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Adam Childs Aug 2014
LION
As the glorious LION
Stands strong in stature
Radiating with a presence
Of Absolute rule
The air washed with
A bristly respect
A natural pride
Beams with  beauty
He guards the gateway to truth
and only the brave may enter
He is the king that needs no crown
as he holds a royal presence as he
sits in his golden coat and main
Lies spark combust just bounce off
dissolve in all his shine.  

As broken men become renewed
Their fractured parts
Collect in the melting ***
Of the Lion's  stare
As they are engulfed and swallowed
In the reservoirs of his strength
As the many wounded souls
Find themselves restored
In his majestic presence
As he rattles the very fabric
Of this world

There is no procrastinating belly
Exposed by a lackluster display
No one insults his strength
By creating a make believe world
Or covers him with scaffolding so
That they may alter him
For he is the finished article
And he is never held up or supported
With anyone's emotional ropes or strings
For he no ones puppet
He is never silenced
By the Strangle hold of this world
Tightened with a multitude of gestures
For I hear his ROAR!!!!!!!!
His explosive self expression
As his throat bursts and beams like the sun
Breaking all collars, and his tongue is freed
As a thousand trap doors Open up in him  
And boulders are lifted and rocks are shattered
within the sound of his voice.
His Soft pads of silent stealth
Gather for all his wealth
As the power of his pounce
Is governed by both his strength
Of spirit and the honesty
With which he meets the earth
For he owns all of his own pain
And paces and growls to warn
Away any who seek to steal his fresh ****
And diminish him with pretty lies
For he owns all his space
As it feeds his strength
As somewhere in the fury of feasting
Lionesses and Lions  
We find our freedom
For his power explodes like a volcano
When his soul meets the earth  
As he shakes off all avoidance
To seek only truth
As streaks of white light
And pure Gold glisten in the SUN
As the world's projections
Reflect and bounce off him

There is so much to learn
From a beautiful LION
just decided to take my two poems about a LION and remove all the dead wood and see what I came up with . not sure but I love some of the lines individually
#strength #lion
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Martin Narrod May 2014
Johnny 3:16
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
*Johnny 3:16 is an unattainable film featuring Vincent Gallo. The trailer for the film is available here
#love #friends #poetry #of #and #america #*** #smoke #usa #birds #freeform #prose #stream #consciousness #streamofconsciousness #fruits #fruit #bullies #silver #cool #fingertips #eggs #sexuality #glory #midwest #******* #foundation #martinnarrod #vile #vegetables #egg #na #werewolf #eastern #mused #narrod #martin #prague #amused #unitedstatesofamerica #europe #highlandparkpoetryfoundation #publishedpoets #cz #bratislava #straspodralskem #stras #pod #ralskem #hamr #jezere #praha #liberec #europeanpoets #americanpoets #nightengales #hostagenegotiation #jug #swoop #beep #mimon #dun #moor #lounging #stickiness #mango #yolks #grapefruit #love-making #martin-narrod #unitedpoetryfoundation #highlandparkpoetrymagazine #chicagopoetryfoundation #chicagopoets #poetryfromchicago #midwestpoetry #werewolves #lycan #horrorstory #freeprose #formless
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Sarah Sep 2017
You Are Not Alone.
On cold, October evenings, you can hear the rustling of leaves being blown by the wind.
Your neighbor's dog barking with an echo down the street.
The giggling of children as they play games under the glow of dim street lights.
You are not alone.

And then there's the sunset,
Colors grazing what is left of the autumn leaves on the trees,
it is time for you to situate yourself back into your home.
There's a quietness to your house; bodies lingering nearby but don't present themselves.
You scale the stairs that creak with each step like an eerie tune that brings brief life into the home.
Bristly fur of a cat brushes against your goose bumped skin.
You are not alone.

The stillness of your bedroom,
The hall light peeking through from under your closed door creating shadows in the darkness.
The light representing someone is still awake in the quiet house as you're trying to close your eyes and shut off your thoughts.
Quiet sobbing turned into hyperventilating as the blanket you're clutching, crumples as your grip tightens.
You feel cold and helpless fighting internally with the dark shadows making their way into your mind.
Your gasping breaths are abruptly stopped by the beat of rushed footsteps.

The swinging open of your door creates a wave of light that masks out the nothingness in your room.
Their arms wrapping tightly around your shaking body,
as you gurgle your fears out of your throat,
is that warmth you craved.
"You are not alone."
Written 9/2/2017
#depression #anxiety #sarahrh #story #sad #simile #darkness #imagery #emotional #positive
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Adam Childs Mar 2014
THE LION'S ROAR
Hear the LION'S ROAR
As the many indignant souls
Find themselves restored
In his majestic presence
As he rattles the very fabric
Of this world as many
Broken men become renewed
Their fractured parts
Collect in the melting ***
Of the Lions stare
So let us all dare
To live life like a Lion

Lounging in the sun
Owning and surveying
His beautiful life
Storing great forces
Reservoirs of strength
To pounce and punch
Soft pads of silent stealth
Gather for all his wealth
His appetite strong
He honors every parts of self

But there is no where
To hide in the cats eye stare
As my many fumbling phoney selves
Dissolve in his melting glare
As I am shamed by a look
As I approach life like a crook
My procrastinating belly exposed
In my lack luster display
As I breath a contempt
For my precious life

Standing strong in stature
And rich in golden shine
Radiating with a presence
Of Absolute rule
The air washed with
A bristly respect
A natural pride
Beams with a beauty
Freed from all that is false
His being effortlessly
Embraces the fields
Of his own nature

As I am silenced by
The strangle hold of this
Bitter dysfunctional world
Tightened by a
Multitude of silent gestures
I sit to listen
To the LION'S ROAR
I feel my throat burst
My gagged tongue freed
My choked throat
Beams like the sun
As I softly delve
In to the LION'S ROAR
An open infinity
Cuts my many collars
Releasing my self expression
As a thousand trap doors
Open in me

Learning from the loving LION
Our self expression freed
And our appetite renewed
We live a new adventure
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Ted Hughes
Examination at the Womb-Door
Who owns those scrawny little feet?    Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face?    Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs?    Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles?    Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts?    Death.
Who owns these questionable brains?    Death.
All this messy blood?    Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes?    Death.
This wicked little tongue?    Death.
This occasional wakefulness?    Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth?    Death.
Who owns all of space?    Death.

Who is stronger than hope?    Death.
Who is stronger than the will?    Death.
Stronger than love?    Death.
Stronger than life?    Death.

But who is stronger than Death?
                           Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.
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Anne Sexton
The Abortion
Somebody who should have been born
is gone.

Just as the earth puckered its mouth,
each bud puffing out from its knot,
I changed my shoes, and then drove south.

Up past the Blue Mountains, where
Pennsylvania humps on endlessly,
wearing, like a crayoned cat, its green hair,

its roads sunken in like a gray washboard;
where, in truth, the ground cracks evilly,
a dark socket from which the coal has poured,

Somebody who should have been born
is gone.

the grass as bristly and stout as chives,
and me wondering when the ground would break,
and me wondering how anything fragile survives;

up in Pennsylvania, I met a little man,
not Rumpelstiltskin, at all, at all...
he took the fullness that love began.

Returning north, even the sky grew thin
like a high window looking nowhere.
The road was as flat as a sheet of tin.

Somebody who should have been born
is gone.

Yes, woman, such logic will lead
to loss without death. Or say what you meant,
you coward...this baby that I bleed.
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Clem Dec 2016
pre-halloween
I am not who I think I am—
I never said I was

Sometimes I’m
a monster—
swirling, yellowgreen skin,
bristly coils of
hair sticking
out,

strumlike underneath
your fingertips—

sometimes I’m
a normal guy,
angry and hungry
with greasy-tousled
greasy locks—

or a subaverage
woman,
curvy and compassionate,
warm *****
beckoning to all
bereft—

most often, I’m a
translucent ghost,
too little there
yet not enough gone,
genderless,
formless,
obsolete
i wrote this before halloween... hence... the title
#gender #self-hate #idk #confusion #bro #depersonalization
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Pablo Neruda
Ode To a Chestnut on the Ground
From bristly foliage
you fell
complete, polished wood, gleaming mahogany,
as perfect
as a violin newly
born of the treetops,
that falling
offers its sealed-in gifts,
the hidden sweetness
that grew in secret
amid birds and leaves,
a model of form,
kin to wood and flour,
an oval instrument
that holds within it
intact delight, an edible rose.
In the heights you abandoned
the sea-urchin burr
that parted its spines
in the light of the chestnut tree;
through that slit
you glimpsed the world,
birds
bursting with syllables,
starry
dew
below,
the heads of boys
and girls,
grasses stirring restlessly,
smoke rising, rising.
You made your decision,
chestnut, and leaped to earth,
burnished and ready,
firm and smooth
as the small *******
of the islands of America.
You fell,
you struck
the ground,
but
nothing happened,
the grass
still stirred, the old
chestnut sighed with the mouths
of a forest of trees,
a red leaf of autumn fell,
resolutely, the hours marched on
across the earth.
Because you are
only
a seed,
chestnut tree, autumn, earth,
water, heights, silence
prepared the germ,
the floury density,
the maternal eyelids
that buried will again
open toward the heights
the simple majesty of foliage,
the dark damp plan
of new roots,
the ancient but new dimensions
of another chestnut tree in the earth.
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Ernest Hemingway
Riparto D'Assalto
Drummed their boots on the camion floor,
Hob-nailed boots on the camion floor.
Sergeants stiff,
Corporals sore.
Lieutenant thought of a Mestre ***** —
Warm and soft and sleepy *****,
Cozy, warm and lovely *****;
****** cold, bitter, rotten ride,
Winding road up the Grappa side.
Arditi on benches stiff and cold,
Pride of their country stiff and cold,
Bristly faces, ***** hides —
Infantry marches, Arditi rides.
Grey, cold, bitter, sullen ride —
To splintered pines on the Grappa side
At Asalone, where the truck-load died.
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John Mahoney May 2012
mowing the bird bone garden
all day long, their banging disturbed me at my work
startling me from my reverie, lost deep in the world
of I Wish I Had A Heart Like Yours, Walt Whitman

the birds, returned early from wherever it is they hide
during the long winter, have come to fling themselves
against the over-sized picture window in my living room,

songbird pitch themselves into my poet's dull daytime
so that i am moved to rise from my desk, to look out,
to seek a bird flying away, or peer down to search for the

tiny body maybe roosting among the stalks of the overgrown
hydrangea, which captured  autumn’s maple leaves, worn
like a Chicago matron's mink to keep the winter chill at bay

and, as the spring surrenders to the warmer days, i mow the
brightly greened grass, innocently cutting row after row,
to turn finally to the narrow strip nearest the picture window,

a mixture of grass, dried leaves and tiny twigs, all mulched
by the power mower, where i discover these dessicated bodies  
exhumed from shallow graves at the base of the newly leafed

hydrangea, their stiff, dry feathers bristly, colored a washed
out grey, tiny feet tightly balled, with all the soft parts missing
and the beaks a startling white, as though bleached, bright against

the dullness of the little corpses which seem to have sunk into
the mosses of the yard, so that they lay preserved below the blade
for the first late-spring chore -- mowing the bird bone garden

i sleep with the bedroom window ajar despite the overnight chill
and dream of the memory of birds, their shapes, their white beaks
and, still, the bird songs wake me in the cool green spring morning
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T. S. Eliot
Growltiger’s Last Stand
GROWLTIGER was a Bravo Cat, who lived upon a barge;
In fact he was the roughest cat that ever roamed at large.
From Gravesend up to Oxford he pursued his evil aims,
Rejoicing in his title of “The Terror of the Thames.”

His manners and appearance did not calculate to please;
His coat was torn and seedy, he was baggy at the knees;
One ear was somewhat missing, no need to tell you why,
And he scowled upon a hostile world from one forbidding eye.

The cottagers of Rotherhithe knew something of his fame,
At Hammersmith and Putney people shuddered at his name.
They would fortify the hen-house, lock up the silly goose,
When the rumour ran along the shore: GROWLTIGER’S ON THE LOOSE!

Woe to the weak canary, that fluttered from its cage;
Woe to the pampered Pekinese, that faced Growltiger’s rage.
Woe to the bristly Bandicoot, that lurks on foreign ships,
And woe to any Cat with whom Growltiger came to grips!

But most to Cats of foreign race his hatred had been vowed;
To Cats of foreign name and race no quarter was allowed.
The Persian and the Siamese regarded him with fear—
Because it was a Siamese had mauled his missing ear.

Now on a peaceful summer night, all nature seemed at play,
The tender moon was shining bright, the barge at Molesey lay.
All in the balmy moonlight it lay rocking on the tide—
And Growltiger was disposed to show his sentimental side.

His bucko mate, GRUMBUSKIN, long since had disappeared,
For to the Bell at Hampton he had gone to wet his beard;
And his bosun, TUMBLEBRUTUS, he too had stol’n away-
In the yard behind the Lion he was prowling for his prey.

In the forepeak of the vessel Growltiger sate alone,
Concentrating his attention on the Lady GRIDDLEBONE.
And his raffish crew were sleeping in their barrels and their bunks—
As the Siamese came creeping in their sampans and their junks.

Growltiger had no eye or ear for aught but Griddlebone,
And the Lady seemed enraptured by his manly baritone,
Disposed to relaxation, and awaiting no surprise—
But the moonlight shone reflected from a thousand bright blue eyes.

And closer still and closer the sampans circled round,
And yet from all the enemy there was not heard a sound.
The lovers sang their last duet, in danger of their lives—
For the foe was armed with toasting forks and cruel carving knives.
Then GILBERT gave the signal to his fierce Mongolian horde;
With a frightful burst of fireworks the Chinks they swarmed aboard.
Abandoning their sampans, and their pullaways and junks,
They battened down the hatches on the crew within their bunks.

Then Griddlebone she gave a screech, for she was badly skeered;
I am sorry to admit it, but she quickly disappeared.
She probably escaped with ease, I’m sure she was not drowned—
But a serried ring of flashing steel Growltiger did surround.

The ruthless foe pressed forward, in stubborn rank on rank;
Growltiger to his vast surprise was forced to walk the plank.
He who a hundred victims had driven to that drop,
At the end of all his crimes was forced to go ker-flip, ker-flop.

Oh there was joy in Wapping when the news flew through the land;
At Maidenhead and Henley there was dancing on the strand.
Rats were roasted whole at Brentford, and at Victoria Dock,
And a day of celebration was commanded in Bangkok.
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Audrey Bautz Mar 2013
1. Death Is Avoidable
I remember the frost that morning,
- painting the window in a satin-white.
How it burned my throat when I inhaled;
the distant scent of someone’s open-fire,
- curling through the atmosphere a thick fragrance of Maple.
The trees dressed in winter’s coat of freshly lain snow.
The sky was hanging low in the mountains as I looked ahead.
I even heard the soft landing of snowdrops
- From the surrounding branches.

My skin felt rough and tight
- as I walked further on,
My nose feeling of someone else’s.
I could feel the pangs of old age hit me
- like a time-bomb.
But it was no use returning,
I only had to march on. Crunch, crunch,
below my snow-boots,
When at last I realized I had reached a gravel road.

The dawn awoke behind the somber mists of clouds.
I could just catch a glimpse of sun-rays within a break.
Oh, how glorious
she bathed me in a pool of warmth
before dispersing at once,
alone again in my frozen world;
Though, I never faltered
and continued to walk down the snowy path.
Crunch, crunch, continued my boots,
my arms swinging right after the other,
Front-to-back, front-to-back.
I scaled the peak of the hill,
(the hill I’d spend all my days upon as a child)
covered in a thick layer of snow;
Its’ features all too familiar to hide.
It aged with me through a life of joy and pain
as though an old friend. And now I stood
- in the place no longer welcoming like it used to be.
My heart filled with a void that I could not process,
- could not or would not.
And the sad scene of my past
only plunged deeper into my consciousness
- pulling from its’ depth a Charles Dickens’s quote.
It is as follows:
“Happy, happy Christmas that can win us back to the delusions of our childhood days, recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth and transport the traveler back to his own fireside and quiet home.”
And deep within a melancholic-faze,
I departed from the distant view of my home.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The bag I carried seemed to grow with each step
and after what I only could have guessed was hours in,
I found myself stooped over a rock
- rummaging the contents of my pack.
I leaned back beneath a frozen Willow and munched on an apple.
Gazing out at the flourishing scene God had bestowed me; the trees mid-thought,
and I wondered what they must have been thinking
- when at that moment, winter’s angry hand
- broke the silent beauty of autumn and shook the trees bare;
their life strewn upon the ground
- and replaced by a thick layer of ice.
But what of the brushes or flowers?
Were they not too silenced, frozen in time?
A thousand questions buzzed through the hemispheres of my brain.

When the clouds would split
- the sunshine would pour in heaping rays of gold in my walk,
- just as she ripened through the morning hours.  
The snow had stopped falling and the stillness of the land comforted me;
Only my thoughts and the random flutter of birds broke the silence.
The snow surrendered beneath my feet,
crunch, crunch,
- gravel shooting high into the air.
My legs carried me aimlessly unbeknownst of the destination.
And overtime, the cold seemed to eat away through my suit, wrapping tightly around my joints;
the pain was more than my aged body would let me bear
- with my heart pumping bitterly through the frozen hemisphere.
The very thought of the beautiful landscape which beheld my gaze,
having ever play a part in bitter sorrow of those even most fortunate,
- boggled the very life of me. And Mother Nature seemed not quite finished,
as she whipped a brisk chill breeze through the bristly oaks.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sun was my only comfort and I longed for its’ presence.
It danced around the complexities of my synapses with a cruelness,
- Its image just as vibrant in thought, as it would have been before me;
- As though, someone, had pulled the earth closer to the sun.
And the excruciating thought only made the ice colder,
- snow deeper, and wind harder.
I felt tiny needle-like ****** where my skin was bare
- and a cruel pressure as though a force was splitting my flesh in two.
Then, that blinding flash flooding my sight;
I couldn’t see my feet. So strong and powerful,
- I thought I had unknowingly fallen into the center of the earth.
Though my eyes adjusted before any real panic set in, becoming clear.
I looked up and marveled in the exposing warmth;
God smiled upon my weak, aging soul, one last time.
Colors in majestic tones and lifetimes apart
- overlapped the silk shimmer of afternoon sunlight.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Two o’clock and I trudged through the thick snow
- as adamant and determined as the moment I first set foot outside.
My moist hair protruded from beneath my hat,
- a result from the sporadic snowfall.
The trees echoed with the call of birds; their beautiful songs
- bellowed clear and shook the boughs in harmonious celebration.
I felt as though a surge of relentless joy lifted me from the heartache of the walk.
I, was a part of something bigger than I could ever imagine,
- the unity of blood and soul, the bond of humanity and their heritage.
I could see my Ancestors pillaging the forest floors for scraps of food
- walking this very path. Such dream was mine,
to walk hand-in-hand with my family again,
- to rejoice at the sight of snow rather than cringe.
To hear the floorboards creak from the mass of human pressure
- rather than the creeping age of the foundation;
- to hear the echo of my sweetheart down the hall.
There was nothing left to show for a lifetime of love
- but a broken heart and memories, all of which haunted me.
I became so distracted from my journey that I hadn’t realized
- how far off course I was. I gazed at the empty, bare trees,
- for the first time unfamiliar with their presence.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Hours passed and I could feel the wind grow heavy and frequent.
The sky showed no sign of improvement, but only seemed to increase in clouds.
I pulled my coat to me tighter and tucked my hands beneath my arms.
It was not long after, that I found a suitable place to rest.
I gathered all the sticks nearby and cleaned a shallow area of snow.
The wood burned slowly as the surrounding snow liquefied at light-speed.
Its’ immense heat covered my frozen-self in a blanket of warmth
- and I felt the bulk of the journey fall over me.
My eyelids became as heavy as cement blocks.
I decided to compromise this by giving in
- and falling deep into unconsciousness.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It was not too clear at first
- the hazy grounds in which I found myself.
There wasn’t snow but that of soft spring grass
- and I was no longer aching from frostbite.
I smelled an overwhelming ample of spring blossoms
- accompanying the gentle breezes. The sunlight sat upon my cheek,
- no cloud in sight. Birds swarmed the open sky
- rejoicing the beautiful weather. What was this place? Where was I?  
There were the plumped-fields encircling the full oak trees,
- the wonderful sun showering the land in a ravishing golden light.
“There you are! I’ve been waiting for you.”
The voice startled me in its’ familiarity.
I opened my mouth to speak but no words came.  
“I’ve missed you so much!” It continued.      
Still not a single syllable could I form.
I looked all around,
- but no source could be found as to the whereabouts of the voice.
I forced myself up and stood at a loss.
Searching every corner, every shaded area but returned with no results.
Crunch, crunch, sounded the pitter patter of feet;
I looked around frantically but just as the voice, I remained alone in the field.
Only the crunch, increased, in speed and numbers;
I closed my eyes tightly and covered my ears
- until it was only the pounding of my heart that broke the silence.
A harsh, cold wind began to blow violently against my face
- and my hands stung with the feeling of my skin being pulled from my fingernails.
I strained to open my eyes and then
- found nothing but the thick suffocation of darkness.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Charred-wood remained beneath the remnants of smoke;
Its base still grasping a hint of light within the pile.
My face felt exposed and raw to the chill,
- burning with the intensity of a bonfire.
My fingers beyond that, to the point of numbness;
I couldn’t even feel my lips. I had lost control of my nerves;
I felt a madness possess my senses
and I struggled to contain as much rationality as possible.
I reached into my coat pocket for my matchbox
and with one strike of the flint,
- a tiny brilliant flame danced in direction with the wind.
And the light as though a disease,
- spread rapidly to the remaining wood. My environment became clear
- and I gazed up noticing the presence of the moon.
What time was it?
A sudden grumble arose from within the darkness
and I, continuing to fall in and out of unconsciousness.
But it wasn’t until I nearly dozed off
- that I recognized a most foreign presence; I was no longer alone.
A fierce set of eyes had been watching me; inching closer and closer.
They stared with the intensity of a 1000 hungry eyes
- coming closer until at last I caught a glimpse more of my visitor.
Her fur displayed sheen like that of the ocean at dawn;
Her eyes radiated a beautiful emerald hue.
She refrained from baring her teeth, though I knew why she was there.
I leaned up and between my chattering-teeth I spoke:
“I know why you’re here,”
The words did not come without consequence
for my lips split wide open from the sudden ****.
“. . . But it's not your job . . . not today!”
She studied my indigent-state, as grasped my coat to me tighter.
She sat down where she stood gazing with a longing.
her full-coat folding over her joints as she sunk further into the snow
- resting her head upon her paws, slowly closing her eyes.
And soon I followed suit, closing mine, and drifting off. ©
This is the first chapter in my poetry book called, "The Howl of the Wolf."
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Stephanie Cynthia Dec 2012
A Vampire Tale (Part #1)
There was a maiden named Lucy
Her face pretty her body healthy
She had a boyfriend named Damien
He'd strong muscles and dainty skin

She was a poet he was a student
She was robust he was diligent
She loved to write stories he adored
She was so glad he never got bored

One day he woke from his repose
Out he wandered to buy a rose
It was his mother's grand birthday
His face lighted as he made his way

He found a strange ******* the streets
He walked forth but she came to greet
She had lost her bag and wallet
While passing by the old garret

She looked dizzy and fairly drowsy
Reminded him of girlfriend Lucy
On he went to help find her bag
Until the sun flew from the shack

Full of sweat did Damien retire
From his errand beside the fire
In a mansion that's the lady's
Forgotten was the day's duties

Wait and wait did Lucy for him
In her gown she looked splendid slim
Expecting Damien was she now
Cheeks like a doll in a stage show

Asleep was her love in the chair
Tired from the day and the whole affair
The fair lady resting on the stairs
With glowing red eyes and golden hair

He had not known that blood was wanted
In this mansion which was haunted
He'd been deceived and awesomely fooled
The lady woke and laughed and growled

Kneeling by him she showed her fangs
Sharp and bitter like the dark winter
Out as the moon began to hang
She drank his blood and made him like her

The morning came gray and dreary
With chills that sent everyone sickly
Young Lucy wept cried on her bed
For trusting the dull vow they'd made

She retained her blanket in vain
'Oh 'tis so cold', she thought in pain
Just closed her eyes when there's a knock
Hurry did she to wear her frock

Thirst did he feel when he woke up
A sultry heat from his long nap
Jump did he from his cozy seat
Full of raw fear of what it did!

Startled was he as his teeth moved!
What are these things that have been mute?
Out he fled to find a mirror
The people instantly screamed in terror!

He was astounded by his speed
And how rapid he could now flit!
Out he burst into gay laughter
As he start'd to think this over!

The lady 'peared in front of him
Satisfied yet her smirk looked grim
'Art thou glad?', she turned to question
He nodded in shy admiration

A mirror was in her pocket
Out she tore it to his eyes red
He shrieked in loud astonishment
His tone but full of excitement

'Thou'rt a vampire now,' she explained
'Fill your thirst don't ever let it drain'
'Human blood shall be your favour'
'You can't deny its sweet flavour!'

'I'm not a monster!' Damien whined
Can I instead drink just some wine?
'Fate is not to be abolished,
Fate is just to be accomplished!'

'We are so blessed,' said the lady
'For endless days of immortality,
For real power and true beauty,
We are praised more than the Almighty!'

Poor Damien could just cry and wail
But by thirst his firmness began to fail
Still he wanted to find Lucy
Putting black glasses he turned away and flee

Arrived he at her little hut
In one swift step but it was still shut
He knocked on the door and waited
The maiden came with her hair plaited

She shrieked as he pulled his glasses
The soul of sins the eyes of darkness
Pushed him away she slammed the door
Fire and rage rang took him inside his core

Flash of madness groans and outcries
Tears were welling in poor Lucy's eyes
Tears that to him were shadows of blood
Quickened the pace of his unheart

He sniffed nature he sniffed the flesh
Hidden behind all the tears afresh
With one small leap he's in the house
Where Lucy screamed like a tortured mouse!

In one second he's before her
The smell stronger as he went closer
He was blinded and could not desist
By a mad thirst no-one could resist!

And did he weep and deeply shrieked
Cursing himself as a ****** freak
As his thirst filled his lover dead
He was sullied he went home all mad

On his way back he saw a river
With a huge mass of black hot water
He recalled a tale of a group of vampires
Living in peace in a rustic empire

But they died of the heat of the sun
Whilst the river was brimming with swans
Unthinkingly he splashed downwards
Ditching himself into those boiling shards!

Failed but he had to **** Lucy!
She woke but in great beauty!
Adoring herself in the closest mirror
Pulled outdoors just to face horror

A young man found dead in the lake!
His chest stabbed by a wooden stake!
Away then she ran from the scene,
nearly fainted at what she'd seen.

Wept and wept she in agony,
could not believe in her misery!
What was then the use of the Almighty,
of it was but of lies and cruelty?

Lift herself up o then she did,
tired as she was of her idle feet!
Moving about 'till the hunger came,
when no more care she had for shame!

No regret did she find to have,
until no more blood for her left;
in her hands were a child's remains,
whose mother her very best friend!

The blood rose herself to full speed,
and raised her newer sense of greed!
She growled and gnarled and looked around;
her face was pale, her eyes were round.

Her nails grew sharper instantly!
Her lips bloomed and her cheeks rosy!
Thrice a day she hunted gaily,
'till a small lad saw her mutiny!

She had him and felt triumphant,
but she needed to run away!
Unseen hath she been since that sad day,
though the knights'd searched from December to May!

Tales foretell she's somewhere unknown
Hiding amongst bushes and their tall thorns
For men still disappear and get lost
At midnights and in winter frosts

A hidden question it is indeed
Finding her is but a must need
While the moon is blunt bristly and grey
and when the thin dusk starts to decay.
Continue reading...
CH Gorrie Jul 2014
The Cruelest Month
1.
Late-spring's dilemma
Is unabridged and sweet;
Beardtongues and fuchsias peer through grass blades:
Blotches on the bristly canvas.

Camellias? Still in April.

2.
Slices of rye shift on my plate;
Miramar’s war machines whip overhead;
My mouth opens into the Gulf of Kuwait;

The toast becomes
Moldering lips of Pendleton.

3.
There’s a single-story house on a hill
That to helicopters
Looks like an easel.

Great canyons open
To the south and west; the street clings to time—

A pianist’s metronome
Waltzes crosswise on an eardrum.

4.
The eucalyptus bends the deafening breeze.

Are you still dredging Coronado's cradle?
(The tide
Disintegrates the illimitable skyline.)

5.
An unlit Anza-Borrego beats about my ears,
Stars piggybacking the horizon.

The cacti shrivel:
Glitter in a hurricane.

6.
End-of-spring guesses
Prey upon a betrayer’s conscience.
Stilted, they flash ephemerally.
Continue reading...
LDuler Jun 2013
Haikus for High School Boys
Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss
her beautiful and let her
nestle in your arms

Bring your bristly mouth
to ours, and give us the stars
we've been waiting for.

Sing. Take the guitar
and strum the strings but careful;
we might fall in love.



You deserve credit
for your courage and backbone.
Boy, you are so strong

You don't always have
to be tough, and hold it in,
be the strong silent type

It's okay. Let go.
Yes, being a man is hard
but you can let go.



Boy, please know your virtue.
You bring food to our famine.
The hunger, the thirst.

Who wouldn't want you?
Whose wicked appetite
couldn't you answer?



If you're wondering,
well, boy, the answer is yes.
She still loves you.

There were signs, signals
but you just couldn't read them.
She still loves you.

Why must you always
complicate love? Just take it.
Just take it and smile.



Boy, are you aware
of how destructive you are?
We could die for you.

Should we blame her?
Blame Aphrodite for this,
this pain and longing?



Boy, you're beautiful.
Limbs and muscle and talent;
we will never understand.

You are not flesh, blood.
You are made of energy,
and you can bring light.

You can give so much.
A feeling, a beginning,
a home, an escape.

You give nirvana,
with a love so tremulous
and complicated.



Boy, you're everything.
The might-have-beens, the maybes,
and the what-could-bes.

You are our focus,
our soothing sense of being,
simple, instinctual.

Boy, you are so much.
Millions of poems have been
written just for you.

We want to know you
collect little pieces of you
and memorize you.
unfinished
Haikus are hard!
Continue reading...
Will Storck Sep 2011
The Mustached Men
Laying back
I stare at the mustached men
Staring down at me
They all have white hair
And blue eyes
They float on by
With half smug grins
Holding back their pride
Of their mustaches
Some have big fat ones
Some have long wispy ones
Some are bristly
Some sway in the wind
Like an old sock on a telephone pole
Their stern gaze
Judge every face they see
Once in a while
Their faces swell
And get dark and puffy
Then the mustached men cry
And shower the landscape with tears
I wonder what they see
Looking down at us
That makes them so sad
Continue reading...
Bernadette Rivera Oct 2013
Ancient Wonder
Sasquatch stalking woods
Glimpsed never ensnared

Homonids beauty of elusiveness
Ancestral biped prints

Folklore, hoax , unhindered
ages devoid evidence

Bristly forest devil
Conclusively confirmed
ancient Polar Bear
Continue reading...
Rebecca Gismondi Jun 2014
Hands
hands
clasp
grasp
yours, mine or a stranger's
line of life, line of head, line of heart
it is said that the hand is the map, and the heart is the guide
but how come whenever it is that you hold my hand you also hold my heart?
(in your hands)
feeling the strength of your hold
on my heart
and my hands
letting go
of my heart
but please,
not my hands
I need to keep that clasp
and grasp
and hold I have on you
I need to feel your roughness
and clamminess
and softness
between my fingers
yours fit so perfectly
what if I never find another fit?
what if the next fingers are too short, too long, too bristly, too smooth?
I only remember yours
and what if their lines tell too different a story?
what if they crossed an ocean to find me,
or have never picked up a knife,
or have never lost themselves in another?
and I am left holding my own hands
too familiar
when all I yearn for are yours
I should have never let go of yours
even that one morning when you said it was too cold to hold mine
I should have locked yours between mine and assured you that I would make you warm
now I am grabbing for something in the dark,
a phantom limb; your hands
I wish I had clawed up your wrist to your elbow to your shoulder to your neck
and held on
because my hands are empty
nothing I hold bears weight
nothing I touch, feels
nothing I stroke shudders
nothing I scrape bleeds
my hands hold nothing
my lines of mind, head and heart have blurred
I can feel the reverb of my heart's beat as it left my hands and fell into yours
they are bony and frail and stained and drained of colour
what do I do with my hands?
#love #heartbreak #heart #girl #loss #boy #hands #feeling #body #writer
Continue reading...
William Shakespeare
Sonnet 012: When I Do Count The Clock That Tells The Time
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silvered o’er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
    And nothing ‘gainst Time’s scythe can make defence
    Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Continue reading...
Jose Luis Carreño Troncoso Jun 2021
Golden Donkeys
Says Vernarth: “Khaire to my beloved beings that surround me, including my ***** that move their tails to the rhythm of my awakening. To you my dear Brother, I stayed with my ceramic asleep and I could not sip from the last harvest of ideas and its temporary forks, which came from my parapsychologies. I am delighted among these blankets that smell like cornfields that prevented me from seeing him closer when I already had them in my hands. Now I not only see beyond what my arm measures in its omega, where my own estimating what flower I have to carry and see what it will have to carry in me!

Once upon a time, seven donkeys woke up, the first one who did it went to look for bread, milk, and honey, the second played the tambourine for his master, the third sprinkled the flowers with holy water, the fourth was vernacular in the others, the fifth was in charge of carrying stones and logs in bundles to make the elbows and the masts of the beams, the sixth reconciled the morning with the sun to have a clear day, and the seventh brought the akratismós on a tray, which brought a colt on its back and in a wineskin, bringing juice from the Procoro winepress and Akratos wine, which the colt eventually moved with its leg so that it could be served. Seeing that he gave signs of awakening and opening his bleary eyes, the seven of them laughed and brayed when they saw that he could not hold himself, but when he saw one of them who had had temporary amnesia, he faced him in the sunny morning so that he would face to the wind from the coast that began to bring them figs, like an Ariston or early lunch to strengthen him on his head, more remote of all because he thought too much. The third donkey would make two tortillas from neighboring cornfields that had just been baked, these he used as plates or trays to roll the fruits, vegetables, and barley bread. Vernarth laughs along with them and hugs them again. The containers that accompanied him had the solidity to fill with a few liters of water enough to bathe, after having fiddled with the ******, which reminded him of Orion, but of the meatus that would now be used to ink the thread of the spindle, which pretended to be divine. with hemp and cotton to rub the woods that he had destined for the main timber of the façade. Then he puts on his himation and on it the fibula that protected the serum from his right shoulder. He takes some pieces of logs and lights a bonfire to cook infusions and chalks of his personal medicine, from the collection of his private demiurge, Borker. He placed his tools behind a florilegium, where he received his astragalus by means of his jumping donkeys, and sometimes they would turn around him for hours to soften his immediate floor so that he would not be bothered by the rubbing of the grass and his pectoralis would over-sensitize. But in the end, they traced with him as seven divine golden numbers, which were added one next to the other, for each birth of his mother having to use a third of the womb to shelter them, like equid specimens in their 14 months of age. gestation. As if they were pollen sacs that were the origin of the androecium of all creation in the gynoecium sector. The morphology of this analogical floral relationship alludes to the anthos or flower that matures in the expression of the animals that surrounded Vernarth, and its filaments that derived from the spindle and its promised threads that connected with the fertile connection of the donkeys, making present the cellular magnetism of father and mother for them. Almost like a sordid weight that could not be supported in his genome, it was the serum that sweetly emerged from the nectary of his shoulder, rather close to the sternum, but his burritos produced good moments of the company for him, knowing that if he ran his hands over his satin back, he also longed to ***** the bristles of his stiff hairs, which decided his species, like bristly donkeys only pending his immunity.

Saint John and Etréstles approach and they say to him:
Etréstles comments: “It is said that I must be near you, just as I was in the forests near Piacenza, or after setting sail from Sardinia or Hylates. Then arriving on the coasts of Florence, La Spezia and finally Genoa, it is said that not far from here in Messolonghi, there are books that are written for you, they are wonderful, and everyone reads it, it is called Vernarth Alexandri Magni Macedonis officer Primum "Vernarth First Commander of Alexander the Great." It is said that there is a dispute over the guarantee of your magical verses for those who write it and for those who read it, as an experience that most pleases those who transcribe it because when you stop your verses, they mention that their infantry tale has not reached them. , which is being reborn in all necropolises, such as the Koumeterium of Messolonghi. It is said that there is an extreme reason for unity in the Divine Number of Gold that extends through the seas of Troy and Athens, in the patronage of Fidas for his agora of with the disciple of Agoracritus. It is said between June 21 and 24 the Sun or Shemesh for you, it begins to move away and flushes in its suspicious perihelion, it is said that we will dance in the sacred space, and Archimedes will dance together with us with his Elves, and it is said because I say it! We will have Mother Nature knocking her down at our melted feet, full of ****** Bern olive trees and rotten grasses that announce the freedom to be united, together with all the books in the world, under her great Hellenic library that will never stop going and running after the last leaves of the apocalypse "

Saint John intervenes: "My half reason, is my whole heart, my whole heart is my extreme half, which totalizes the segments of the magic of always surviving and resurrecting in the golden number, thus its length squeezes the shortest way to go behind of the donkeys and lose their memory, if not half sheep of my reason and my heart guiding them "

Neither the Oniros duo nor the third would impede Verrnarth to embrace them, but he was in his purging, behind a severe veil, but from the ductile ectoplasm that already separated them from their ethereal physical plane, it was only possible with donkeys to pass from one dimension to another. other. Thus the arcs of the circle of the sun surpassed the rule of being contained in the supreme analogy from above and below, only the points of ab / cb went beyond the spiritual eclectic portal, to attract them to ab / ac, hinting at the midpoint of the Equidae that brayed to thank Saint John for the Apostle who could be close to him and caress his ears, which were the highest and golden point of his omega garden.
Golden Donkeys
Continue reading...
Cool Handless Luke Jul 2013
the twelfth of can't-remember
it’s the twelfth of can’t-remember
as i find myself marveling at the soft cadence of your affection
fluttering against my cheek in faint echoes of conjured memories,
and crafted illusions which bind me in turn,
to the hollow chambers of misfiring synapses
and daisy-chained coaxials tethering my lips
to this anvil-shaped heart.
the steam rises in wispy forms
from places where all is void
and memories are married with dreams
becoming those smiling faces
left in the picture frame i brought home from the store,
smudged by the cellophane,
and now conceived whole by the very absence
of a loving progeny to call my own -
pieces of me left to bloom amidst the shadows
exalting themselves sub rosa within the absence of light.
it is a moment to taste the waters
and wade out until my bristly chin
is beguiled by the ripples born
of *ulacia's stone finally reaching the bottom,
and cry out little pieces of nothingness
to bounce off of the shoreline,
if only to sate the grumbling deception
that my tears could float here without end or amen,
isolated within these painful shapes of you
to clot the cursive wounds
all the while imploring of elysium
that one day i shall awaken to a strange smell
and realize . . . that i am burning.
* manuel ulacia's poem "the stone at the bottom"
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Reece AJ Chambers May 2015
Dovestone
the water grips my reflection

all wobbly head
     quavering legs

a swathe of hillside
     like an avocado slice

trees squashed together
     in a bristly embrace

gluey splodge of cloud
     on a periwinkle sky

shimmer of sunlight
     across the lake

illuminates your face
Written: May 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time, partially inspired by a set of images a friend of mine took while at Dovestone Reservoir, located in the South Pennines area of northern England, close to the Peak District National Park.
NOTE: Many of my older poems will be removed in the coming months.
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HRTsOnFyR Sep 2015
My Snuggle-bug
There's nothing quite like cuddling you
Early in the morning
While the house lies still and quiet
And it feels like all the world is fast asleep
Your bristly chin rubbing across my forhead
Your eyes smiling seductively with your **** lips
Hungry, yet gentle, your fingertips move across my hips
I burrow down against your chest
There's nowhere safer than here in your arms
The scent of your skin like Linus' blanket to my soul
#newbeginnings #loveisthenaswer #lovemysnugglebug #missinghimdaily
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A Mareship Sep 2013
white room
Close your eyes.

         Imagine a white room.

There are objects in the white room.

Each object represents something in your life that worries or stresses you. Each object binds you to the external world. Each object stands for something that keeps your mind active, keeps you worrying, keeps you awake.

Imagine a white room.

I really am trying. My eyes are tight, eyelashes stuck to my cheek.

(I can feel the blood trickling through the veins in my sclera, ******* itself from end to end like cherryade through a drinking straw.)

I have my toes resting on my knees like a good little lotus, my fingers resting on top of them making the ‘ok’ sign.

This is a hard trick. It takes concentration. It takes effort to clear your thoughts from a metaphorical room (Jean’s room, tidy but never clean.)

What if I fall asleep upright? Will my neck break?

You ever see spiders playing dead? They roll onto their backs and cradle their bodies inside a disjointed prison that they’ve made with their own limbs. Their legs bend back at jaunty angles, crooked at the knees.

A spider ran at me once whilst I was sat on the toilet. I was reading an encyclopedia at the time, just flicking through, and in my panic I hit the spider with the spine of it. He curled up into a crumpled ball in the middle of the pink bathroom mat. I thought he was dead, but by the morning he had moved on, not leaving a trace.

In the grand cosmic metaphor of it all, we’re all just bristly little gymnasts looking to be left alone.

The white room is flying over the sea.

Objects that represent your daily life are sitting in the white room.

There is a door in the white room.

There are windows.

Using your imagination, remove each object from your room one by one. Throw them out of the door. Pour them out of the window.

Clear your mind.

Throw it all into the sea.*

My laptop is drowning. My journals are dissolving like sugar paper. White birds come from nowhere and lift up the corners of my bookcase, shaking it out into the ocean as one would air out a bed sheet. My memories are eating sand. The people I have loved are unsmiling shop-window cutouts, rolling along the waves of a mythical sea.

How far do I have to go? It seems like this means more than just Sleep. Every night do I need to be new, need to empty myself out like a clogged up sea-shell? How far do I have to go before it’s just me that’s left?

I can never make my sea deep enough because I don’t wish to drown. I’m not Ophelia.

I’m really not.

I don’t hold flowers neither.

I just can’t sleep.

(White isn’t a colour, it’s an absence.

Put a tick against my name. Use a bright red pen.

I’m right here. For always.)
Continue reading...
Cillian Dervan Jan 2015
The Hedgehog's Dilemma
The most curious thing in my acre of lawn
This morning, the day when long winter departs
The brown croquet ball of the rash Queen of Hearts
A bristly thorn bush of quills tinted fawn
I watched as he plodded so wobbly on
He snuffled and snorted with hesitant gait
His little nose twitching and smelling the air
He spotted not apples, but he did not despair
The cat had left food which he noisily ate
I watched and I realised how I could relate
The long snooze impending, he had to prepare
Half his life wasted no time for a mate
And prickly spikes would make love hard to share
How sad life would be if each hug ripped a tear
Pain is much worse when you hurt those you lean on.
#feelings #nature #thehedgehogsdilemma
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Valsa George Jun 2017
A Crass Felony
A nest of intricate design
A piece of art unmatched in decor
Amid the dark verdure
Of needle like leaves
The gay habitat of a swallow and her brood.

How suddenly it erupts into a clatter of sounds,
As the mother bird comes diving in
With a wee bit of a wriggling worm
Discreetly borne in her tiny beak.

Thrusting it into the gaping mouths
She departs and comes again
And again comes with something
A whirring insect or a twisting thing.
Nothing can appease her ravenous horde
And on she goes ferreting about.

At night fall she alights abrupt
From what infinite heights, God alone knows
Darting into her nest as she hovers,
The din subsides............
First into a fizzle, then into sharp silence

Bundled in her warmth, the little ones
Sleep till the first flutter of dawn
From my window, I enjoy this diurnal scene
Repeating itself in methodical precision
Until someday, into heaven’s insurmountable heights
The young ones take off on tiny wings!

A sight so accustomed, cheery and gleeful
My eyes would soon be deprived of
And the thought makes me ill at ease
A wonder it is, the young ones
Inexperienced though, thrives so well
On catapulted suddenly into an eerie world!

What husbandry in nature!
What Godly solicitude!

The next morn, my heart missed a beat
At what I espied through my open window.
On the ground lay the swallow’s nest
Ripped, broken and blown to pieces
Like a heap of rubble after a tremor.
By its side lay a few downy feathers
The sad reminder of a stark felony!

In an instant flashed past
The grim image of the black Tom cat
That prowls my courtyard in the dark
With glowing eyes and bristly whiskers

Damning that accursed thing
I picked up that wreckage
My mind violently mutinying over
The ‘insolent might’!!
This was written sometime back when a bird had built a nest on a bushy tree in my garden… I waited counting down days to see the eggs hatched . But what happened in the end was heart breaking….. !
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Lexie Nov 2014
snapback affair
you rubbed your face against my shoulder
I felt the bristly hairs of your beard
giggling because it tickled
you smiled as I stole the snapback from your head
you took mine and put it on backwards
I fell into your arms and I still haven't gotten out
please don't smile like an angelic demon
because my heaven is your hell
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N T Jul 2014
7:35pm
when I was young
I was always told to be respectful
so when a man with a bristly beard rubbed up close to my face
I learned to laugh it off
and call him uncle
when he was no relation to me
he'd act like my body belonged to him
and kiss me on the forehead
i'd squirm
my teeth would grit and I would break into a cold sweat
and i'd laugh along

now I see a man with a bristly beard
on the train on the way home
who calls me darling and says i'm the prettiest girl he's ever seen
a chill runs up my spine
so scared that his bear hands will grab onto me
and drag me away
my teeth grit and I break into a cold sweat

I say thanks while holding back panicked tears and get off at the next station and hope to god he doesn't follow me off
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Francis Scudellari Nov 2010
We honor the spirit of the season by misgiving
When we find ourselves
bewitched
by the once-again
betwixt a barest bare
season (of not-there)
and the rock-hard
reason (for there-is), let’s

Place the lemon-sour wedge,
where it can be tasted
with expectantly peppered
peeks and the snowy soft pines
for a gifted we we’ve been
too white-elephant
wary to unwrap.

There’s a transplant
future. We pretended
it (to-be
forever sutured to our bristly back-
then), and it meets the it
it was beneath a scrub-brush
Christmas tree we’ve stowed

Carelessly in the cramped space
where our sameness
lets crawl the other. Tinseled,
pre-assembled, past-
their-prime-time specialty
brands of static
clinginess have diminished,

But not-enough,
as the persistence of any-man
attraction shows,
would if it could bring
Whitman’s samplers
of sentimentality
to cuddly bear on a leftover

Choice (What’s-next,
warmed over and over). We
will stick to it,
fuzzy ornaments
on the crackly loud, paper-
thin present. We didn’t give
up but we did give away

Boxed-up angels
in exchange for one red-ribbon
day, its frilly bow tying us
so tightly to
the pressed-down rule
of our highest of highly
evolved thumbs.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
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Ces Sep 2020
The Red Ant
The tiny red ant scampers
In a forest of greenish mold
Its bristly legs carrying
Biological modules:
A head with pincers
An imperceptible thorax
A swelling abdomen.

It has nothing but a laborious drive
A pheromone-induced servility
For the queen: the lazy, bloated tyrant!
The sole purpose being
The laying of eggs.

The noble red ant
Moves on to scavenge
Blind and dumb
Oblivious.

To the ruthless cycle
Of its existence.
#ant #existence #mold #noble #blind #dumb #oblivious
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Will Storck Feb 2011
Unnamed pt. 1
Remember when we’d slowly grow up sitting on those steps?
Your mother used to come out with cold lemonade on those hot days
And you’d pass me a slice of watermelon.
I’d smile that stupid grin of mine
Complete with missing front teeth.
God those days were so hot.
Sometimes as if answering a child’s whimper
The Rain would just start pouring
And I’d be too proud to dance like an idiot.
But not you.
You’d splash with the gusto and laughter
Of nostalgia in the smile of a photograph.
You would call me over to join you in the puddles
But I’d shake my head.
I don’t want to get wet I’d scoff
And my cheeks would turn strawberry.
Your look of disappointment would turn to a playful smirk
And I would swallow my embarrassment.
You never meant me any harm.
My face glowed crimson and embarrassment turned to shame.

The air started to get cool
And the leaves on the trees became lazy.
We’d collect them.
They were nothing short of arboreal rubies.
The yellow oaks always caught your eye.
They were my favourite too.
My dad yells down the street
In a voice gruff like his bristly chin.
He was outwardly rough
But in truth he was a very sweet man.
Though you wouldn’t know it from my bruises.
I always thought he did it because he missed mom.
She was put in a box in the dirt a week after I was born
So I never knew how her voice sounded when she sang in her studio
Painting the yellow leaves we preciously held.

Halloween would come and we would run with the others from the neighbourhood.
Our faces painted like eggshells.
And we’d dance those secret incantations that only we knew
Passed down from generation to generation from our brothers and sisters.
As we’d go door to door on our quest for sugar
We would always fall behind from the rest.
You would grab my hand with a hearty
-Come on!
When we finally found our fellow ne’er-do-wells
You smiled at me though you were out of breath.
Even though it was dark out
I could still tell your eyes were brown.

Our first dance was in high school.
And just like you
You jumped the gun
And asked me if I would take you.
When I opened my mouth I swear I vomited butterflies.
I was so nervous the entire day preparing.
The process of looking presentable became unbearable.
I pulled up to your house only five houses from my own
(It was unthinkable to make you walk to my car)
When your mother came out
Which couldn’t be a good sign.
Continue reading...
Olivia Kent Feb 2016
BAD ATTITUDE (FOR YUI)
The man stood in the corner.
Tousled his hair like a rock star.
It's in his genes you know.
For he's a man in a dress.
Maybe a man in drag?

Make-up plastered on with a trowel.
Quickly darling chuck him a towel.
To wipe away his blusher.
Wants to be a lady fair.
Her chin is rather bristly.
It gives the game away.

Inside the hardened exterior hides a lady.
Sweet and pure.
Local kiddies take the p.
You see.
Due to lack of understanding.
Missing sympathy.
Kiddies all chuckle at that strange
man.
The fella who wants to be free.
He's a man in a dress.
He ain't got no regrets.
In all sincerity.
He's a lady inside.

He's a man in a dress.
He likes it best.
They all say that breast is best.
The lady is excited.
Cultivated *******.
Procured by things hormonal.
Hairy chin.
Evening shadow.
Perfect skin.
The silhouette perfect shape.
That man he wore a dress.
But he's a lady now.
And she's a cheerful soul.
(c)LIVVI
Continue reading...
Lady Elle May 2013
for all poets and writers.
Red, as the deepest rose in a bloom of spring
like the blood that runs through my being
like the light inside the tower for men at sea
your touch creates a safe haven for me

Dust, clouded and floating through the air
like a part of the Earth that didn't bother to care
like the way a fire sparkles through a dead night
you are just the correct type of write

Fragmented and broken in a universe of chaotic distrust
like a brand new bike with a slight bit of rust
like joy that only comes when you're in my hand
no need for an audience, you are my biggest fan

A song to be belted from the top of a mountain high
like the coarse, bristly hairs my fingers slip by
like the tissues that have wiped so many tears
you are the only one who will ever understand my wants and fears

And love, the sweetest, most innocent, and pure kind
like the first opening of a newborn's eyes
like the moment you realize your purpose in life
you are the only one I feel I will ever do write by

So here's to you, my dearest friend- my pen,
you are why I am who I am.
Copyright 2013.
Continue reading...
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
The Beauty of a Half-Immortal
O Helen of Sparta
A face to start a war,
To launch a thousand ships
And so it did.

Large, almond shape eyes in
A shocking green color, with a swirl of sapphire
Framed by the spell of her bristly, black, curled thick eyelashes
Dark and fluttering, like the wings of vultures circling the dead

Her figure is the envy of the most beautiful mortals
Graceful and tall, like a stretching cat
Even in stillness, seems to be vibrating with motion
As she stands, untouched, protected by thousands of mortals

Her rosy raspberry mouth,
The thought of kissing it, make the bravest men go weak
Curved tenderly, and frighteningly charming
Red like the blood of the wounded and dying warriors

Silky golden strands, cascade thickly down her back
Pale golden like the Sun in summer
With streaks of crimson mixing with the gold
Enchanting like a land’s last sunset

Her high smooth cheeks are pink
Like the petals of a blooming lily
Comparable to a soft peach, in the early spring morning
Stinging pink, like a mark of a sword, hitting against armor, on skin

Golden skin, completely flawless
Just the brush of it, will make you do anything
Shining, and radiating with its own magic
A magic that one welcomed its imprisonment

Her heart stolen by Paris
There love so powerful, by the magic of a goddess:
Aphrodite

A face to die for
And thousands did die
Along with a legendary land
O Helen of Troy
Continue reading...
Hannah Winand Aug 2014
El[ev]ated [Non]sense
“Life is, at its core, a smattering of multicolor streaks and blotches
on a knock-off Jackson ******* painting, don’t you think?”
you say between impossibly tiny sips
of your organic loose leaf herbal something-or-other tea—
or at least I think that’s what you said;
I was too distracted (by the general awfulness with which
your incomprehensibly long nose hairs
mingled with your bristly auburn mustache
as elevated nonsense poured out of your speech-hole)
to fully ingest your attempt at insightfulness.

But I reply:
“Aren’t you saying that what you’re saying doesn’t matter anyway?
Abstract expressionism, existentialism, nihilism, all that stuff?
Life has no meaning—so we better talk about it!”
Heh.

But my dialectical cynicism is no match
for your allegorical *******-ism:
“Ah, but we create meaning!
The lonely abyss of individual experience,
when shared, isn’t so lonely anymore—
Mon Dieu! This tea tastes like sunshine!”

I can’t avoid a sigh-and-eye-roll combo.
When my eyes return to the table,
I see my upside-down reflection in a dessert spoon.

          I painted a *******-esque piece in 9th grade.
          My art teacher adjusted her cat-eye glasses,
          the gold parts of her hazel irises sparkling behind them
          while she said something about the creative subconscious.
          The first drip took some self-convincing;
          the blank canvas on the floor seemed to taunt me
          with the possibility of mistake.
          At first I pretended I was ******* himself,
          trying to think the elevated nonsense he may have thought.
          It didn’t work.
          My friend told me to “just go for it,” so I did.
          I began with green for no reason at all,
          and ended with yellow for reasons that I knew existed
          but that I couldn’t explain.
          Elated, I realized my painting made sense to me.

“Would you like a sip?”
I can’t avoid a smile because
****,
this tea does taste like sunshine.
Continue reading...
Daniel Sandoval May 2015
For the Sake of Memory
The floor is piled with tattered,
age washed images.
These faces breathe again after years behind the glass.
I never knew he went there, did that,
met her, and a subdued laughter joins the somber air.

My first memories of you are like these dusty pictures.
I remember my tall, wind blown,
cowboy uncle from Texas.
You had to be a 1980’s cigarette poster in my 4 year old mind, there in my Colorado world all the way from
the home state that I knew nothing of.
We rode a train; you bought me stuffed animals,
your mustache reminded me of
a bristly broom,
and I stared at your
cowboy boots of legend
as you and my father talked
leather and Cadillacs.

I see a little of myself in your faded eyes looking back.
I wonder which of these you look like now.
What are those eyes beholding now?  
We have only
a feeble grasp of time.
I refill my whiskey glass.
I play the slide show again.
I smoke a cigar much to my wife’s dismay.
I cry, I laugh, I remember.

Playing Battleship with you,
When you gave it to me one Christmas, until you were sick of it.
My first real bottle of cologne,
your museum of a house with a real suit of armor,
eating hot salsa to impress you,
petting the dolphins at Sea World,
you teaching me to draw , my high school graduation
my wedding, and I remember…
Not wanting to see you suffer while holding your hand.
You were happy to see me even though it hurt you to talk.

I am not writing you this for closure or maybe I am.
Funny the way we lie to ourselves.
I am writing to remember.
Because I need the words to go with
the pictures,
I need to know where your were,
was it Morocco, Istanbul, Rome,
The Caribbean, Korea,
Germany, San Antonio? What year was this? When did you have a Camaro?
Who was she? Did you really get a date with Doris Day?
You left me with too many questions, so I need the words to remember,
for the sake of memory.
H. Dan Hall,  December 30, 1928 - May 24, 2015
Continue reading...
Sarah Ellis Mar 2010
Taking Chance
Flitter, flutter, glitter, gloss
The wings of hearts, the fear of loss
Quiver, shiver, tremble, shake
The dreams will last until you wake.

Crunching snow, prickling skin
Bristly scarf, blowing wind
All these things and many more
Have come to knock upon my door.

"Come out today and play with us
Why do you look so serious?
It's nothing more than taking chance
To lose your seat so you can dance."

"So what if you've no mind to dream
Or that you have no voice to scream
Just take a chance, you'll see it through
Then nothing will be troubling you."

Giggle, wiggle, hope and pray
Please don't wait another day
Crying, trying, prance and dance
It's nothing more than taking chance.
Continue reading...
Robert Ronnow Aug 2017
Blue Grama Grass
How to break an addiction. Decide to live.
What can I learn from my pain. Danger.
And friends are merely friendly, live on independent
of your injury. You will not be missed in church on Sunday.

Grass. ****, broccoli, burrito, stink, ***, skunk.
I'm talking blue grama, upland bent, smooth brome,
riverside panic, wild rye, fowl meadow, spike muhly,
sweet vernal, salt marsh, bristly foxtail, little bluestem.

****** is unhealthy, opens lesions in the brain,
wormholes into hell, yet should be legal. I'll vote that way.
It may ease the pathos into non-existence
well as meditation, bird watching, last will and testament.

Each joint hurts, rib joints, spine joints, skull plate joints.
The head and hip and heart will hurt, all three.
Insomniac I like the way bones crack and clack like
wooden wind chimes, an untuned piano, a tree rack of wornout
      shoes.

Never forget, the mind is the body paying attention
to what it's doing. Without that connection, each finger bent
or toe smashed is just added to the collection
of anonymous body parts of holocaust victims

in their mass graves. Better when every life saved
or lost is a front page story, an illusion of shared
sacrifice or joy, but that expresses only the surface
of our emotions. I'm mostly relieved to have survived.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
#blue #grass #pain #danger #friend #health #hell #bird #wind #body
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— The End —