"bowstring" poems
You should know
That I don’t normally do this.
Words come easy
and shape does not.
I know the purpose, though,
And have felt the effects,
a flowing melody
a short prelude
A bowstring across a violin.
I’m sorry.
Sorry that the river rushes
at the wrong times and,
sorry that I haven’t warned you
of the waterfall.
Sorry that I write
in pulses and not lyrics,
sorry that the sun sets too early
over somebody else's mountain.
Sorry that I can’t start again -
the suspense of pause
has already leaped from my lips
and the fluttering that is suspense
has melted into the river
and all that remains
is the value of silence.
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 10:50 PM UTC
Forged by Hephaestus himself, tempered in Satan's heart.
It moves too fast for the normal eye to see,
But leaves traces of moon glinted footsteps in the fissure of heaven's breath.
In the harmonic tune of clashing instruments, an orchestrated chaos is present.
The chord from the bowstring beats time on wooden shields.
To this, their blade waltz continues.
Their cadence unmatched by surrounding performers,
The maestros continue their viperous style.
Just as a painter cannot take away a stroke of the brush,
A swordsman cannot take away a stroke of the blade.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
As fridge-rator to beer in the head between the ears adorned with flashy widgets with which to trap the hoes he hopes that he can pull into his poles. His gravity whips wide so hands find and feel up erthing that gots the tail, he wants to rail so hands out he walks and tilts to one side and back holding his glass. Two fingers limp around the rim, dipping his fingertips into the juice like he wants to dip into you, pinkies as he holds your head forcing you to **** like you want his come as much as he wants to come. Then when done zips up, runs out, ***** sayonara", switch rerun mode without emotion. He floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.
Head on the couch back making tired, one eye open scoping everyone's glow as they move, when up he comes sittin in my face, spittin what he thinks I want him to say, I'm like, **** guy control that tongue, you spray like that always I'm afraid I won't take that wild **** as tool is to you as to yo ***** Right ******* ****** spittin harder in the lean up perhaps the lead up to fist flung to react. "Man you too loose, I gotta tell you, I've got just what you do." "Your uh ****** Man watch ya flavor of language, I got just enough ****** left to get hard and stomp you, heel first in boots bought to stomp, pre-emptive to deal with the bullwhip effect where first you droolin to **** me, then retract like a bowstring because my ***** resembles a **** "What you want, ***** You wan **** this **** for real?" (For real?) He floatin. He floatin. He floatin the room, he ghosting.
Lick my lips, cept it's not a tongue. For this purpose it's strobe lights, in light show, and like snow, black and white between sheets of plastic TV screen on get settled into my flow, rip back and forth like prongs on a fork on your ******* blindfolded and scolded right angle, bent like an L-shape repenting for **** by taking the ****** flash cards, held up on headboards, trying to teach you metrics and standards lacking in you to tune you into the lifestream, no empathy and no tact to show, remember this hell well while you sail through life preying, I'm praying and making marks in meat coats. But he floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Once the Emperor Charles of Spain,
With his swarthy, grave commanders,
I forget in what campaign,
Long besieged, in mud and rain,
Some old frontier town of Flanders.
Up and down the dreary camp,
In great boots of Spanish leather,
Striding with a measured *****
These Hidalgos, dull and damp,
Cursed the Frenchmen, cursed the weather.
Thus as to and fro they went,
Over upland and through hollow,
Giving their impatience vent,
Perched upon the Emperor’s tent,
In her nest, they spied a swallow.
Yes, it was a swallow’s nest,
Built of clay and hair of horses,
Mane, or tail, or dragoon’s crest,
Found on hedge-rows east and west,
After skirmish of the forces.
Then an old Hidalgo said,
As he twirled his gray mustachio,
“Sure this swallow overhead
Thinks the Emperor’s tent a shed,
And the Emperor but a Macho!”
Hearing his imperial name
Coupled with those words of malice,
Half in anger, half in shame,
Forth the great campaigner came
Slowly from his canvas palace.
“Let no hand the bird ******
Said he solemnly, “nor hurt her!”
