"branched" poems
Mother, the Word timeless Hymnals devote
Bore her Best Ribbon in Prayer and Gift
With the Earth her Nature's Theatre denote
Four Years Beyond; She would make her own Lift
I speak of the Fruit all may come to Love,
Branched with Four Maidens and a Knight do Sponsor
And the King, whose Black Gold sprouts well-above,
Branded Pride onto her; And gave her Honour
Well that their Woolen Rope I can't compete
Plus the Ring advised by the Prince of the North
Still, a Grounded Vow I plan to complete
For an Aunt called TRUST; And all that she's Worth.
Grateful much, M'am, for your Good Decision
Despite me Un-Known; The Owl you Rendition.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:31 AM UTC
Sisters,
We are in trouble
Overwhelmed by reality
We choose to sleep
Being awake is painful true
But what else would you choose?
Disconnected with the truth
Disillusioned with "inclusion"
But when we as women chose to stand
With other women
Away from our brethren
We undermined our people
Their problems weren't ours
Respect in our households and communities was never the problem
But now we're truly included
In the reign of terror
By the hegemony
that we were never actually excluded from
So now while we've branched off
Into this group and that
Engulfed in the rainbows, weaves,
****** objectification, drugs and popular culture
We are sleep crawling
To our extinction
It is better to live through pain
I n order to achieve gain
Than to nap through life
Never understanding your greatness
It is time to rise and return home
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
If we were a tree
I guess I might say,
It's been quite a while
Since we started to sprout
I know we've branched out
But I trace back down
To see the roots have spread
Staying anchored to the ground
The winds may howl,
Thunder may strike
But try as they might
They can't knock us down
As we grow together
Towards the sky, rooted to the earth
This growth it goes to show
The seeds were planted right.
-D.D.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
I found myself buried deep within the womb of creation
Lost, I climbed through the mud of life
Pulling myself up on the bones of the ancients
I broke through to the light, and heard the earth cry
Rise, Woman, Rise
I looked upon the face of the eternal
Reaching upward, I tried to touch the sky
So with my feet planted firmly in the past
I grew toward the future, bridging both earth and divine
And in me, the words rose once more,
Rise, Woman, Rise
After I had bridged the heavens,
After I had delved through the mud
I branched out towards the stars surrounding
Souls glittering in the lonely sky
Beckoned by a need, I reached to them
But just out of reach, they twinkled distantly
When a single answer I heard them call
Rise, Woman, Rise
And from my roots, I grew down deeper
And from my arms, I reached out high
With my fingers, stretched out longingly
Glancing over them, I swept the sky
Fingers clasped my own in their hands
Pulling me towards their brilliant light
Connected, I am tied to the universe
Woven into the web of life
And now, when I see another reaching,
I cry out the words that brought me here,
Rise, Woman, Rise
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
There are periods that need to be put at the end of sentences that started with a thought, rambled onto paragraphs that branched into multiple ambitious topics that was then left hanging in jumbled confusion half-way through time. In the endless strings of unecessary conjunctions, painful careless adjectives, and inappropriate prepositions, a simple period, used at the end of a completed, sensible sentence, one in which you put an effort to complete, regardless of the distracting pauses of time...a perfect period like that could go a long, long way. It ends THAT sentence so that another, more mature, wiser, more sensible one that could bring forth beautiful thoughts in endless paragraphs, could then begin.
Such is the language of life.
Such is the power of a period.
It is called closure.
Sometimes, we should use more periods in our lives,
to make our sentences clear.
Yes.
Period.
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 6:56 PM UTC
There were four pines,
Straight, that branched
Out over the hedge
With holes.
High beside
The cement goldfish pond
They stood, near the fence
And alleyway.
From our rows
Of potatoes,
And needed weedings,
A hedge ran across
The back, connecting
The Tehtercotts and Taylors;
We worked the garden
Beneath the line
Of drying clothes,
Throughout our summers,
Beneath the shade,
And the intermitent shadow.
***** blades heeled
Into mounds,
We five posed
For this poem
Half a century ago.
Over the hedge
Carriages and bikes
Rolled between houses
With porches,
And patios,
Leading to lawns.
Near Kevin's *****
A red and white rubber ball
Had landed,
From beyond the hedge.
He turned it over
With a shovel of dirt,
And broke the sod
With his blade.
He was distracted,
Singing us a Beatles song.
But it wouldn't have mattered.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
I pray thee leave, love me no more,
Call home the heart you gave me.
I but in vain that saint adore
That can, but will not, save me:
These poor half-kisses **** me quite;
Was ever man thus served?
Amidst an ocean of delight
For pleasure to be starved.
Show me no more those snowy *******
With azure riverets branched,
Where whilst mine eye with plenty feasts,
Yet is my thirst not stanched.
O Tantalus, thy pains ne'er tell,
By me thou art prevented:
'Tis nothing to be plagued in hell,
But thus in heaven tormented.
Clip me no more in those dear arms,
Nor thy life's comfort call me;
O, these are but too powerful charms,
And do but more enthral me.
But see how patient I am grown,
In all this coil about thee;
Come, nice thing, let my heart alone,
I cannot live without thee!
3.4k
Morning, a glass door, flashes
Gold names off the new city,
Whose white shelves and domes travel
The slow sky all day.
I land to stay here;
And the windows flock open
And the curtains fly out like doves
And a past dries in a wind.
Now let me lie down, under
A wide-branched indifference,
Shovel-faces like pennies
Down the back of the mind,
Find voices coined to
An argot of motor-horns,
And let the cluttered-up houses
Keep their thick lives to themselves.
For this ignorance of me
Seems a kind of innocence.
Fast enough I shall wound it:
Let me breathe till then
Its milk-aired Eden,
Till my own life impound it-
Slow-falling; grey-veil-hung; a theft,
A style of dying only.
3.1k
The dam began to crack
And all eyes turned away
A single crevice
That I watched
Day after day
Like a web it branched out
And yet no one could say
They gave a **** about the dam
Until they were washed away
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 12:40 AM UTC
I'm cursed I guess
with a mind so occupied on what's inside that I forget there are people outside
but I think of it as a sign I'm blessed
I mean I have the ignoring ability of a rock
I listen to music and understand it, and I branched out from hip hop
I can focus on my tasks although daydreams carry me
from the real world into my twisted reality
They say the quiet kid is the one you have to watch
seriously. don't pay us any attention we aren't part of an evil plot
but if you wake up one day and see we rule the world
Don't be surprised at all...
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
oh wait too much maniacal laughter I'm gonna hurl!
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Passion in society is presently temporary
They say passion is an emotion
A state of mind
A stage
A honeymoon
Star-crossed
Blinded
Struck by love
Intense, yet fleeting
But passion used to mean
Forever.
Love, at a distance
All encompassing disease
Debilitating
Weakening
It started from your heart
Branched out
Reached and spread with force
Until your entire being
Everything you were
Was consumed.
You were a sick man
If you were struck with passion
You had reached the end
You were hopelessly, and honestly absorbed
When passion meant forever
And marriage,
Used to be more for practicality
Than passion
To build a life
Maturely
To drive the kids to soccer practice,
Pay the electric bill,
To be together every day
With another person
Left no room
For *** on the kitchen floor
With the kids to walk in on
It did not permit
The ripping of clothing
When you'd only have to throw it in the wash
With a ballerina costume later
The real test of a relationship is not distance
Sneaking away in the night
Stealing kisses in the dark
Sneaking away
When it's exciting,
The real test is the everyday,
The monotonous aspects
Living with someone
Noticing things you never did before
It's terrifying because you might start to see
The passion pass
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
the little tree
took root from
an acorn nut.
the years passed,
she watched the loggers
come and go.
taking her friends
and family off
on the big beds
of the timber trucks.
year after year,
season after season,
there she stood,
winter, fall, spring, and summer,
one slow grow.
first she was short,
barely a spurt,
then she branched out,
and up and up and up.
the trees stood
all around her,
so serious,
oh so silent company.
however,
never a mean word nor
loud shout was ever heard.
never any other music
but for that of the birds,
and the wind and the sun
and
the creatures walking the
woodland floor,
those traveling through to
far distant exotic lands.
at least she never heard
“girl, you are some fat tree.”
or was the target of any joke,
“when you sit around the house,
you sit AROUND the house.”
nor any
“you gotta do something with them leaves,
they are looking like a rat’s nest.
Oh i see, it IS a squirrel’s nest.”
or for a stray bump or large hideous growth
no one ever said,
“you better go get that removed,
that's one ugly lump!"
years and years passed,
her soul inside,
couldn’t be heard,
not a word.
then one day,
the fellows came through,
looking and measuring,
measuring and looking,
out came the chainsaw.
eyes alighting on she,
on all of her
tall, majestic beauty.
with swift, quick work
she fell,
down,
to the earth.
loaded on the flatbed,
chains wrapped securely around,
engine roared to life,
and she took off,
racing into the darkening night.
she knew tears did fall
as forests thinned
and were laid bare,
but all she could think,
all she could say,
was
“so long suckers!
i’ll see you on broadway one day!”
and so it became true,
her dream of yore,
it was finally in,
Radio City Music Hall,
she landed as the floor.
night after night
to her lasting delight
tap dancers tapped
making her sing
bringing out the music
in she
so previously
imprisoned inside,
for so long.
sanded and polished
varnished and cleaned,
her secret inner beauty
finally brought to life,
finally brought into the light.
she beamed and sighed,
every time a new star
stepped on to her,
to her extreme delight.
any day or night,
when every eye of
the house,
every one of the audience
was riveted on she.
oh what a thrill
when the Radio City Rockettes
did finally come out,
for only for she
could they dance
so straight,
so evenly.
Sometimes i look
at the woods laid bare.
my heart drops low
so sad i feel,
a tear spills out.
then i recall,
the tale of this tree,
the little acorn nut,
how a trip to
a city,
made her so
lastingly
happy &
so very
pretty!
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
here the grass look up brunette trunks, branched arms flex their
form is calm, spindly fingers bloom their open palms
there they reach for spreading clouds
encapsulated sounds of gentle leaves, green noise
orange hues through cherry waves of grape and lemon, sweetened
pecks of the sun set in amber—morsels of melody, snipped bits of
things in canon
contrapuntal
sprouting airgerms
fugal, fungal
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 5:54 AM UTC
The crisp sounds
of the trail
the pure nature
the peace of it all
yet
A headache that was too much to bare
made my nose drip blood
and taint some purified leafs
Guilt began to strangle me
I picked up the two stained leafs
the leafs illuminated the color red
against its dark brown canvas
my nose was still bleeding
The crisp sounds were shuttering about
I fall to my knees
with the leafs in hand
I look up to the branched covered sky
and think
Guilt
the feeling tightens around my neck
and my wrists
making me let go of the leafs
the pressure in my skull made the blood from my nose spew
the constriction grew stronger
and stronger
as I fall to my side
and grasp for one last breathe
i think
Guilt
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
off his tongue
tasting like
Kadian and
Starlight mints
a hint of coffee
to speed things along
Less to do with sweet
tho I'd lick it from my fingers
Possibly the
mutilation
My intelligence and
self-preservation
severed slow
and easy
My thicker skin
slipped off my shoulders
onto the floor
fading into the denim around
my ankles
HaBItS
the bass inside
pumps
liquid compulsion
A branched tongue
on a
forked path
murmurs miracles
brain spins and
eyes shut
Lips move
A rumor
hushed
ex plor ation
of
sighed effects
Ballerina tongue
pirouettes
and dips
skipping
skin trembling
slick and slippery
hard-soaked in
Finish Me
and
beads of cinnamon dew
tipping empty cups
sipping
Love Drugs
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
It is not yet dawn,
but still, I awaken
to the soft patter
of nighttime summer rain.
Gently it falls,
the warm breeze
ruffles the trees.
Branches caress my window,
reminiscent of some nightmare
now long gone.
Startling at first,
the rustle of branched fingers
soon melds with the soft drizzle.
Soothing and tender,
Nature’s melodies lull me
back to sleep.
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
Outside my door a cawing crow
of blackened wings and indigo
delivered by night's shivering storm.
The wind and winter's howling call,
scattered nests and down the feather falls.
Crack of limbs, cold and bare branched
mesquite leaves and needles spiral to the ground.
In a swooping field he flies into the tallest pines
deep and slow, the trees creak
wild in cello tones.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 10:49 PM UTC
boy,
jealous boy,
i'm crazy in love
with you,
if i tremble like a
a february leaf,
gold and brown
on the black branched
beech hedge,
where the snow's
fragile kiss melts
the night into
whispers,
and the wind,
wild with its
northern chill,
flutters those
leaves, blanched
like our love-starved
lips of
colour,
beneath a sky
of midnight's sea,
then i would melt,
like this sky
of midnight's sea,
crazy in love,
with my boy
of grey clouds,
who sweeps the
crying sea, with
strange whispering,
who kisses me so
beautifully in his arms
that i sigh and cry and die
for his love,
boy,
jealous boy,
i'm crazy for
your love,
like a star
glistening in the deepening
night where the
nightingale sings
and the grey clouds
drift forever in their
stream-like dream.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 6:24 PM UTC
They lied to me when they said that sticks and stones break bones but words don't hurt
I found that your words have branched and rooted within every splinter in my bones and the ache is nagging and constant
It's the guilt your words caused that weigh like boulders on my shoulders and every step causes a new fracture
Sticks and stones don't break bones but the weight of your words have crushed me
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC
Chapter I
I once was young minded,
vulnerable with wide tooth grins
and fluttering words,
binding soft skin with liquid
metals - like gallium,
clustering in my ribbed fingertips and
letting love level in my lips.
I turned old the day I watched
rough bodies portraying the new style
of
***
on a vhs tape, and he
gave me a shaking milkshake to
turn off my developing
voicebox.
I always wore this barbie nightgown
that had tears from the nights before,
but that's ancient dust that folks
flip past in encyclopedias.
as he knelt down to tie my veins
together in little bows,
I untied after each loop was set in
my bones.
his acidic fingers braced my eight
year old metal frame,
so I broke the nuts and bolts since
I wanted to see if he was
a part of the human race,
I wanted to see if he could bleed
iron-richness that kept myself breathing.
Chapter II
he was beautiful.
his philosophy branched in
segments and he tasted of
earthy tones, but sometimes
he couldn't smile easy and
I felt his love only in acts of passion.
The football game stuttered in
pure vertigo,
as if my body was still
positioned in missionary.
he held me in concern, his arms
laced as protection from myself.
as a survivor, his words felt like
whiplash or lagging from too much
flying in the high altitude.
I needed to forget, float, forgive
and begin the process over again.
I would never see the shades of love
from anyone other than from him,
his words used to brand me.
Chapter III
I drank too much.
I wished on meteorites,
lead-filled, hoping they wouldn't
fall on the tent.
my luck was never strong enough.
I felt as if a wildfire was singeing
my dysfunctional limbs.
I wanted him off. now.
and my tongue was made of
parchment paper. crisped.
I woke up ten after nine.
my body repulsed me,
throwing up the last of poisonous
alcohol I left stranded the
night before.
I devoted that I will never sleep in
a tent again.
Chapter IV
I am finally free.
I still have energy in these
old bones,
and I want to put them
to good use.
so I'll walk for centuries to
find truth and trust.
I use my voice to tell myself
I am more profound than the
surface film those insignificants swept
on my skin.
I found my voice again.
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
She and he went looking
for a place where God can't hide.
They found a quiet gallery
set upon a hillside.
She took nothing but a picture frame
and with it, houses became
monuments, stone timepieces
stood still
until the wind changed.
But trees became cardboard cutouts,
like a fourth grade
book report.
Curious, they walked
through endless halls
where on each wall
there hung a different name.
(I saw them flirting by
the water fountain)
After a good belly laugh,
she filled her lungs with the after math;
intricate, rain-soaked
veins branched out
toward a sky that went on forever.
By morning, however,
her breath could no longer be seen.
The night between her
and the art collector
had only been a dream.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
In a field of
grasshopper heat
of
the pride
the prone
of
the all that
is forever gone
of
crow hops - hops - hops
down a bug
of
a bridge I built
across a creek
of
frogs that
take a peek
of
overhead
an eagle soars
of
a mouse
fast in the grass
of
cattails
around the pound
of
a snake , branched
hanging on
of
upon seeing me
falls and is gone
of
a sea of goldenrod
and green
of
sadly seeing
yesterday's dream
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:26 PM UTC
I.
I awoke with different eyes today;
What felt like the eyes of Antares;
A lucid frenzy orbiting
ambrosial crimson dahlias,
Laughing.
You bore witness to the opening of my ribcage
That I have solemnly manifested
for your mind only.
I have opened my rib cage for you, yes,
Like a weeping delicate bloom,
Birthing in the winter desert,
travail.
This is your virginity
Mothered by my violent torn hands;
My bones shudder;
Vibrations of prophecies,
Oracles of each single atom
Bursting within the cosmos, singing—
I prostrate;
Submissive to your fragility.
You colored my skin
With the shade of your rouged lips,
And like the moon,
my branched bones became Spring
By your mouth
Entombed beautifully in the garden of our creed.
Don’t you know that your hands,
Your hands are flooded
With sins?
the sins you have encountered with your victims;
Like me, your victim;
Our veins flow from the rivers
of mother earths chest.
Nymphs with there pale skins;
They bathe in your hidden ocean of blood
That has yet to burst forth
Held behind the enshrined gates of virginity.
I hold you above my head,
I humbly wear you as my crown.
II.
I awoke with different eyes today
Perhaps the eyes of the black cat
Dying her ninth death.
I devise these things,
And I can tell you
The pleasure of feeling
Nothing.
III.
I awoke with different eyes today
Half life, half death.
I have gazed at life
And cried.
I have conversed with death
And laughed;
And by all means
Analogies have never seemed so bona fide
as the affairs of the sun and the moon.
IV
You awoke with new eyes this morning,
A woman.
You are now a woman.
This is the only difference.
forgive me for my words.
-Arizona
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
♪♫♫♪♫
running fluid, flowing
like love, like life, like blood, like knowing
the living waters from the throne of God –
it starts slow and it builds
equatorial storms, tropical sadness
as the guitars take you home
in reverberations of eternity
through endless repetitions of longing
through palm-branched alleys and red-dirt gullies
breeze caressing guavas and passion-fruit
past dictators’ mansions
past rusting shantytowns
over ditches running with sewage
into colors too intense to bear
colors to make you cry:
greens unseen in cold climates,
red earth, flowering jacarandas
women walking wrapped in rainbows
huge baskets on their heads
in the blare of traffic
in the madness of African cities
through the Congolese night that calls your name
and the smell of poor people’s food over cook fires
carried on the musical breeze
children smile and beggars crawl in the dust of the street
obscure wars are fought, false peace proclaimed
while the bones are exhumed
as the Congo jazz rolls on, flows on
like silver sorrow dancing gold in the heart of darkness
past liter bottles of beer sweating cold
on the bar table by the flower’s starkness
lighting up the midday – when those horns come in
on the boat from Cuba, by way of Bruxelles and Paris
blaring triumphant and strong
like a shipment of diamonds and uranium
glittering in the drunken afternoon of a song with no end.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
Days and days pass, buds bloom into flowers, they grow into a love, pluck them like stars, but they fade out,
Their night is longer than stars and in our case; we can’t ever seem to find the reflection of the sun rays on our face
The bouquet of crimson roses wilt in the absence of truth, I lay on my bed, sorting out the messes where my hands lay guilty,
Counting out my faults and slashing out the expectations I branched out from spring and summer
Millions of seconds spent throwing words around like cars smashing into trucks,
We were both careless drivers of this galaxy that we called ours,
Forgive me dear lover, I never had the water in me to pour to the seedlings,
Our kisses bled into accidents, and you were never a fire-fighter
Days and days passed we gave into pain just for the sake of what our past is made of,
Distance bit us, poisoned our veins with plague and our hearts wilted like the roses you used to give me every day,
But I never pressed our love the way I pressed the roses in the art books.
The sun grew away; we were left deserted in the tunnel without calendars and time passed us by,
Motionless we grew; winter came in and never left, but here we are waiting for the trains,
For the final parting that was due a long time ago.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC