talking about, Did they tell you it was a KKK meeting spot? Bet not. I wonder, is the clay here red from all the blood? We hide our history, sing promises of liberty, say that racism ended with slavery, and it's Stonewall Jackson, he's a hero, they say but never speak of Stonewall Riots any day and I'm afraid for our children and what they will learn, in classrooms, will they be silenced? Come here kids, let me tell you a story, of Ferguson, New York, Hong Kong, about how people will look back and see they were wrong, But some never did, some died with hatred, some died because of it, Let me tell you about homeless LGBT youth Let me tell you about all these issues Let me tell you the truth And there are different ways of seeing it, but only one way to say it, you and I both know, You just have to listen for it.
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52
*Reflections of Paris this morning , for all the inhabitants of the world , especially those inspired by beautiful works of art and architecture  ! Those fortunate enough to have dined in world class eateries on cuisine prepared by Master Chefs , marveled over the downtown skyline high atop prominent monuments ! Impassioned lovers perusing her avenues , window shopping store fronts , boutiques along famous boulevards ! Senior couples recalling their yesteryears with great joy , frolicking , happy children playing in parklands , feeding songbirds with euphoria and curiosity , strolling walkways along the riverbank at Dusk with great wonderment and personal reflection The poet and poetess , musician and thespian , ballet dancer and street performer .. To lovers young and old , the continued hope of gaiety and splendor at every turn ! She is lovely indeed , the Queen of all that is beautiful on this Earth* ..
0
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
randolph-l-wilson
Paris
*Reflections of Paris this morning , for all the inhabitants of the world , especially those inspired by beautiful works of art and architecture  ! Those fortunate enough to have dined in world class eateries on cuisine prepared by Master Chefs , marveled over the downtown skyline high atop prominent monuments ! Impassioned lovers perusing her avenues , window shopping store fronts , boutiques along famous boulevards ! Senior couples recalling their yesteryears with great joy , frolicking , happy children playing in parklands , feeding songbirds with euphoria and curiosity , strolling walkways along the riverbank at Dusk with great wonderment and personal reflection The poet and poetess , musician and thespian , ballet dancer and street performer .. To lovers young and old , the continued hope of gaiety and splendor at every turn ! She is lovely indeed , the Queen of all that is beautiful on this Earth* ..
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3
It was rumors An overzealous starlet Her name Cassandra Well-known to critics Beyond a casting call Conquering the boulevards This flaming Diva Her serpent attitude is her might For I Once bitten into poisonous passion Repeatly stumbling As her looks proclaim the likes of a darling Dove Losing a battle that cannot be won Her graphic representation for apparition Appeals to men with greater value Calamity is her weapon of choice For days upon her roof I've fallen To a script Only meant for fools
0
Nov 21, 2009
Nov 21, 2009 at 11:22 PM UTC
diverseman2020
Flaming Diva Cassandra
It was rumors An overzealous starlet Her name Cassandra Well-known to critics Beyond a casting call Conquering the boulevards This flaming Diva Her serpent attitude is her might For I Once bitten into poisonous passion Repeatly stumbling As her looks proclaim the likes of a darling Dove Losing a battle that cannot be won Her graphic representation for apparition Appeals to men with greater value Calamity is her weapon of choice For days upon her roof I've fallen To a script Only meant for fools
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20
There is a melody that sings, of a dream lost in time, with music that fits the space   that can’t be filled. She is as real to you,   as the wood in your hands and at night, beyond the timbre of your guitar   that murmurs melodies about a world too many understand. What once was elegant boulevards in Madrid, are now   a melodic strain   of fleeting moments, trapped   in colorless discontent.
0
Nov 29, 2019
Nov 29, 2019 at 9:06 AM UTC
syd_marie_v
The Old Guitarist
There is a melody that sings, of a dream lost in time, with music that fits the space   that can’t be filled. She is as real to you,   as the wood in your hands and at night, beyond the timbre of your guitar   that murmurs melodies about a world too many understand. What once was elegant boulevards in Madrid, are now   a melodic strain   of fleeting moments, trapped   in colorless discontent.
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14
You are not surprised at the force of the storm— you have seen it growing. The trees flee. Their flight sets the boulevards streaming. And you know: he whom they flee is the one you move toward. All your senses sing him, as you stand at the window. The weeks stood still in summer. The trees' blood rose. Now you feel it wants to sink back into the source of everything. You thought you could trust that power when you plucked the fruit: now it becomes a riddle again and you again a stranger. Summer was like your house: you know where each thing stood. Now you must go out into your heart as onto a vast plain. Now the immense loneliness begins. The days go numb, the wind ***** the world from your senses like withered leaves. Through the empty branches the sky remains. It is what you have. Be earth now, and evensong. Be the ground lying under that sky. Be modest now, like a thing ripened until it is real, so that he who began it all can feel you when he reaches for you. Book of Hours, II 1
0
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
charlesc
Onto a Vast Plain (by Rainer Maria Rilke)
You are not surprised at the force of the storm— you have seen it growing. The trees flee. Their flight sets the boulevards streaming. And you know: he whom they flee is the one you move toward. All your senses sing him, as you stand at the window. The weeks stood still in summer. The trees' blood rose. Now you feel it wants to sink back into the source of everything. You thought you could trust that power when you plucked the fruit: now it becomes a riddle again and you again a stranger. Summer was like your house: you know where each thing stood. Now you must go out into your heart as onto a vast plain. Now the immense loneliness begins. The days go numb, the wind ***** the world from your senses like withered leaves. Through the empty branches the sky remains. It is what you have. Be earth now, and evensong. Be the ground lying under that sky. Be modest now, like a thing ripened until it is real, so that he who began it all can feel you when he reaches for you. Book of Hours, II 1
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31
We are the wretched broke down souls Running through the boulevards Though the warning bells do toll We are hunted by our cards Unfairly dealt, but the game is done It is never us who won We know who we are Our eyes of shattered glass The asylum is never far And neither is our past But still we sprint until collapse Little pieces, found and captured. Our minds have veered off the map- Us of the mutual psychotic rapture
0
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 12:33 AM UTC
darbi-howe
Psychotic Rapture
We are the wretched broke down souls Running through the boulevards Though the warning bells do toll We are hunted by our cards Unfairly dealt, but the game is done It is never us who won We know who we are Our eyes of shattered glass The asylum is never far And neither is our past But still we sprint until collapse Little pieces, found and captured. Our minds have veered off the map- Us of the mutual psychotic rapture
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14
Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul  into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven. The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.
0
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
connecthook
Lindísima
Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul  into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven. The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.
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3
I'll undress myself, undress all my coats, undress all my fears, strip to my sheer. I'll show you but will you want to see ? what will your thoughts be to my naked, unadorned alive, will you look around or will you hold your gaze, as layer by layer i unfold myself, strip myself down to my bare, undrunk skin, will you still call me poetry as i take you on a tour of my anatomy, will you explore all my fissures or stay gauging at the first shortfall, will you understand the traces of my wounds, the wounds not from battlefields but from gentle smudges of unfinished love, each covered with bandage, not healing just concealing, trying to stop the pain from bleeding, covering my corpse in aches, and so i keep my gaurd up, no strolling on passion boulevards, for torment and agony were never printed on invitation cards, but when the time comes and you compel me to, i'll let my inner demons out for you, and as i strip down to my sheer, i wonder, will you peer or look away, will your thoughts run astray, will you love the bone and flesh just as much as, you loved the carapace.
0
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 12:46 PM UTC
poshh
undress myself
I'll undress myself, undress all my coats, undress all my fears, strip to my sheer. I'll show you but will you want to see ? what will your thoughts be to my naked, unadorned alive, will you look around or will you hold your gaze, as layer by layer i unfold myself, strip myself down to my bare, undrunk skin, will you still call me poetry as i take you on a tour of my anatomy, will you explore all my fissures or stay gauging at the first shortfall, will you understand the traces of my wounds, the wounds not from battlefields but from gentle smudges of unfinished love, each covered with bandage, not healing just concealing, trying to stop the pain from bleeding, covering my corpse in aches, and so i keep my gaurd up, no strolling on passion boulevards, for torment and agony were never printed on invitation cards, but when the time comes and you compel me to, i'll let my inner demons out for you, and as i strip down to my sheer, i wonder, will you peer or look away, will your thoughts run astray, will you love the bone and flesh just as much as, you loved the carapace.
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23
Nevica a Parigi sugli alberi di carta, sugli addobbi di Natale sgonfi, sui bambini di plastica e sui castelli di latta. Nevica a Parigi una neve fiacca che s’incolla ai cappotti della gente che si trascina per strada con aria distratta. Nevica nei caffè, attraverso i vetri, sui boulevards deserti e sui nostri sguardi tetri. Si colorano di bianco la cupola dell’albergo di lusso, il tettuccio dell’edicola senza giornali, il carretto delle castagne arrosto, il marciapiede su cui scivola una dama e cerca un cantuccio il barbone. Nevica a Parigi, senza ragione, sulle donne e sugli uomini. *** Nevica nei grandi magazzini, nelle chiese vuote e nelle nostre stanze. Sulle autostrade inondate di fango che corrono sopra la città, sulle scarpate coperte d’immondizia e sulle nostre frasi lasciate a metà. Nevica a Parigi sulla terra del parco in cui non attecchirà più l’erba, sulla nostra visione acerba delle cose. Nevica a Parigi come per illusione. *** Nevica perché non ha nessun senso che nevichi, perché siamo in inverno ma non è detto che torni il bel tempo. Nevica sul cemento di chi ha avuto il coraggio di costruire i grattacieli per i grandi e le cabine di comando per gli uomini d’affari dagli occhi stanchi. *** Nevica sui ghetti e sulle città satelliti, sulle lampade al neon dei luna park abbandonati. Nevica, in televisione e al cinema, per i negri, i bianchi, le persone sole e gli alcolizzati. Nevica e le cose si perdono in un pulviscolo. Da un vicolo sbuca un autobus senza autista, da un altro una carrozza trainata da elefanti. In un carosello di fiocchi di neve impazziscono le immagini. Nevica a Parigi sui camposanti. *** Nevica nei bordelli e nelle bettole, nei salotti alla moda, nei negozi degli antiquari e nei quadri che i pittori non hanno fatto a tempo a terminare… Nevica sugli operai stanchi di non lavorare, sulle matrone che si abbandonano alle braccia dei drogati. Nevica sugli ospedali e sugli ammalati. *** Nevica sugli aeroplani e sulla notte, sulle navi e sul vento, sull’eco delle stragi, sul pianto dei feriti e sul rantolo dei moribondi. Nevica a Parigi sul tempo che finisce in un’esplosione di secondi. *** Nevica sulla neve e nevicherà ancora. E’ una neve che a tratti ci sferza e a tratti ci ignora. E’ una neve che spazza via tutto, una neve spietata. Perché a Parigi da oggi nevica nella nostra mente annebbiata.
0
Dec 2, 2010
Dec 2, 2010 at 3:04 PM UTC
diego-scarca
Nevica a Parigi...
Nevica a Parigi sugli alberi di carta, sugli addobbi di Natale sgonfi, sui bambini di plastica e sui castelli di latta. Nevica a Parigi una neve fiacca che s’incolla ai cappotti della gente che si trascina per strada con aria distratta. Nevica nei caffè, attraverso i vetri, sui boulevards deserti e sui nostri sguardi tetri. Si colorano di bianco la cupola dell’albergo di lusso, il tettuccio dell’edicola senza giornali, il carretto delle castagne arrosto, il marciapiede su cui scivola una dama e cerca un cantuccio il barbone. Nevica a Parigi, senza ragione, sulle donne e sugli uomini. *** Nevica nei grandi magazzini, nelle chiese vuote e nelle nostre stanze. Sulle autostrade inondate di fango che corrono sopra la città, sulle scarpate coperte d’immondizia e sulle nostre frasi lasciate a metà. Nevica a Parigi sulla terra del parco in cui non attecchirà più l’erba, sulla nostra visione acerba delle cose. Nevica a Parigi come per illusione. *** Nevica perché non ha nessun senso che nevichi, perché siamo in inverno ma non è detto che torni il bel tempo. Nevica sul cemento di chi ha avuto il coraggio di costruire i grattacieli per i grandi e le cabine di comando per gli uomini d’affari dagli occhi stanchi. *** Nevica sui ghetti e sulle città satelliti, sulle lampade al neon dei luna park abbandonati. Nevica, in televisione e al cinema, per i negri, i bianchi, le persone sole e gli alcolizzati. Nevica e le cose si perdono in un pulviscolo. Da un vicolo sbuca un autobus senza autista, da un altro una carrozza trainata da elefanti. In un carosello di fiocchi di neve impazziscono le immagini. Nevica a Parigi sui camposanti. *** Nevica nei bordelli e nelle bettole, nei salotti alla moda, nei negozi degli antiquari e nei quadri che i pittori non hanno fatto a tempo a terminare… Nevica sugli operai stanchi di non lavorare, sulle matrone che si abbandonano alle braccia dei drogati. Nevica sugli ospedali e sugli ammalati. *** Nevica sugli aeroplani e sulla notte, sulle navi e sul vento, sull’eco delle stragi, sul pianto dei feriti e sul rantolo dei moribondi. Nevica a Parigi sul tempo che finisce in un’esplosione di secondi. *** Nevica sulla neve e nevicherà ancora. E’ una neve che a tratti ci sferza e a tratti ci ignora. E’ una neve che spazza via tutto, una neve spietata. Perché a Parigi da oggi nevica nella nostra mente annebbiata.
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92
Wasting words on half thought speeches, and steps on roads we walked together. I waste my time in empty parables, in parabolic signatures that trace my life from one loop to the next. Me, the black dot in a line of ink drops from the tip of a pen in God's hands. Gone are seven dirham taxi rides in Broken Arabic. Wasting furniture on empty apartments, and music on crowded subway trains. I waste my time in black-and-white fantasies, in bucolic boulevards that draw my life out like lines on a map. Me, the modern Mediterranean man on the Eastern end of Cabbagetown. Gone are the nights of grape-mint sheesha on quarters of round tables. Wasting memories on that "American Dad" episode, and memories again on events transpiring when the room went dark. I waste my time on lofty balconies, on silent poetry that recites my life from one page to the next. Me, the unfinished Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist.
0
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 10:27 AM UTC
jacob-singer
Wasted Music
Wasting words on half thought speeches, and steps on roads we walked together. I waste my time in empty parables, in parabolic signatures that trace my life from one loop to the next. Me, the black dot in a line of ink drops from the tip of a pen in God's hands. Gone are seven dirham taxi rides in Broken Arabic. Wasting furniture on empty apartments, and music on crowded subway trains. I waste my time in black-and-white fantasies, in bucolic boulevards that draw my life out like lines on a map. Me, the modern Mediterranean man on the Eastern end of Cabbagetown. Gone are the nights of grape-mint sheesha on quarters of round tables. Wasting memories on that "American Dad" episode, and memories again on events transpiring when the room went dark. I waste my time on lofty balconies, on silent poetry that recites my life from one page to the next. Me, the unfinished Portrait of the Young Man as an Artist.
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16
A day on the boulevards chosen out of ten years of student poverty! One best day out of ten good ones. Berket in high spirits—”Ha, oranges! Let’s have one!” And he made to ****** an orange from the vender’s cart. Now so clever was the deception, so nicely timed to the full sweep of certain wave summits, that the rumor of the thing has come down through three generations—which is relatively forever!
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1.6k
William Carlos Williams
Berket And The Stars
A day on the boulevards chosen out of ten years of student poverty! One best day out of ten good ones. Berket in high spirits—”Ha, oranges! Let’s have one!” And he made to ****** an orange from the vender’s cart. Now so clever was the deception, so nicely timed to the full sweep of certain wave summits, that the rumor of the thing has come down through three generations—which is relatively forever!
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8
A prisoner of the hallucination, hardly happy, quick to open a floodgate of personal misery, talking often of unique pain, of places before been, asking only for sympathy and creative license- Past Ring Bearer/Future Funeral Singer, you're selfish to think you mean much at all. What was always is, greater wisdom is greater sorrow, ask the holograms begging on boulevards, ask the nihilists and the naysayers, or even the understanding heart of Solomon. Life is a pastoral play using pastels, washed away and rewritten over and over again. Your superior melancholy is the loudest cliché. If you've got any love, cradle it like a newborn babe. It's the reason that will make you glad you stayed. For every headstone, there once was a bouquet. For every brown, breaking leaf, there once was a summer breeze. For every noose-a necktie, for every slave-a free. No need to trudge the trough, no need to join in the polyphonic symphony of 7 billion people drowning under the current of time, there is only personal progression, but you have to shut up and dream for a second.
0
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 9:05 AM UTC
jj-hutton
Taking the Wheel
A prisoner of the hallucination, hardly happy, quick to open a floodgate of personal misery, talking often of unique pain, of places before been, asking only for sympathy and creative license- Past Ring Bearer/Future Funeral Singer, you're selfish to think you mean much at all. What was always is, greater wisdom is greater sorrow, ask the holograms begging on boulevards, ask the nihilists and the naysayers, or even the understanding heart of Solomon. Life is a pastoral play using pastels, washed away and rewritten over and over again. Your superior melancholy is the loudest cliché. If you've got any love, cradle it like a newborn babe. It's the reason that will make you glad you stayed. For every headstone, there once was a bouquet. For every brown, breaking leaf, there once was a summer breeze. For every noose-a necktie, for every slave-a free. No need to trudge the trough, no need to join in the polyphonic symphony of 7 billion people drowning under the current of time, there is only personal progression, but you have to shut up and dream for a second.
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27
wouldst you in the mist of my confusion have me become a white mosquito boy that by a grafted tongue would mould powerful changes around bliss and ecstasy that by garb and candor grafts defying gender roles causes by his spaces openness a sexuality, moulding, mounting new and explosive intimacies and yet my fevered brain hotter than the hottest summer wishes to embrace a white mosquitoe boy become the cannibal of his dimensions be subject to his unremarked experiments Oh, will I become a native of these everyday practices a white mosquitoe boy evolving into a public ethic a dangerously obscure central truth the ink lies still wet on y confused thinking while the white mosquitoe boys call me ” Le Mome” shall I enter their grand boulevards the ink drys, it speaks its beautiful wondrous notation says “YES”, yes it says, it says yes you don’t become a mosquitoe boy YOU ARE BORN ONE
0
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
edgar-whitman-wilde
The White Mosquito Boys....in which Edgar thinks on sexuality...
wouldst you in the mist of my confusion have me become a white mosquito boy that by a grafted tongue would mould powerful changes around bliss and ecstasy that by garb and candor grafts defying gender roles causes by his spaces openness a sexuality, moulding, mounting new and explosive intimacies and yet my fevered brain hotter than the hottest summer wishes to embrace a white mosquitoe boy become the cannibal of his dimensions be subject to his unremarked experiments Oh, will I become a native of these everyday practices a white mosquitoe boy evolving into a public ethic a dangerously obscure central truth the ink lies still wet on y confused thinking while the white mosquitoe boys call me ” Le Mome” shall I enter their grand boulevards the ink drys, it speaks its beautiful wondrous notation says “YES”, yes it says, it says yes you don’t become a mosquitoe boy YOU ARE BORN ONE
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25
*i fell asleep to your ticking bomb of a heart as you run your cold metal rings and weak skinny hands through my hair drenched with midsummer rain you warm me with whispers of sweet nothings empty promises of happy endings and a summer home on top of a hill you ever so lovingly inject my veins with a surge of life enveloping my flesh heat of your being in my dream the bitter cold air contrast the undying sparks your skin against mine enclosed by the safety of four sand colored walls thirteen feet tall and wordless exchanges of our favourite three-word sentence my now empty shell is bound to crack the moment i look into your eyes my trembling hand intertwined with yours i silently scream my desperate pleas to God who is ever so lightly loaning you borrowed time when angels only deserve tomorrows made certain eternity pronounced forever promised the ticking clock a sound i came to hate as it serves as our sailboat drifting us away to withering magnolias trees becoming bare on sad empty boulevards as winter called upon growing fear of taking one last breath and not taking one at all my consciousness struck a runaway train found its way to my winding track of a mind my head still soundly pressed against your ticking time bomb of a heart the ballad of our approaching farewell its coda drawing near it brings me to my knees how a dying soul can make me feel so **** alive*
0
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
990520
reverie
*i fell asleep to your ticking bomb of a heart as you run your cold metal rings and weak skinny hands through my hair drenched with midsummer rain you warm me with whispers of sweet nothings empty promises of happy endings and a summer home on top of a hill you ever so lovingly inject my veins with a surge of life enveloping my flesh heat of your being in my dream the bitter cold air contrast the undying sparks your skin against mine enclosed by the safety of four sand colored walls thirteen feet tall and wordless exchanges of our favourite three-word sentence my now empty shell is bound to crack the moment i look into your eyes my trembling hand intertwined with yours i silently scream my desperate pleas to God who is ever so lightly loaning you borrowed time when angels only deserve tomorrows made certain eternity pronounced forever promised the ticking clock a sound i came to hate as it serves as our sailboat drifting us away to withering magnolias trees becoming bare on sad empty boulevards as winter called upon growing fear of taking one last breath and not taking one at all my consciousness struck a runaway train found its way to my winding track of a mind my head still soundly pressed against your ticking time bomb of a heart the ballad of our approaching farewell its coda drawing near it brings me to my knees how a dying soul can make me feel so **** alive*
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73
There is always a way Hidden from plain sight So many crossroads We have to tackle Surrounded by structures And then busy boulevards Higher and higher Ambitions kissing clouds Vertical limits not set One feels dizzy Like a minnow Pushed around Sprain in the neck New phobias And health scares Spine gives way To modern marvels Can’t bear the load Anymore
0
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
amitav
Modern Marvels
There is always a way Hidden from plain sight So many crossroads We have to tackle Surrounded by structures And then busy boulevards Higher and higher Ambitions kissing clouds Vertical limits not set One feels dizzy Like a minnow Pushed around Sprain in the neck New phobias And health scares Spine gives way To modern marvels Can’t bear the load Anymore
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19
up on Boot Hill the sun sets early the soaked anguish of grieving mothers swaddled in twilight's vestments mourn the death of another murdered child we roll our eyes and speak in tongues tiny prayers incant RIP these reflexive bits, our shattered votives litter city boulevards on each solemn street corner new alters of desecration are erected then despoiled with the wasted wax of misspent novenas our extended families are bloodlines of fear spawning prostrate men tattooed with multicolored pain who refuse to cover body marks bespeaking epic tales of sorrow, divisions countless separations also marking righteous reasons of seething resentments eager to settle accounts sweet vendettas clever ambushes carefully deliberated for generations by discordant clans believing in malice exalting guns shared loss is our common affliction uniting everyone in envelopes of sadness becoming live Dear John letters bearing news of dearly departed loves atop the coffins of dead children votives pile high with scrawled eulogies of fevered graffiti solemnly pledging “gonna make someone suffer gonna even the score never forget you RIP” and we all die looking stupid as hell lamenting love don’t rest in peace hearing it scream from the grave witnessing the hallowed earth churning with revulsion accepting the bitter ashes of another dead child for the love of you is your funeral march love don’t RIP it stalks the tomb of indifference it mourns the ambivalence of its devaluation it haunts the day dreams of what could have been it restlessly flits among the playgrounds of our minds cluttering the rooms of our homes with grief up on Boot Hill we clasp the small hands protruding from shallow graves groping to find a graceful sleep for love don’t rest in peace Stevie Wonder: Love Is In Need of Love Today Written to honor Love Appreciation Day jbm Oakland 1/19/13
0
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
james-bradley-mccallum
Love Don't Rest In Peace
up on Boot Hill the sun sets early the soaked anguish of grieving mothers swaddled in twilight's vestments mourn the death of another murdered child we roll our eyes and speak in tongues tiny prayers incant RIP these reflexive bits, our shattered votives litter city boulevards on each solemn street corner new alters of desecration are erected then despoiled with the wasted wax of misspent novenas our extended families are bloodlines of fear spawning prostrate men tattooed with multicolored pain who refuse to cover body marks bespeaking epic tales of sorrow, divisions countless separations also marking righteous reasons of seething resentments eager to settle accounts sweet vendettas clever ambushes carefully deliberated for generations by discordant clans believing in malice exalting guns shared loss is our common affliction uniting everyone in envelopes of sadness becoming live Dear John letters bearing news of dearly departed loves atop the coffins of dead children votives pile high with scrawled eulogies of fevered graffiti solemnly pledging “gonna make someone suffer gonna even the score never forget you RIP” and we all die looking stupid as hell lamenting love don’t rest in peace hearing it scream from the grave witnessing the hallowed earth churning with revulsion accepting the bitter ashes of another dead child for the love of you is your funeral march love don’t RIP it stalks the tomb of indifference it mourns the ambivalence of its devaluation it haunts the day dreams of what could have been it restlessly flits among the playgrounds of our minds cluttering the rooms of our homes with grief up on Boot Hill we clasp the small hands protruding from shallow graves groping to find a graceful sleep for love don’t rest in peace Stevie Wonder: Love Is In Need of Love Today Written to honor Love Appreciation Day jbm Oakland 1/19/13
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