Adding then, by way of jest,
“Golondrina is my guest,
’Tis the wife of some deserter!”
Swift as bowstring speeds a shaft,
Through the camp was spread the rumor,
And the soldiers, as they quaffed
Flemish beer at dinner, laughed
At the Emperor’s pleasant humor.
So unharmed and unafraid
Sat the swallow still and brooded,
Till the constant cannonade
Through the walls a breach had made
And the siege was thus concluded.
Then the army, elsewhere bent,
Struck its tents as if disbanding,
Only not the Emperor’s tent,
For he ordered, ere he went,
Very curtly, “Leave it standing!”
So it stood there all alone,
Loosely flapping, torn and tattered,
Till the brood was fledged and flown,
Singing o’er those walls of stone
Which the cannon-shot had shattered.
1.9k
Okay, Cupid, tell me true-
The hell'd I ever do to you?
You flap about, your bowstring drawn
Aiming just to lead me on.
"Oh, she's the one!" You always say,
And with a 'thwip', arrows away!
And when it hits, right in my heart,
Proceeds to tear the world apart.
And then you just flutter away,
No doubt thinking "good job, today!"
But Cupid, sir, you fail to tell
That my poor heart is in for hell.
Now, love is grand, don't get me wrong,
But never seems to last for long.
Those arrows you're so fond to fire
Are sometimes too quick to expire.
So, Cupid, mate, step up your game,
Or redirect your blasted aim.
If love is such a complex trick,
Don't shoot at me you little *****
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
is the tendency of the reddish sunshine
to become drenched some more
let us hear
what the milky-way seamed by pins
says
and it’s you
how much can you be able to read
the venation of the Barringtonia acutangula
can you touch the season of making apples
in the aquarium
the empty bottles without any co-ordinate
that shoulder with endless grief
the hands of the wall-clocks
in a sudden depression
they’re also making crowd
at the beauty parlour
you have promised someday
to present a flower-vase to display some drops of blood
in the circled face
do you remember it
you haven’t floated that turnip
till now
here the month of trumpet-flower
covers everything
with reedy grass
with the festival of colours of the white horses
the new leaves of bananas become associated
the total dipavali rows
along the evening-balcony
taking it as daylight
will any bird fly towards it
then send a walkman
for the bamboo plants
you must go today
in search of the source
of the hand-woven lamp-post
from the pitcher-worship to the kantha-stitch
it is a very large
twelve-horned deer
the mango-marrow
demands more land
demands more kingfisher
the breath of the Ravenala
touches the chicks of the black-pepper
in every evening
the flood that tears the button
touches the bowstring
that passes through the centre of magnolia
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 5:32 PM UTC
You must have skill of rope walker in order to walk on the periphery of the circle,
It's been years, you are stuck in the Zero,
Constantly revolving around,
From the window far far away, blinds are watching,
Blindness is not useful then,
Smokes are stretched between with heinous sounds,
you can project an arrow in the direction of the sound,
but it is noise every where,
Sound is not pure, like music
neighing can corrupt your ears,
fighting can corrupt your hands,
you have tied some gospels on your fingers,
it gives warmth in utter cold
in the mud pool of light besides,
you are dipping your arrow tip and aiming,
your hands are in mood of becoming a bowstring,
your speed must be hasty
and weight less than a thin air
then only you can penetrate those noises,
as soon as you enter in the dark matter,
slowly you fall into contrivance,
your delivery path is glowing like a glow warm,
at first you have to get **** in the end you can cover again,
hands, legs are constantly struggling,
No shields, Not even swords,
you are still involved in
Tumultuous war.
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
All this time I had thought
it was rock versus air
and then came the day
we exchanged names,
because there was no other way
because all those others we adored
were no less than infinite
and you cannot trap sunlight
in your hands.
Our communion was instinct,
a song from the deepest cave
and our love is like the friction
of bowstring against violin,
there as long as green vines
continue to crawl up bricks.
There as long as the cynics
ignore the saws of radiant light
that cut through the fault lines
of their enemies skin.
Our love is the final resort
of metaphors, the place they go
to rest in peace, the farmers
overalls. You greet me
without a smile, at your front door,
paint chipped, hair that tells the story
of your difficult day and I remind myself
that means and ends
are both offspring and kin.
We met like they all do, second
glances, eyes wearing the best
kind of suspicion, an exchange
of names, insidious
and innocent.
Today I encountered the most holy
of holies, all cloaked in ordinariness,
sawdust, flowers, and paper clips,
and our love is like any other,
making us feel as though
that we are the last
to witness it .
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:38 PM UTC
O, caught in a moment I can't escape
with sighs, and groans, and arms e'er folded so,
for Proteus himself can't take my shape
cast as it is with malcontent on show,
heaving with sighs that play on Cupid's ear
to make him smile and please his little frame
while his gold arrows strike about me near
as ever and anon he takes his aim.
Yet ever let his little bowstring sing
and let his arrows strike upon mine breast
to wound me with the maladies they bring
as I sigh by day and night brings no rest.
O, never let that dreadful blind boy miss
as deathwards I sink for want of a kiss.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
a whisper down a stairwell,
hear words trickle like
pebbles dropped in puddles
slipping down the railing
in a dandelion puff of a mood
floating until I
climb on your shoulder and start singing
so you dance into the library
books to the height of the moon
and you’re a bowstring,
arrow pointed up toward the paper cranes
swirling by the millions
and I pull you and we take them
down in a shower of colors
and catch them in our mouths
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
An arrow pinched
Between delicate fingers,
Gently nocked, but aiming true,
Pulled taut against the bowstring.
It sings through the air,
Harmonious, but decisive,
And it strikes silently,
Knowing only one destination.
...And so begins Cupid's hunting season.
Feb 7, 2024
Feb 7, 2024 at 10:08 PM UTC
Worded arrowheads
are fastened to shafts.
They rain down on
our Love-fed ears.
Bowstring at ready
pulled back high-sky,
They strike down all
who lived this earth.
My soul, infringed,
asked, "How can this be,
with heart shut tight
from melancholy?"
Closed cold, a shield,
I thought could withstand
the force of a blow
guided not by your hand.
The force of a blow
guided not by your hand.
In time the sands
will salt our land.
Your words will crop
my sagging skin
and feed the ground
with hollow chest.
Death for the young
never-held as best,
but for this earth
a heart at rest.
But for this earth,
put Death to rest.
The price of youth,
pays for the best.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
Arrow through the neck
only skin deep
permanent reminder that
you have to put in the effort
to pull back the bowstring
to send the arrow
flying
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
I always look
my most beautiful
when I cry;
the bags under my eyes
burn as poignantly
as waning crescents,
lips plump as they quiver
with the same multitudes
of Artemis' bowstring,
chest heave-hoeing
against the tempered
vessel of my soul.
I wear sadness
remarkably well,
you know.
Like black lipstick.
or short hair.
or poetry.
(Cleopatra's got nothing on me, baby)
My reflection tessellates
against the swell of my tears,
evolves into
kaleidoscopic fractals
of smouldering thrones
and howling queens--
into images most
strange and terrible.
(But, oh, how I welcome them.)
A delicate curtsy of words
respires from my mouth,
forms upon my tongue
its homage--
hail thy shattered kingdom
hail thy shattered kingdom
hail thy shattered kingdom.
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 2:52 PM UTC
Reach beyond
the beyond.
Pluck the heart strings
of violets and violence,
pull back the bowstring,
launch Eros' error arrow
into weaker men than I.
Watch them become
what they swear against,
rail against like trains
slipping from their
on track lives.
They crumple like
failed poems in my hands.
But as Pompeii proved,
you don't have to fall to die.
