Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Bruised Orange Apr 2015
I crack the brickle bone and then carve back
through muscle taut with cell memory,
past tendons that could never teach us love.

We were bone on bone all the way.

I slice past ridges where my fingertips once danced,
filet the contours of youthful sighs, where repeated
good-byes were a chance to begin again.

This carcass is rotting, and the back and forth sawing
from a knife that's grown too dull for its mauling
has left my hands itching from the putrid remains.

Stand by, watch the blood congeal on the ground.

I guess you can never cleanly cleave the meat that's been
hanging so long in your backyard.
Just let it drop:
the roast,
the ****.

See how the bones settle into the soil.
Who knows what might grow there?
NaPo 4/2
Tiri Dear Apr 2014
First associated with romantic love,
My baby sings a sweet song:
“Away and above”
Innocence cascades from her tender lips,
Trembling.
Fresh, and guileless
She’s December’s snow sprinklings;
Pale, and shamed.
And perfectly lonely
She’s wildly tame.
Her affection spreads to me solely.
Look she’s smiling.
How customary.
Her feelings interior
Au contraire, she
Fell to a man of superior
Strength.
I took her hair in my hand,
Her brickle strands,
Breaking, and
her heart dropped
To the earth and I stomped.
Danny Dec 2019
Do you think you can riddle me this riddle
Do you think you can help me cross the river and not leave me in the middle

Do you think you can stand it if I pierced your heart with a needle
Do you think you can wait till it's over and not wriggle

Do you think our night calls can be more than the usual jingle
Though It's hard for me to dive in deep but I would if you make it simple

This frown on my face is not becoming and neither is the wrinkle
But when I'm with you like an ironed shirt I lose the crinkles

Is it possible for me to get your right  dimple
I like them and I'm wishing we can mingle

How would you like to remake the ****** *******
Can you go all night or you will fall into a deep sleep like the little

I'm bad at this and I'm pretty sure it will brickle
I want a lot, I've become so selfish that I won't even let you nibble

Touch down before take off thank goodness I'm not shiftful
Hope I won't kick it the way I was born and bred, single

I'm a thirsty soul but I keep breaking my water bottle, it's so brittle
A little desperate, would drink from a brook that has shrunk into a mere trickle

It's sure that we're going to crash if we cruise in this 2007 beetle
But dropping a stone in the pond is the only way to see the ripples

We'll never know what happens in Seattle, downpour or mizzle
If we don't tempt fate, what we think will always be fickle
If you don't start here you'll never get there
Away are the mangled yellow rose
Tangles wilt into a little pray pose
Handled mist by wind and wrangled
To many a large little yellow rose pile

So too is the tree’s scatter sprawling
Hung onto branches’ leaf fall so causing
Their sweep between the mote debris. Float
Down as remnants of another sunless home

Eccentric, as time always throws with an ease
Centrifuge gently ordered around by the breeze
Sorts the bark from the copse to the outermost trough
Around concentrical cycles of rose petals doffed

Cry, little backyard grove green poplars
Growing backward so grass under prospers
Will sun now posture itself down with passion
For its green poplars die, distant, forgotten

Supposing which nature itself would have spoke
Which oak, and which posey can’t patter for hope
Symposing; the whole forest arrived in a room,
Blooms, and as such is giving birth to a tomb

Away are the ranges of colors of yellow
Rose-stained by little backyard grove cell’s throes
Ere charnel, with fits, all bled and divided
Planted upside-down so life fades skyward

And admitted into brickle cracks in its space
That enclosing trim, divorcing light from embrace
Like Methuselah in-negative, in retreat
In hymns spinning sap down a spiral of heat

Emaciated, strangled, so close to summer
Dry, little grave rose seeds, up from earth
Plume per some bracharchein-must despite
Succumbing to a simple sort of chaos of life

Cry, little backyard grove, don’t falter
Or falter, but make of your tears water
For creating, on other backyards, targets
Still sun, revolting and drifting like Argus

On pasture whose grass is a leaking function,
Incarnal fire, nulls, and its desperate induction
Implanted aen rayrounds aimed as devils did
Before this great plain, in its nucleoid, spread

Away basks creation that is happened, at movement
At once, and the gray roses too are a plumage
Their stems so simple at the simple end
Of winds-sent saccharine a brittle blend

Will whittle brown like solar lentils o’er a frond’s
Neck, face, its whole supple being peppered into yards
Of poplars, and all that life that all fades around them
Prayered, packed, all stacked: all grownup to heaven

All but the kindred, petrified, indenting pith’s jut
Being what the generations call silent. Be what
Some tree’s failing structure, botuled and pious,
Might impress in the mass ailing under its guidance

Cry, little backyard grove growing on
Top of, and little furtive leaves’ abscond
May, from many an old rose pile
Carry, till sun, onto fields not defiled

Releasing their collective last spray. A cork-
Like works in the shriveled bed of the world
And the trees can’t believe it comes down to the grass,
Their tension, dew marking green upon a new path
from july 5, 2020
poem from the past a day #27
every other poem i've written has been created within the span of a couple hours, a couple days, or a couple months. this poem took one year. i ٭lived٭ writing this.
every choice of word is more careful. every syllable on every line was counted over and over and over again. these are things i do normally, but with grove it's more- MORE.
fifteen stanzas of successful prose which could have come from no other voice but my own. this is the poem i show off to prove that i, surprisingly, DO write poetry.
this is my poem. read my poem.

— The End —