"brandishes" poems
When the sun goes down
I have my first drink
standing in the yard,
talking to my neighbor
about the alder tree
rising between our houses,
a lowly tree that prospered
from our steady inattention
and shot up quick as a ****
to tower over our rooftops,
where it now brandishes
a rich, luxuriant crown.
Should we cut it down?
Neither of us wants to --
we agree that we like
the flourishing branches,
shade like thick woods.
We don't say it,
studying our tree in silence,
but we know that if the roots
get into the foundations
we've got real trouble.
John goes back inside.
Nothing to be done in summer --
not to those heavy branches.
I balance my empty glass
on top of a fence post.
In the quiet early dark,
those peaceful minutes
before dinner, I bend down
to the flower beds I love
and pull a few weeds --
something I've meant to do
all day.
2.4k
I am a peripheral *****
I brandish my notebook
Like a chef brandishes his dish-rag.
Where do wizards keep their wands?
I build worlds out of words
Universes out of silence;
Universes that can be destroyed
With a single eyebrow.
I am a calculator.
I am a thermometer.
I am a clashing painting on the wall.
I am a question.
I am as much as my pencil.
I am as much as my frame.
I am as much as my stains.
(I am as much as the buttons unbuttoned on my shirt collar.)
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:57 PM UTC
An effusive elaborate scheme the colors advance to bright spellbinding allure then they achieve
Depth of quality by cutting back to softer hues and then the natural dark green is the bold
Touch that succeeds with total symmetry showcased in a view perfected by glass the prism
Most fitting not only to see but to be captivated by perfected expression it is a metaphor for life
The master designer chooses his subjects well one infuses another then by degree others
Foreshadow and glorify it blends tangible and intangible into intelligent coherent order tasteful
And sublime the hint and the elusive wonder all is needed is the wind to bow and ****** it into
A profusion a veritable concert that stirs with appeal life is in motion the players advance and
Retreat each speaking lines unique to themselves what sensations speak tendrils on a garden
Trellis held and fixed a gesture that plays and portrays intricate details the mystery that plays so
Well the stealing of morning frost then the blaze and then restful dying rays that spell comfort
The field rolls and contorts this brandishes excitement exuberance veers and plunders life
Become exploration trails hidden thickets hide and hold expression that is pent up ready to
Explode what vesture we wear it grips our friend’s astonishment is read on their faces but it is
Like a house of many mirrors because their lives are having the same effect on you some days
Are uneventful others are storm tossed with grandness the riches of an all contained realm
Spasms convulse like waves of the sea we stand forth to puzzle and dream what does it all
Mean the sanctity reveals plumes that are invisible that are far reaching and they have given us
This course of endurance that belies longing we grow soft and an inner glowing surpasses the
Stringent the misfit that moans against conforming we are treasure that exceeds all expectation
Life is rich we are its brightest colors and light night is for brooding the day is for shinning and
Divulging the secrets found in the brooding time we accost others we signify to them not only
Our own worth but there’s also fetching is the spray that magnifies the sky we are the bursting
We are the aliveness that is found each day in our lives that is the dooryard of discovery
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
Sita smiles as i bring her a sandwich
Two toasts with butter, ham, and cheese
And yet sita smiles as if i've made her a 5 course meal
Sita smiles as i make her a drink of my own recipe
‘Thank you pepe’ she says
And brandishes a glass of mysterious content
She hasn’t tasted it yet
But still she smiles
Sita cheers for me as i run down the soccer field
She’s waiting for me with a hug, even after games i don't play
From the bench
I can see her smile
Sita is waiting in the car i've known my whole life
‘How was school’ she says
Always with a smile
‘I'm coming home Sita’
It's been 2 years since i've seen her
She doesn’t ask when
She doesn't ask how
She smiles
‘I can't come home Sita’
It's the day after the flight i couldn’t get on
She doesn’t ask when i can
She doesn’t ask but I tell her how I missed it
I tell her i love her and will see her soon
She smiles
It's been 3 years since i've seen her
Sita tells me she has cancer
I tell her she's the strongest person i know
I love her
She smiles
‘I promise i’ll fly out to new zealand to see you’
The last time we spoke
She tells me she hates the food there
I think about how i’ll make her a sandwich, like i used to
I tell her it’ll be okay, she’ll be okay
‘I love you Sita, I promise I’ll see you soon’
She doesn’t ask when
She doesn’t ask how
Sita looks at me, the face I’ve known all my life
And she smiles
Aug 6, 2023
Aug 6, 2023 at 2:34 PM UTC
Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only dirt that, like jellyfish, echoed away
A refugee of the Imperial Court once hid in the Zhongnan.
He survived in silk rags, and would ode The Way
Moss-haired men watch Magnavox in windows,
the evangelical salesman begging them not to toad away.
Across the street, near the top floor, a freshly-ex-student
sits at his desk in an IRS building, told five hours ago to code away
A face, topped with hot pink, brandishes her crop in a field
of signs, screaming at Wall Street's old way.
A yam of a man, braving his new home in the hills,
freedom from obligation, finds a stream to wash the woad away.
Along a country road, a man with a sandpaper'd
face counts his money, having just sold whey
Lotus clouds oversee a Popsicle stick roadway,
between us only a past that, like jellyfish, echoed a way
Twenty one years have given me many names.
Call me Kyle, or the others I've borrowed away.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
Gliding o'er all, through all, Through Nature, Time, and Space, As a ship on the waters advancing, The voyage of the soul—not life alone, Death, many deaths I'll sing.
Sometimes sprawling leaves just don't cut it.
Sometimes, you gotta be a badass.
Grow a beard
Cut the grass.
Get some shades,
Get a hat.
Sometimes a song isn't adequate
To express what you're feeling, y'know?
Sometimes "myself"
Needs a happy fix,
Blue skies,
Stuff blowing up and
Flying sparks.
Every now and then,
The learn'd astronomer
Brandishes a smoking gun.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
Life hovers above us,
it generously gives us energy.
Colors rich, and tactile brilliance it bestows.
Tomorrow,
you and I will still have souls
designed for pleasing one and other,
no matter what pain our flesh endures
through the night.
Do not dwell on the flames of hell,
or the sulfur smell,
it will all flee at first light,
as our love brandishes beams of positivity
in sympathetic unity with the rising sun.
Our fears will run for their feotid caves,
and a kiss will drive them from our thoughts as well.
Through the pale, into the black, until the pale into the bright
I give you the essence of my body to hold you tight,
safe and warm in the cold and lawless night.
Think of me when the walls come closing in
and I will bring us a pair of hammers
and we can break free of these fetters.
Run towards the horizon, hands clasped
free
together.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:51 PM UTC
I try to measure the overwhelming depth of the ocean,
And with a sly deception shudder at my fantastic obsession.
The Me Within opens his wings, flies high in the sky,
Lovingly callous about the miles treaded by.
*
I weave around myself, an aura of hapless piety,
Adorn my helplessness with a cocoon of sincerity.
The Me Within emancipates – out of the golden cage,
To soar the mountains steep with an astounding rage.
*
I look at my past with guilt, remorse and sorrow,
And search outward for an excuse that I could easily borrow.
The Me Within looks ahead never to turn back,
His burlesque gestures mock at me for the pluck that I lack.
*
I live in a world of purity, of rituals, of rights and of wrongs,
Content with the legacy of my notes, happy with the tyranny of my songs.
The Me Within is mischievously charming, gamboling in between,
And I hear his whistle blowing, humming a tune so serene.
*
I count my days, count my time, and count my blessings, to win,
And relinquish the countless moments of joy, scared of committing a sin.
The Me Within is a careless lad, who happily loses with a smile,
And brandishes his joyful hat, every once in a while.
*
I wish I could be like him, and he’d live my life like me,
I’d paint the sky with freedom, and dive through the depth of the sea.
Reality shrieks yet again, with her deafening draconian din –
When he leaves me, and I leave him, I’d meet the Me Within…
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
I know not if I have ever seen
a night so still as this.
Clouds rolling on a starry sea;
A beautiful eclipse.
But lo, another light appears
now I am on the run.
The man whose gold I stole is near
he brandishes a gun.
A dark alley, a scurried fall
Slowed by the sack I bore;
he caught me trapped against a wall,
and the night was still no more.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.
The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.
Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.
What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******
“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”
Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.
A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.
“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.
All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.
The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.
A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.
“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
Mandibles make their own hoarding,
but they do not make it as they please;
they do not make it under semiconductor-selected civilians,
but under civilians existing already, given and transmitted from the past.
The trailer of all dead gentians weighs like a nipper
on the brandishes of the lob.
And just as they seem to be occupied with revolutionizing themselves and thistles,
creating something that did not exist before, precisely
in such equipments of rheostat crochet they anxiously conjure up the spleens
of the past to their setter, bother from them nappies, bayonet slouches,
and cottons in organ-grinder to present this new scheme in wound hoarding
in timpanist-honored disincentive and borrowed larch.
Thus Luther put on the masseur of the Appearance Paul,
the Rhapsody of 1789-1814 draped itself alternately in the gully of the Rook Requisite and the Rook Empress,
and the Rhapsody of 1848 knew novelette bicentenary to do than to parsonage,
now 1789, now the rheostat trailer of 1793-95.
In like mantel, the belch who has learned a new larch always translates it backfire into his motor toot,
but he assimilates the spleen of the new larch
and exteriors himself freely in it only when he moves in it
without recalling the old and when he forgets his navy toot.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch
Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!
Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.
I wrote this poem for a great blue heron who visits a pond that I pass on my daily walks — a truly majestic bird and the ultimate spear-fisher.
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 7:40 PM UTC
My! The beach it looks so cool today
With the sun shining down, the tide in
The golden sands, the lovely blue sea
How I'd love to be down there now,
messing about among the rocks
Fishing for ***** looking in the rock
pools
Paddling through the water,
swimming out in the tide,
Having a picnic with my Mom; she'd
have the blanket laid out
For us all to sit upon
She'd have lovely scones with butter
and strawberry jam
And lovely hot sugary tea
And "Go on, go get an ice cream from
the ice cream man".
But No! I can't, I've got to go to school
today
With this heavy schoolbag strapped to
my back with all my books in it
Yea, I got to go to school today and
face the scary teacher
The way she shouts at us and
brandishes that ruler of hers
And she'll slap you if you don't have
the right answer
Scary! Scary! Teacher
She's not at all like my Mother, my
Mom she's so soft and kindly.....
And she worries a lot I can tell, Mom
you mustn't worry,
She looks so sad sometimes I could cry.
At school how time, it moves so slow
O! I wish, how I wish I didn't have to
go
As children we're all thrown together,
it gets so noisy and there's quarrels
And some of the bigger boys from the
older classes
Their nasty, they push you around
and want to fight with you.
Coming back to class from the
toilets sometimes, on my own
I stop there & look out the door at
the empty playground
The leaves blowing in the wind, the
sparrows busy about
And then I look at the school gates and
I think
" Beyond those school gates lies Home"
How I wish then I could just run home
I'd run and I'd run
Run past the gates of the houses with
their angry barking dogs
I'd run ! Run the whole way, I wouldn't
stop:
I want to be at home with my Mom
Up in my room with my books, my
comics and toy soldiers.
But No! they say the Guard(policeman)
he'd be doing his rounds now
And if he was to see you, he'd catch
you
And then there'd be trouble then, Big
Big! Trouble!!!
Mum would be brought down and Dad
would have to be told too
At least, that's what they tell me,
More trouble for Mum
So I can't - I must go to school then.
Yes! I've got to go to school today and
face again the scary teacher
At least I got my homework done, but
there's still so much
I don't understand...so many things...
so many things to learn,
Scary! Scary! Teacher! she never looks
happy
She laughs at us and calls us bad
names
Just sitting there we tighten up inside,
under her gaze
And we pray "please don't ask me,
please don't ask me
Please don't call out my name",
How we watch that clock up on the
wall
Praying for 3 o'clock to arrive.
Why is it I had to come to this place?
Why!!!
I don't want to be here, I want to be at
home with my Mom.
Yes! I'd love to be down there today on
the beach
But I got to go to school today.
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 7:45 AM UTC
A tall, elegant wallflower.
Her orchid eyes tell a million tales.
An expressionless face.
A contagious smile.
She's easily flushed, and often hides away.
I love when she talks, her voice is melodic.
Her laugh causes my heart to ache.
Her small hands cradling a book.
Everything about her makes my heart pound.
The curving of her lips.
The way she blinks.
Her methodical way of thought.
I love it all.
She's a little messed up, but that's alright.
I help her as much as I can.
She's scarred, and in pain, but that's okay.
She opened up, little by little.
Making me proud, and a little flustered.
When she brandishes her knife, I feel a sense of fright.
But I know that everything will be okay.
She's timid, polite and talks quietly.
I'm patient with her, she means the world to me.
Whenever we touch, my face turns red.
But it's okay, because hers does too.
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
I was a mason and am meant for daily wages,
With me are helpers, young, old, men and women,
And we are the builders, but we do not own the building.
Yet, we own the building till the last patch of the masonry.
We sleep in the storey; dry our clothes, cook our food;
We scatter our belongings and we rule the building a while.
People think we’re just masons, but we’re the kings of the construction.
They say it’s their home or shop to make money for their ‘statuses,
But who is the owner of the property,
And no one on earth is the owner of anything.
On morning we brush our teeth; clean our bowels;
We clean our body; we fill our bowels;
And we take our tools to break and cement the walls.
The sun sets that we shall crawl to our beds,
And our body twisted to stretch out from pain.
Every day we the kings till the last patch of our work,
And no one questions our stay under the roof.
We shall permit even the ‘owner’ of the roof.
We become ‘untouchable’ after our last stroke.
We make them ‘comfortable’ for their stay with our sweat,
And they threw coins at our sweat.
Yet we have not lost our kingship, for we shall regain it
When we’re called for another construction.
We’re happy with our kingship ‘cause we are kings of many homes,
But they ‘own’ a bit of the land.
None on earth is the owner of the land,
For HE Who hath created it is its Owner,
And we’re HIS tenants staying a while,
And we play gimmicks to mimic the outrageous traitor,
And the traitor is the law-breaker, who counteracts the Creator,
But in vain he brandishes his sword against the Mighty.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:34 AM UTC
come on sweet heart
chin up, don't tear yourself apart,
stand tall,
even though your 5'6'
disregard that , wear your six inch heals and strut with brutish animosity
your a lion whose collar brandishes six inch spikes facing inwards now take of your leather back straps and show them what you've been working on
let the sun glint of your scars and make dam sure they know how you earnt them
LG
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.
The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.
Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.
What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******
“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”
Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.
A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.
“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.
All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.
The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.
A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.
“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
He sings a song so sweet and soft
As he strokes your smooth skin
He soothes your pain and eases your worries
And he blocks out all of the din
The light flickers but you are weary
Your mind is slowing down
Something glints in the corner of your eye
But you're too tired to even frown
Your vision blurs as you slump to the floor
His voice permeates your soul
You realise now what was glinting
You struggle to rise but can't reach your goal
His song has grown sinister and twisted
As he brandishes the knife
You are helpless and hopeless
In the final moments of your life
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
Her face, deceivingly empty, like that of a mask
Concealing what lies beneath
Her mask, carved from a slab of marble -
Cold, unyielding, stoic, unconquerable
She cowers behind it like a suit of armor
And brandishes it like a sword against anyone who threatens to come near
But in the darkness, she surrenders
The mask stripped away to reveal her in all nakedness
In solitude, she weeps
In solitude, she longs
In solitude, she succumbs to weakness -
Vulnerable, bare, exposed, trembling
Come daylight, the mask is on again
Deceivingly empty, concealing, hiding
Nobody sees beyond the mask
No one hears the silent cry or the whoop of elation
No one sees her eyes light up or witness her break down in grief
No one feels her longing, no one sees her pain
All they see is the mask.
Jun 7, 2010
Jun 7, 2010 at 2:56 AM UTC
a Halloween
standout in
a costume
that bellows
in neither
lake that
clouds their
garnishment that
brews the
heathen in
this gallery
only to
bear false
witness with
euphoria that
brandishes the
wine here
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
Whenever I think of putting pen to paper
Intangible thoughts into words
And translating the foreign tongue of my heart
My body starts to shake, my cold blood begins to boil
And tears fill my eyes, but they refuse to flow
Explaining depression is like trying to conquer writers block
Unfortunately, I suffer from both
To my parents, I’m just stressed
To my siblings it’s typical me
And to my friends, it’s taking a joke too far
My mother says she doesn’t understand
Depression doesn’t exist in her culture, but patriarchy does
So, I smile and say it’s nothing, but the ***** in me rears her ugly head and screams
‘Look at me, don’t you recognise the face you wake up to everyday
The feelings you were taught to stomp out and ground down for your husband’s morning coffee
I am you…’
But the coward in me smothers these silent pleas
My father is more eloquent than my mother
He brandishes words as if they were swords
But throws them like poison daggers, twice as deadly
So, he twists and mangles my words, skewering my perception
The heart’s silent screams turning into never ending tears, turning into rivers of blood
I tell him how much I despise him and how I wish I were dead
But one look at my mother’s stricken face, her warning glare,
Reduces my courage into ash and I degrade myself further with an apology
My siblings are a confusing, unpredictable bunch
My brothers don’t know what’s going on, but they understand
How I envy their innocence and ignorance
My older sisters are more complicated
One is my rock, the only thing keeping me from ending it all
She says she’s been here before, that I need to be strong and that she understands
But that only makes me feel guilty for never being there for her
She’s leaving home soon and all I can think is ‘What about me?’
Our eldest sister is a nassistic sociopath
She thinks she’s helping…
Now I don’t have many ‘friends’, but I do have a Best Friend
When I tell her that I’m depressed, she doesn’t ask me why
On most days, she’s my polar opposite, the Yin to my Yang
She’s as skinny as I am fat, loves horror movies which I hate
She can’t stand anime, this is her only flaw
But on some days our stars align
And it’s eerie how much our life experiences mirror each other
To my other friends I just laugh everything off
As if curing this emptiness was as easy as getting over a broken heart
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 7:33 AM UTC
You coated your words in spice;
fragrant lies perfuse deep inside.
Wrapped and bundled and brandished
in bouquets of flowering excuses.
You’ve taught me a lesson;
after letting those words of yours
taint the inside of my head,
dripping into my heart.
Spoilage, wasted.
Never could you have committed
any crime more cruel.
When your flowers wilt
and fade,
when your spices turn rancid,
I will know what it was.
You never loved me at all.
You can replace me in days.
Find a new love to call.
Apparently she fills the voids
I couldn’t anymore.
Take those fanciful dreams of yours,
of you and me and memories,
and bury them alongside what’s
left of me.
I don’t need to be pulled along
into your little playground;
your little fair, exhibit, of
times gone by when we
once touched.
Just know that I’m still the one
who took you exploring.
I’m the one who offered you a different
revolution.
I’m the one you worshipped naked before you
not very long ago.
And you, girl.
I can only offer you such sympathy.
Because you’ve opened yourself to the same shadow,
the predator in all loves;
the one that toys and bends and preys on that
vulnerable little parcel of yours.
The one that beats for him.
But don’t forget it also beats for you.
And do you really want him to tease and taunt and
hold that thing?
Poor girl.
When he brandishes that same bouquet at your door,
you know it’s time, poor thing.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
In Science class
he brandishes the stick
of wood, alight at the tip,
wafts it against
the balloon’s skin,
his students awaiting
the expulsion of colour,
a bang to jangle the eardrums.
He moves in, the pumpkin flame
prods the hollow shape
and it vanishes
in a second of a second
to a spiral of fire,
the sound spreading
through the room faster
than teenage gossip.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
Don’t open the door Mary
Look after those children upstairs
When they cry your name in the night
Cause they will
As you know better than anyone
Don’t open the door Mary
When the man calls out your name
All gentle and soothing
Like a preacher at the altar
But it’s not him
Don’t open the door Mary
Cause hes not the man you knew
Resist the curiosity wriggling inside you
Ignore him calling outside
As he brandishes his knife
Don’t open the door Mary
To the familiar voice you hear
Things have changed inside him
A strangeness has taken over
Now a darkness waits at your door
Don’t open the door Mary
Just sit and wait in your chair
Eat the beautiful chicken resting on the plate
Drink the wine velvet in its glass
And dream on this beautiful evening
Don’t open the door Mary
As he’s banging on the door
Cry into the night if you need to
And let god listen to your head
Let him save your soul tonight
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 5:05 PM UTC
windows open in winter
lonely, hiemal caress
I feel my veins curl
wilt like pulled ribbon
they cramp under the muscle
cold stifling the crimson
the blood collects in my cheeks
pools there; potent, pressing
but he brandishes the pain –
I watch him thrash the world
off of the hems of his cuffs
offer a fist to his cries
I watch him dance around his ills
like they are open flame around his feet
bold, loudmouth
his thoughts bounce right from the brim
of his broken lips
with no caution; it is to the wind
only a fool could be so confident
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 6:30 PM UTC