You only have to breathe.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
A bowstring stretched, in claret dipped,
Bestowing smile upon а white day,
That's when my heart was slightly chipped
And winter got away
A dark dress wraps around my body
I thumb through periwinkle leaves
The words wore nothing gaudy
But for a trace, that sunshine gives
The iris greenery of my eyes
Is praying to the queen, who stars chalk
In pupils the kingly light abides
Until the rays replace a warning moonbroch
And with this granted magic for a night
That's piercing a human vision
Like ruby roses pierce the soil under the might
Of а happening high above celestial collision
I'll plant to blossom Milky Ways
And let the stained glas branch out to startle
Most souls grow dim in a dairy haze
Kaleidoscope like yours ****** with a sparkle
A hand on marble fences,
Embracing all my senses
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
teach me how to hunt
hold my hand, take me with you
show me your world
I want to hear the snap of a bowstring
in the silent forests
I’ve tasted the sting of an arrow’s head
I know how true they fly
they know exactly where to strike
who knew
that the softest plate in my armor
was just over my heart
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 8:34 AM UTC
From her bowstring
the arrow loosed,
flying from her sight
far into the sky.
I was here,
standing in the shining sun
when her dart
dived deeply into my heart.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
He—
Quiet as sorrow
Screaming the distance between us
Taut as a bowstring
He—
Thunderbolt unravels me.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 6:09 AM UTC
Digital.
Words meant to hear
now float in aether.
The taut bowstring
of progress murders
growth. Did I speak right?
I'm interfaced. No words
were misspoken.
Digital.
Analog dreams
sink below radio
active energies.
A face for a name,
a name to a face.
Several worlds await
my input.
Digital.
I wear more faces
that I own by proxy
than I show my own.
If the skin doesn't fit,
I have other names
and more skin.
I'm interfaced.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 9:47 AM UTC
Blighted by loneliness,
And a rankling in my heart,
I earnestly sought ways to attain love,
Soliciting the advice of a sagacious spirit.
Cupid,
A clever charlatan,
Speciously deceived me into believing
He possessed these secrets.
“Be bold,” he giggled,
Releasing his grip on his bowstring.
An arrow pierced me in the chest,
Rendering jubilation in my heart.
Blinded by the prospect of emotional opulence,
I approached my love,
And let my feelings flood from within me.
Depicting me to be desperate,
She fled,
Reprimanding my imprudence.
Cupid,
Feeding on my dejection,
Continued his machination,
Reciting to me yet another sophist claim.
“Be nonchalant,” he giggled,
Coaxing me to woo another.
My courage swelled,
And I obeyed fervently.
Circumspect and unconcerned,
I withheld my feelings to my love,
Hoping to avoid yet another debacle.
But the more I waited,
The more my love’s patience faded,
And her teetering feelings receded.
Realizing Cupid’s skulduggery,
I cursed him in animosity,
Clinched my fists and abandoned him.
Alas, it was to no avail.
I could not escape his arrows.
In that moment, I finally understood;
I was nothing more than Cupid's toy;
Nothing more than a source of amusement.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
Paul turned to face his brother,
Rick returned his gaze, wiped his left eye,
A leather thumb hidden from everyone,
Picked up black pitch and vile sweat, staining it with liquid darkness.
Both saw what their tireless work, Sharin's charge had covered them in.
Dappled, dirt caked skin, a stench masked by noise,
War kept them too busy to bathe, song was like water now,
It was needed to sustain life.
Seven ways to continue dismounted to collect,
Together, around a stream.
John aimed to press further on, regardless,
Rick redrew his bowstring, kept it taut,
Paul stood beside Rick, his polearm planted firmly at Sharin's side,
Kevin thought it best to turn back, Albert plucked a string to his support,
As did Richard with his bow wearing a fresh layer of rosin,
Christopher's flute, seldom used was anything but resolute,
It played a solemn solo, saw no other course of action,
Sharin wasn't sleeping well today...
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
So, what will it be?
My humble street performers,
Educated in the musical arts by none other than Sharin herself,
Venom or Silence? Make your choice carefully.
Everyone stopped listening to the sound of silence all around them,
She granted them permission to think this over, after only being given license to listen.
Rick turned his bowstring slack, lowered its direction to the ground, cocked his head towards John.
Kevin reached for his mallet, prepared to strike his rune blade, but Paul stopped him,
Lent a hand to ask him to wait patiently,
A single misspent move,
Could prove disastrous,
These snakeshead aren't human,
They move quicker than agility enables other men.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC