"burring" poems
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)" (1)
writ many years later...
~For MWK~
<>
A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny:
A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us.
*This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis,
my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary
each one, each is, deserves, all, one such,
a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life,
strained and trained for emission and transmission
of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of
our individualized most excellent fresh best
where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream
melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive
contrasts combative,
a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words,
yet unheard and before this very never,
went unspoken and now goes forth
svelte and unbroken
*rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls
of the here and now,
a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance,
of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed,
lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from
the stilling quiet solitude.
to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief,
how to expel and spell the words
that grant
relief
visit my sunroom, though no fiction.
the sun rays *********** create the friction
of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained,
and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered,
pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction,
with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary,
you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns,
and the process of sunrise exposition recommences,
and one revisits the elemental sequencing of
all the predecessor pain, but this time,
for gain, for gain,
<>
written this sabbath Saturday
12:38am EST
Sat Aug 2
2025
in the sunroom,
on Shelter Island
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
Old goatherds swear how all night long they hear
The warning whirr and burring of the bird
Who wakes with darkness and till dawn works hard
Vampiring dry of milk each great goat udder.
Moon full, moon dark, the chary dairy farmer
Dreams that his fattest cattle dwindle, fevered
By claw-cuts of the Goatsucker, alias Devil-bird,
Its eye, flashlit, a chip of ruby fire.
So fables say the Goatsucker moves, masked from men's sight
In an ebony air, on wings of witch cloth,
Well-named, ill-famed a knavish fly-by-night,
Yet it never milked any goat, nor dealt cow death
And shadows only--cave-mouth bristle beset--
Cockchafers and the wan, green luna moth.
2.8k
swishers aren’t so sweet when
our teeth are banging together
tongues fighting for dominance
gin burning our lips
hungrily seeking
an escape from ourselves
selfishly burring our stingers into the back of the other
******* are aptly named
La petite mort
because i want to die and be reborn
& i was foolish
for ever thinking that you could be
different
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC
If you look deep into the high dry sky,
You might be able to catch time fly by.
The sands of the hour glass slowly decay away.
The future you were longing for already is today.
Right now,
Has already,
Become then.
What you thought was in the present,
Has just gone to the past.
What you think is in the future,
Has just gone to the past.
You know its going to happen, just not when,
Your pain hurts now, but it won’t hurt then.
Time soars, not fly’s,
Doesn’t fall, but glides.
As time goes adrift, it is forever no more,
Washed out to sea, to never see another shore.
Every single second the time will change,
Shift and rearrange, slowly to derange.
Like a burring candle, the flame melts us down,
Were stuck in a never ending ocean, trying not to drown.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 8:48 AM UTC
Each puff infuses poison and serenity.
Clouds drift off, combine with the air.
Slowly burring away years off time.
Disgust or desire,
The distant smell of the once infamous beauty.
The cancer stick, the deathly hits.
The denial of mortality caused from deadly attraction.
A single hit they say will dig you a grave,
But what’s the point if you will get one anyways.
A torch of liberty.
For the ones who find peace,
Within each calming puff.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
long after you’ve logged off,
the screen, now, just room temperature,
no longer warming plate hot, a good feeling lingers,
the glowing, slowing remains of our days first visitation,
reducing to a single dot, fading gunshot message, but unstated:
*”I was here, but moved on,
I am your first, yet you, are not mine...”*
the Dylanesque mystique, mystifying, mind-burring,
in the air hanging, those words sticky stuck in your craw,
ear worm ya, until, you utter rush, desperate to return,
shoot, what was that poem, its title, the author, ****
on what-was-that-poetry-site’s-name?
Hello Poetry! and now it’s too late, you’re not entranced,
no darling, you’re entrapped, fly glued to my sticky heart,
you, served raw, with the hook, line and sinker still attached,
you, my friend, are now my poet ****** my belonging, for
fourscore and evermore there is no cure, no cutoff, no resisting.
fresh meat for the poets beat, and you still have not even tasted
the salt water words, the rhymes that will tie up, and prolapse
your heart ******* in the love poems, ha, so when they ask what’s
the name of your new friend, the one that you are keeping so secret, tell them, shyly, bravely, whispering outstandingly, upright, shouting forthrightly: it’s me, Brandy Channing, and your soul is now mine to keep...for as long as deemed necessary to extract my ****** poems essence, so be my parasite and I will be you mistress, the mutual infection meaning but one thing! we, you and I, will live always apart, always together, yes darling, be distressed, you’re oh so blessed now, and
f o r e v e r....but tattoo these words upon your bicep lest one forget,
I am your first, you, are not mine
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 9:56 AM UTC
The silence of this place, this spot where I
find myself hiding, is all around me. Denial
of the sky becomes my position as I trap
the bubbles of rare soil in my heart. I stop
the doubt by creating a new dwelling where
I shall hide away in my dreams. The silence
keeps me company in the every growing
growl of early surrender. The winds of change
flip around me, for they cannot reach me in
my sorrowful abode. I am counting the minutes
until I can safely reach distance with my
wavering breast of trust. I cry out but the silence
is too fulfilling, nothing shall be heard ever more
from my lips by any other living organism. Trusting
only myself I force my mind to concentrate on what
needs to be growing and the flowing of the wind
does not tamper with my view. I am immersed in
this place. I am trapped by my own decision, which
creates a bond with bared heart. I am drifting through
frosted lawns where the grass has been sown but
as yet is not growing. My flavoured tongue whispers
in the pulsating glare of brightly burring wood which
I had collected to start a fire. The flames entertain
and I wonder how much longer I shall have to stay
here in this hiding place where silence is the master
of all that I am. Gazing past myself I can only imagine
the cloak of fog that will surround me as I barricade
the doors of my vision. I am what I am; I am what
I was. My question is "will I truly ever be what
I must be?" Silence. Hope. Words of revival. These
sounds must be firm. These pockets of helpless clouds
must be lifted. I sigh. The sunlight is blinding me.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
*Every time a sentence is spoke,
It can never be taken back,
Its out now for the whole world to hear.
Once someone opens their mouth and lets words drip out,
Those words are imprinted onto the world,
And time cannot be re-winded.
"So speak wisely," Everyone says,
But no one can seem to follow this small simple rule.
Why is it so difficult to think before speak?
Arguments can leave scars,
Lies and rumors can hold such damage.
Words have an impact, but many seem to forget,
As the letters dance out of their mouths and into thin air,
Already turning into a wild tornado storm and destroying who every is in its way.
Words seep deep within ones skin, burring in deep,
And burning that victim, as tears soon slip out and begin to fall.
"Words hurt," They told me,
But I never knew that they would make a tare in one's heart,
Damaging for a long time, and placing it in deep into one's memory.
Words have affect, words do hurt,
And words have a lasting effect,
So choose carefully before you let out a sentence that is filled with hurt.*
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
A man screams in his sleep.
Her features all aligned into a perfect order
Just because I'm hungry doesn't mean I have to eat.
A low hum
Burring into my mind
Drives me into vicious fits of obsession
She stirs me
I look at her but cannot see her.
I try so hard to drink her in.
Every feature I want to drown in.
The vision is only a drop to a dying thirst
I stare so uncomfortably at her soft skin.
Guilty I lust for her.
She exemplified feminine strength
She stings me with her beauty
And Instills in me a sadness I can't understand
Consciously torn between being a dog and a man.
Stuffed my shame into my belly and moved on.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
.
.
.
Hello ex-Hubby,
I meant the handsome dystopian boy,
currently, I'm writing you the sin
I remembered that craved the most,
when I dared to
penetrate my colorful virtue spot again.
to ride the last whole night car with you
in a hurry,
and forget about the evil you,
hating women, dressed in your dark flurry.
I embraced those tiny white palms in my head.
when they refused to touch me back and ride ahead.
instead of losing interest
and forget about reverence you physically,
I kept my fingers crossed secretly,
under the car seat,
next to the prestigious scent of yours.
Your North African amber eyes
that refused to match mine,
to get lost between their depressed universes and shine.
I prayed along this magnificent time,
to God so he could with his 99 mercies
make you fully mine.
The lava that burst divinely
out of your Tunisian delicate betrayed my senses
and lit the full hungriness towards your beguilement.
I encouraged my half stability
to make it through
a little bit far from you,
my hallowed brew
with every single meter that we've passed
I fluctuate amid the idea of capturing you devilishly or sacredly, between making some blood contracts with the devil itself,
or donate as much money as I could,
for the sake of being together,
burring ourselves on an old bookshelf.
trichotillomania; the colorless ferocious ogre,
that used to assault my bright aesthetic soul,
as a tight fatal choker
to remind it chastely,
of the imperfection portrait of mine.
and pursue its pride with a fiery scourge,
matted with brine
when I started to rise my jaded fingers
to covet those golden cheeks.
I failed!
the deficiency is capturing me
The keloid I hated the most
as I carry my dramatic havoc away,
a little bit away,
from your inner fray
pathetically, I turned my whole feelings
against my well ignoring the idea of
love Subliminal and its spell
facing the windscreen
that harshly afford me a great frustration
trying to cover my hope with trash sack and provocation.
I failed,
escaping the life blackmail,
convincing me to practically disbelief on you.
But I kept myself as holy as I dared to.
despite of my Viscera's beating,
crumbling and shrinking.
I kept my grin harmfully, blinking.
under your realm seeking for a light of your anger that will
console me again. and bring me home.
Happy Birthday!
.
.
.
Apr 12, 2024
Apr 12, 2024 at 12:03 AM UTC
Tessellation & Interstices
**”A tessellation or tiling is the covering of a surface,
often a plane, using one or more geometric shapes,
called tiles, with no overlaps and no gaps…In mathematics, tessellation can be generalized to higher dimensions and a variety of geometries.”**
the insistent need to be distinguished
means many are not,
indeed,
this hunger
to be an influencer
and never just an influencé.
creeply creates a linear surface,
a flooring to be trod upon,
a tessellated plane,
were we each fit in
right-tight juxtaposition
and we are noticeable for our
uniformity and
the scuff marks of having been trod upon,
well used.
it is in the chips of irregularities,
the overlaps and the gaps
where we touch and connect
with our individual Ah Ha’s,
where our Venn Diagram Lives
intersect, infect, interfere, inject,
in the tiny
interstices
tween us,
the jagged, irritatingly edgy
rubbings
that the friction of creativity
is comedically inseminated.
I love a good tense sweat,
that invasive, deep boring burring,
that demands
instant creative solutions lest the angst of
an unwritten-in-the-moment-poem
is even more annoying,
before it is annoyingly,
befogged, lost forever.
that is why with old age,
fearsome fast
short term memory loss,
some turn to the speedy freedom of
free verse,
unconstrained by socks
and well fitting shoes,
and the slip on sneakers
of rhyming,
so insistent on perfection,
that the
burr is absorbed,
the irritant rubbing is creamed away,
and that loss of
a pouring of the soul’s *********** of
Done!
is
our exclamatory mutual curse
Mar 23, 2024
Mar 23, 2024 at 10:26 AM UTC
A tick and a click are rhyming up in a lame flame,
A thick stick of dry herb is the flame's aim,
That starts to burn and blatter in a burring pain,
Framed by a grey fog, hiding its disdain.
The mere pain of life urges this hateful act,
Looking for more pain pack by pack,
Claiming if there's no stop, I want more of that,
Waiting and feeling and waiting and feeling,
The sniff-by-sniff approaching Death.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 1:48 AM UTC
A dark void that is slowly
Burring me
Does not bear no name
I know nothing of why I am its chosen one
Or, what it stands to gain.
It places the visions in my mind
It pours the pills in my hand.
Overwhelms me with the feelings
That I will be at ease
If I leave this twisted land.
And as my heart beats on
It hollows out my insides
Holds my emotions captive
Thrives of the hour's I've cried.
Longing for it to release me
I routinely battle it everyday
Showing me no mercy
It makes a point it is here to stay.
Feb 28, 2010
Feb 28, 2010 at 11:27 AM UTC
Find me a place where heartache ends
And when you find it, mark it with an “X”
But instead of burring gold there
Bury you’re betrayal, bury it deep
In a wooden box with a padlock
So that even over the years
When the salty air and crashing waves
Erode that sandy grave
And that pain surfaces again
I’ll have had enough time
To wash in the tide
The smell of you from my clothes
To baptize myself in the sea
From your sinful touches
To let the waves beat down
On my ears so loud
They’ll forget how your name sounds
When that wooden box floats
Back to me on the opposite side of the shore
Then I’ll know when it’s safe to come back to that place
And I’ll brush off the “X” you put there
Because that’s where the heartache ends.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
She used to come to me in whispers, hushed under the calm of the early morning.
"Just like her, just like her, you know you are"
I ignored the noise for years.
I had almost forgot to listen, he made me forget.
A fairy tale prince, riding in on a steed to slay my whispered monster
It starts that way, like a story book or a poem.
the weight of words lift
kisses on my forehead
Whispers can't be heard over a heartbeat next to mine.
It starts that way, all beauty and shine
somewhere, at some point, things grey
Whispers return, a little different this time
"He'll see, just like her. You know he'll leave. Just you see"
They devour the peace.
I remember now, as the monster comes scratching, rapping
her tired song
I remember now the lyrics to her curse
the endlessness that gathers, pouring dirt and sand
burring me slowly under
Just like her
May 14, 2024
May 14, 2024 at 6:16 PM UTC
i tried to tell my sadness to my friend once
they laughed it off
as if it were merely a scrape
that could be healed
with a bright colored Band-Aid and time
i thought about telling how it really was
tell how the scrape traveled into my bloodstream
into my liver
kidneys
brain
heart
and slowly my sadness began to pump through me
until it became me
like a bear burring in its den for the winter
only my winter shows no signs of passing
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
Wood smoke on a frosty February air,
Let it drift through my window and
interrupt my thoughts,
Tinted with the frozen taste of forest mildew—where you once held my hand when we stepped over a fallen log.
Red wine head ache beat my temples raw,
And the heater rattles in the walls so I
toss and turn.
I do not think of you often; but now I do, wrapped up in yellow blankets and breathing deep the snow falling air.
The ping, ping, ping
of an over fulled drain,
it beats a metronome against the aluminum roof next door.
I sleep with the window open to catch the sent of burring birch,
or hardened pine,
I warm my senses and drift away
to a time before February froze the air.
Mar 25, 2011
Mar 25, 2011 at 10:47 PM UTC
The sky's covered with a dark black beast, like a thick smoke it moved in from the east. The sun once shining, now hidden behind his back. A roar can be heard, its ready to attack. Streaks of fire branch outwards across the darkness. Screams can be heard as it's fire touches down, burring all to the ground.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
You are in my arms comfortably folded
While burring your face in my chest
By nodding your head like a small kid
For which ever question I ask
I hold my hand around your waist
To lean you on bed and give you some rest
We woke up on sunny morning
As curtains of my window playing with shadows
I could hear the pleasant music birds singing for us
Setting on a branch of tree
Like lover’s gaze at each other during moments when hand holding is still sweet
Or the sparrow beings to tweet
The day changes into night or the hot summers into winter
But i know you will be always in my arms……
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
special people do special things to help the world
into a better place, but when the mind
is cloudy with doubt being special is like a
dog burring a secret bone in the depths of the ground
Gravity pulls you down but is it more effective than pain
(for I do not know happiness as it usually is striped from me)?
Deprived of my childhood, its hard to stop what
you don't know
especially when you have no control over it.
Lost Thoughts.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
there is someone that will always be your "hopeful second chance"
the one that got away
broke your heart
without even lifting a finger
these are the people we need to stay away from
because just because it was love didn't mean it was meant to be
just because he gave you a feeling in your chest that felt like the burring of 1,000 suns doesn't mean the two of you should be together
you need to remember how he wasn't there for you
both emotionally and physically
so please don't let a past love that broke you
break you again
let the love you have now flourish your soul
and turn you into the person you've always wanted to be
hold onto the love that makes you feel like you can change the world
love the man that loves you with the burning of 1,000 suns
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
Eclipse ….by Jessie
The sun it rises every day from the horizon on the east.
A shining star and heated orb, this galaxies burring beast.
The sun it burns so very bright for its love the celestial moon.
Which makes her grand appearance, eight hours after noon.
A ballet up in heavens sky, as they chase each other around.
Humans with our season tickets, watching from the ground.
The moon she waxes full of love and wanes when all depressed.
Every month she does the same, seemingly without distress.
They love each other with intensity; even though they rarely meet.
Waiting for the magical time, when the two will finely greet.
With love so gentle, we need no aid to see a lunar eclipse.
When sun and moon get the chance, to finely have a kiss.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 3:50 PM UTC
Once upon a time…by chance a common girl met a common boy
after one night she told him that she knew
knew what would happen:
In a few weeks they'd be in love hopelessly and then as they grew together so would their love then they would get married
but thats not how this story ends
instead of growing together they grow apart
they break up but still care for each other
he tries to **** himself
then buries himself in drugs
she feels like the life is ****** out of her
then buries herself in solitude
ignoring and spurning all attempts to help
months pass
she finds someone to desperate or too stupid to see she's still in love
with someone else
Then once again they find themselves falling back in love but this time
this time…
everything is different
after burring themselves
they have changed
have built walls to cower behind
Neither of them see it
He was the fuse lying in wait
to be touched by her fire
the only possible result
was for everything
to explode
leaving nothing
but ruins of memories, and confidences
shared at the cost
of two lives once intertwined
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC