"burrowed" poems
Street lamps play
As they have before
Dim walkway
Leading to a door
Careful steps
Strewn leaves
Breathe between gaps
Skulking like thieves
Rustling trees
Otherwise nothing
Mind at ease
Heart rapidly beating
Usually stops here
Usually I'd stir
But still in slumber
I drew closer
Eyes on door
Familiar scene
Stood here before
This dream I've been
Up the patio
Door was ajar
Accompanied by my shadow
Stretched far
Tunnel vision
Dripping eave
Door handle beckons
Hand raised to receive
Usually stops here
Usually I'd rouse
Allowed to enter
This time... This house
Handle I seize
Door seemed light
It did not freeze
Hinges did not fight
Revealed the insides
Scanned surroundings
Unlit lights
Stairs climbing
Footsteps I heard
Coming my way
Sounds absurd
But yet I stay
Usually stops here
Usually dream is done
But still was clear
It only had begun
Darkened figure
Descending on bare feet
Beauty light as feather
Ever did I meet
She did not see me
Planted at the doorway
Impossible it may be
Nothing did she say
Walked right by
My eyes followed
Seconds fly
In eternity they burrowed
Usually stops here
Usually I'd wake
Yet still I'm here
Chance I'd take
Stood at the fridge
Back towards me
Under siege
My mind set a flurry
Fridge was opened
Light casted her silhouette
Her back darkened
Curiosity grew fat
Illuminating beams
Accentuated her hair
Like golden streams
Flowing with flair
Usually stops here
Usually I'd startle
Connection did not sever
Continue I was able
Spellbound I gawked
Rooted like a tree
Wide-eyed I stalked
This siren before me
She drank
Not knowing I was there
Stiff as a plank
I was locked in a stare
Finally broke free
Shifted my weight
She turned to me
And then said...
Then it ceased
Then I awaken
Surprisingly pleased
Slice of heaven
Who was she?
Silhouetted face
Perpetually...
Mysterious grace
Foreign albeit familiar
Strange but true
Now rings clear...
It is you...
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
The wind whispered to the trees
Who sent messages in fallen leaves
The bluebell rang out the alarm
And the rabbits burrowed out of harm
The birds carried the message on a wing
Then the forest fell asleep until the spring
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
Your smile.
.
endlessly,
my heart searched
for a vibe on another
heart with which to
resonate and found none.
finding none, it wandered endlessly like
Infra-red rays seeking a
suitable tempo upon which
to strike an interference.
i wandered in search of a fertile
land in a heart upon
which to grow seeds of
love, my head burrowed
deep in a shell of
restlessness...
.
but on that fateful day,
too-good-to-be-true was
your smile--- it caused
my eyes to twitch,
borrowed a beat from my heart, transforming my
thoughts to an ode-- a
prelude to better days
.
i still see that smile,
lucid--- your lips opening
like windows of love,
revealing shiny white
louvres of beauty (teeth)
which opened to your
tongue-- a valley flowing
with sweetness as it
goes down your palate
like a parting curtain
welcoming love... then
you said "hi".
.
this friendship began with a smile,
it deepened with the " hi"
.
i have tapped from the
happiness let out from
the windows of your heart--
your smile..
my heart no longer wanders, in your smile,
it found rest
.
my greatest wish is
to make this smile mine
someday,
plant a kiss on your lips,
the happiness that
dwells in there becoming
a remedy to my malady.
.
.
Chukwudera Michael
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
Winter, From Summer
Winter's kiss reveals
barren nests in arbored rests
summer's love conceals
Winter's veil behests
larder meals in burrowed fields
summer's sleep divests
Summer, From Winter
Summer's hand repeals
frigid tests of nature's guests
winter's grasp unseals
Summer's warmth invests
life's ordeals on newborn squeals
winter's chill arrests
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
distant ships sailing through the
pink crests of brain matter
brimming with cargo; the unit
of knowledge burrowed in flesh
unable to feel pain, passing the
sensation on skulled flags—beware,
remember, know that these things
can haunt you.
(know that these things may one
day heal you)
this is who you are now: yellow,
sunflowers wreathed in knotted strands
of wheat-colored hair, pill bottles
half-full, hands like rotting fly traps
curled in supplication on a
Thursday morning when the pain is
too much to bear alone.
this is who you will always be: a series
of binary sparks, a long silvery tunnel,
streetcars laden with passengers
weaned on anger & fear & love--
a construction site.
you are a work in progress.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
1716
Death is like the insect
Menacing the tree,
Competent to **** it,
But decoyed may be.
Bait it with the balsam,
Seek it with the saw,
Baffle, if it cost you
Everything you are.
Then, if it have burrowed
Out of reach of skill—
Wring the tree and leave it,
’Tis the vermin’s will.
6.9k
We were interstellar travellers,
children so interested in creating
our infinite microcosmic civilizations,
that we missed it. I saw it,
briefly, once, at night.
We jumped from rock to rock
in the grand pond of the
universe, swam between asteroid reefs
and through the turbulent vents
that were black holes. We
lived everywhere, nowhere,
all at once and for an eternity
at the fringes of galaxies,
and their centres (having burrowed
through the thick skins of dying suns).
We built, advanced, explored,
warred, and coexisted. We knew
everything. We thought.
We knew everything, we thought.
It began as a small blip,
an electromagnetic pulse at the
beginning of time which meta-
imposed itself into the rest of time:
a god, or something of
the sort, it grew and
shrank, and grew and
shrank; a heartbeat--
life. Death.
It ended as a small blip,
an electromagnetic pulse at the
end of time which meta-
imposed itself into the rest of time:
a god, or something of
the sort, it grew and
shrank, and grew and
shrank; a heartbeat--
life. Death.
From the former to the latter,
it sparked creation
and destruction
and advancement
and setback
and belief
and theory
and one
and none.
I saw it,
briefly, once, at night.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC
It was hard in the Moonta Mines that year
For the miners, down in the pit,
It wasn’t a place for a weak man, but
The Cornish Miners had grit,
They burrowed deeper with every day
Extracting the copper ore,
And the skimps grew high in the heaps that piled
Not far from the Moonta shore.
They wore their helmets deep in the mine
With a candle fixed to the brim,
And worked in the glow of the candlelight
While the pumps pumped out and in,
They pumped for water, they pumped for air
For the air in the mine was rank,
And water seeped at the lowest lode
Where the atmosphere was dank.
They built their cottages out of lime
And mud, with a building board,
On Sundays, that was the only time
Once they had prayed to the Lord,
The Cornish Miners were Methodists
Built numerous churches there,
And Cap’n Hancock had said, ‘Attend!
Or your job is gone – Beware!’
Those men of flint had hearts of gold
And they raised their children fine,
Sons would follow their fathers then
And go to work in the mine,
One Christmas Eve they were gathered there
By their hundreds, on the green,
A candle lit on their helmets each
Like a glittering starlit scene.
The wives and children were there as well
With their voices raised in praise,
The swelling sound of an angel choir
With their humble miners ways,
They called it Carols by Candlelight
And the movement grew apace,
It spread all over the world from this
The Moonta Miners grace.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
throb through my veins
free between atmospheres
music burrowed in much
too deep to ever
bleed out
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC
and were the ears so pleased when:
the iciclic needles dug into our skins,
fleshy cloths that, sewn together,
made the mask to hide the whole.
we wore them like the cheapest of trophies,
the basest of glories and the simplest of stories.
we wore them to contrast to the whiteness of space,
the empty black white gray of life's living littleness
with the reddened hardwork of claymade shells.
they glowed with the rusty red of millions of faces
free to make their mark as they see best fit.
we had found these skins
forgotten on the floor,
and so we picked them up
with our biglittle hands
and opened the door
to newmade makings and
brand new beings.
it was empty within us--
the beings of old
and the yearnings of yore
had retreated far beneath the surface,
burrowed deep below mountains and meadows and
hills pushed up like sand in a box,
crushed against the sides of our enclosure.
it was silent within us--
the screech-making moon
sang in time to chest-beatings
and the barking of stray dogs;
the melody of moments lost in time.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
Our ashes have settled on the cliff of pride
while the seed of today sprouts your frailty beginning.
We have at last seen the face of our god
which you have not even learned to utter
or never will at all.
Your intelligence gave you power that
failed the comprehension of our yesterfathers.
You built humans in just a sprinkle of *****
on to the skin of alligators and ants
on to the stem of a bee and the sting of a plant.
And you called them your sons
And you called them your kind.
The burrowed earths have no more riches
and they are left unpalatable to worms,
no more worms even
for even these decomposers
learn to tire feeding on your greed
no more shades of blue in the putrid waters
to which this bottle was thrown,
to which this letter longed to swim with your same species
that can never be in our family tree
for it has grown dead atop the impotent soil.
How we wished that your sons wished they
were with us in the time when
sparrows roared in the Kamagong tree when
wild boars chirped in the dancing bamboos when
the snow-like smokes breathed in the cone of Mayon when
the bangus and tilapia worshipped the nets of the singing fishermen.
How we wished they wished they knew.
How we wished they wished they saw.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:36 AM UTC
Look closely, do you see it?
Down below, where man has not been
A deity with roots, deeply burrowed in the earth
There lies a mighty tree
Taking warmth from the core and
in return, provides life on the surface
Thousands of birds live within his branches
Songs sung of unexplainable beauty
His base, hollowed out for
furry creatures in the colder months
Oh, how he loves the tiny animals
They make him laugh,
dropping the sweetest of fruit
Perfection it would seem, he grew curious
What goes on beyond his personal Eden?
Several branches wrap around each other
Winding and unwinding, to reveal an old man
Terra-god, in flesh and blood
Ripping out a strong root to help hold himself up,
The long journey begins
Three days he walked through the forest
But what is three days to a man
who has lived hundred of thousands of years.
Entire civilizations rise and fall,
lifetimes must feel like matters of seconds
He continues to wander along.
Suddenly he sees something not seen before,
No cover from his branches, an open night sky
He had never felt such wonder
How many stars were as old as he?
Taking it all in, he continued to walk.
Morning came as did another discovery.
A jungle, grey, concrete, filled with soulless monsters
Black thick air, foulest of all
Stacks of stolen, re-engineered earth
rising higher then any tree.
There is no life here, only man's false heaven.
Disgusted and furious at what he saw,
he cursed this domain of blastphemy,
and turned homeward
Upon walking back as time progressed he felt weaker
He began to feel time, slower, and slower
Something felt wrong, something, felt wrong
He noticed the animals wandering about, picked one up
“Find shelter little one” in a worried tone, “It will be cold soon”
As he looked up, he trembled
His home Eden, ***** and torn by man
The sweetest of fruit,
The furry animals,
All destroyed, leaving but a trunk
He fell to the ground weeping,
Withering to nothing
The age of nature has ended
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 2:22 PM UTC
Something lives below my skin,
It’s burrowed down, deep within
It burns my body, wearing me thin
And that ***** won’t ever give in
It scrabbles and rives, as I tear me apart
With nails like knives, so close to my heart
I claw at my limbs with fingers that seek
To split open my flesh, the tissue so weak
Blood busts forth as I tear at the itch
As I work hard to get rid of this *****
My nails dyed red, I can not stop now
The need so strong, to exorcise it somehow
Covered in scars, scabbing and sore
As I cry with the pain, limbs ragged and raw
I pause for a moment waiting to see
If it is no longer residing in me
Holding my breath, maybe its gone
If I can’t rid myself of this wrong
This dark demon will drive me insane
But it comes crawling again and again
Something lives below my skin,
It’s burrowed down, deep within
It burns my body, wearing me thin
And that ***** won’t ever give in
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
Lumber and lacquer
Nails and elbow grease
Blood from the splinters
Before you were stripped down
From the wood
Of the forest behind our home
Standing sturdy and steadfast,
On the patio
I laid
Brick by brick
Gate keeper of the orchard that grows,
Thick in the summer
And curls up barren,
In the cold months
As if sitting on its mahogany shoulders there are
Mountains to the North West that seem
To smile with their peaks,
And valleys against the blue satin
Sheet of a sky
You who bare witness to my body and the bodies of
Countless others
Those that would just simply use you and fewer,
That would become your very grain
You are watching our conversations,
Through knots for eyes
Through bird-burrowed holes,
Hearing us,
As we break bread as brothers
Wood through the trees
Flesh from bone
Feast to famine
You are,
Beautiful and complete
As the steak,
Cooked rare
A glass of summer port–wine:
The color of the red russet potato,
And the earth-soiled hands that dug them up
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 9:25 AM UTC
Like Severus and Lily,
We came to each other by chance.
I transfigured myself into your life
Already on a pedestal,
Our words chaining ourselves
To each other
Until death.
Years have passed
Without so much as a flicker between us
But here you stand
Today
With the words of our pasts
Strung together and hanging like frayed ropes from your wrists.
In my dreams you come to me
With your hand outstretched,
A snake burrowed into the cuff
Of your long sleeved,
Blue-collar work shirt.
I do not hesitate to take it.
I am bitten.
I wake up in a cold sweat,
The snake of men past
Now burrowed next to me
In the king sized bed.
I am not afraid
But I do not trust.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 1:56 AM UTC
For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for sweet peas.
And whose skin could be misplaced for dogwood.
Tongue as innocent as the boy that cried wolf,
And eyes as golden as yore.
You knew of that girl, count every school day,
Where she walked through the door, head bowed and heart prayed.
'neath those bangs, whose color is as dark as our breaths, and as shiny as false tree,
Whose eyes--exotic--bluer--bluer than a thumbtack and bluebells set out by sea.
Whose eyes are mismatched by plentiful lips--small as the silver spec on my shoe,
And shimmered 'neath sterile light, as if she kissed the face of Mt. Rushmore, too.
With those high lips and V-line chin, which connected with her pencil neck to her petite body,
No ******* or bottom, with legs as thin as stilts and as blinding as our phones,
She holds the body of a cradle, and sings like a tongue-less canary.
Always kempt and proper--her hair tied back with a lovely noose.
And shoes worry not of dirt--for she never played outside.
Resting 'neath maple-wood trees like a bunny--face and knees tucked by arms, and that's where they reside.
Many boys had asked for her hand in play, but that bunny went deeper--deeper into the flesh hole she burrowed.
"Painfully shy, she was." They said.
And that pain was her devil.
For you knew not the cause of those florid, pink, cheeks.
Whose purpose means nothing but dead machines.
Whose eyes rung bright--struck the world alight,
Yet, they themselves could not see.
For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for vintage bust,
And whose skin could be misplaced for bile.
Whose eyes mistaken for lust,
And face mistaken for tile.
For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for heat,
And whose skin could be misplaced for bleach.
For again and again and again, the belt beats.
And hello to endless ******
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Blue waters and purple veins clash--wash again and again 'gainst land--and befit the word: queer.
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Innocence knows no bounds and eyes no longer see flavor,
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Exotic eyes bled--rained--pink--and pink--and pink with grand fervor...!
For sometimes it may frighten you to know,
Not all persons are truly healthy,
even those who you hold truly dear.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
There lies a secret, unseen, unfolded and powerful
paralell dimension, burrowed in our brain.
An entirely different path of thinking,
which can be explored by applying cerain measures.
Different paths, infinity, infinity. Gates.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:19 AM UTC
Hazel eyes decorated by light lashes,
Your soul burrowed within,
I glance at passive eyes,
Afraid of what I cannot find,
I brush your lashes with two fingers,
So I may see you,
I brush your eyes with quivering lips,
So I may kiss your soul,
But you remain distant.
I want to reach you,
To see your soul for its entirety,
But I cannot excite your stoic eyes,
So I decide to remove my gaze,
From your hazel irises.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
Don't be
A mole.
I hate moles.
They burrow
And
Scavenge
And
Live in the
Dark.
Thats just
What you did
To my heart.
You burrowed
Deep,
Down to the center.
You set up camp.
And I didn't know
You were a mole.
I thought maybe you were
A
Straw,
To ****
Bad things
Out.
So I kept you warm
And waited calmly for the
Bad stuff to
Dissapear.
But I realized
That
You were a
Magnifying glass,
To emphasise
My flaws
And you were
A
Seam-ripper
To
Pull the patches
From where
I had already healed,
To make the scabs
Bleed
Again.
And I thought you were
A
Jigsaw
And you were broken
So I could fix you
And put you
Together.
Like a
Vase,
Easily
B
r
o
k
e
n.
And
Then
You left me.
Like a
Tooth
Full of
Cav it ies.
That
Space
Next
To
My heart
No longer full.
And you
Didn't depend on me,
No longer a tapeworm.
I miss you.
Like
You
Were
Mine.
But you were
Never
Mine.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 9:06 PM UTC
*Their voices echo along the threads of time
I read their works on tattered pages
They say their words did but rhyme
Their's were for inspiration,not wages
They told stories like real witnesses
Of agonizing times and sicknesses
The soldiers of their sweet narrations
They say rode on horses of generations
Triumphant over the trend, glorious
Shooting arrows past lineages,like warriors
They fought against pride and Prejudice
Across boundaries, winged like Pegasus
They flew to bring merit of words and lines
And stood the test of time like wild pines
They used sharp words instead of swords
Only received rejection ,sometimes nods
Walked long distances,endured perspiration
Sleepless ,so to cultivate some inspiration
They were young but with mature souls
Their relentless effort vividly like Moles
Burrowed through even hardened hearts
And with needles of kindness stitched cuts
Finely weaved justice on paper like Mats
And spread it for the world,across all parts
When speech was hated and persecuted
They stood strong and instead recruited
The course of changes threatened to slay
Erosion corroded letters worse than clay
Their beautiful hearts where kindness lay
Were battered and butchered causing hope to decay
A season came when all was but a lost cause
And were tales of how once upon a time it was
Yet again like a phoenix someday they rose
From the ashes of history, how? Nobody knows
They were stronger and mightier than mortals
And travelled through un fathomed portals
They built a very powerful mental kingdom
Above the prestigious tower of wisdom
Where they reigned like the fires on doom at Mordor
Freed so many prisoners of their situations
Across the entire universe and her nations
Gave them keys so they unlock more doors
Stanzas crawled like maggots across all avenues
With mixed feelings the world received the news
Though were skewed to embracing the return
Because for once they saw a flame of peace burn
Their tears were wiped by every piece they read
Poets let them realize war wasn't only in their head
Reason flowed like waters in fountains and streams
Readers believed once again in their dreams
And like poetry and poets they didn't sit back and cry
Every poem they read,sad or not told them to get up and try
And when they finally got victory over their inner strife
Not even once did they forget poems changed their life*
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
my silence is burrowed in these bones, my bones
let me go alone into the catacombs let me breathe the heart of this impenetrable darkness
I swear to god I never meant to hurt you
outside, on your doorstep I am worn out
sick and tired, and so on
these cave walls hover on my ribs I will never make you understand how the music
of this death march haunts me in my empty chest I am filled with the waning moon
the song of our sorrow overflows me my bones, my bones,
weaved within the stone floors our bones, your bones stacked against the walls
let me go alone into this hollowed darkness this
hallowed ground
in the dead of night this void shudders in my bones, my bones
I swear I’m dying I swear to god the cavern of this morgue is
my only home
let me go gentle into this good night
this holy unborn chaos under cover of darkness our world is small and scarred
someday I swear I will be still my shaking hands
will settle in these bones, these bones, let me die among the dead
under cover of darkness this new world washes over me the water of my veins
will flood this empty sky
there are thrones in the corners of this room and we turn away
(the underworld is not in flames it is drowned
in this cold breathing earth) there are thrones
in the corners of this room, and they
are empty
let me go alone into this heart of darkness, when I fall upon this floor my soul
will dance on torch lit walls my heart runs cold across this sacred stone
let the pure unsettled darkness strike in me that kind of hollow
I am trying to build a home here, these bones, my bones
the music of our heavy mouths drifts upward to the sky
I am a tragedy, for the last time
we will lose our senses underground and we will thank god
as my eyes fall wide on these hollow walls I am more at home than I have ever been
let this open earth bite me to my core
as my chest is bared before this empty sky I will not rage against the dying of the light
I am worn out
sick and tired
the chorus of our footsteps echoes on my bones, our bones, my bones
melted in this torch light we are dying
sacred
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
First, garlic.
Dig your nails into its flaking paper,
pink and beige like magnolia petals parched
in the gutter.
Peel back the skin and crush
the weighted bud
with the heel of your hand on your favourite knife.
It has been waiting for this.
The thick expectent smell sits up on the chopping board,
looks up at you like an old friend.
It has burrowed itself into the skin of your hands and lingers there
it will not be washed away, instead
it quietly clings to your fingers, flavouring
letters on your keyboard, the edge of the banister,
every light switch in the house.
The pulped clove is scattered into a scraped frying pan,
your grandmother's; it was never non-stick.
The stuck parts were always the best bit,
and so it goes,
the oil and creamy crumbs find the same spots,
engineered over forty years.
Some were accidents. All were happy.
Yours were ambition-led experiments.
The thumbs in the brown recipe book
were never your thumbs,
the dried-out sedimentary edges
were never your mishaps
but still it is a bible of sorts,
providing answers but never asking questions.
Later after dinner when everything is cleared away
and nobody can tell that you had been cooking at all
bring your fingertips to your nose
and inhale
the remaining relic of your meal,
a letter to yourself,
the end notes enduring but faint
now, lastly
lastly
garlic.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
Supple skin, insides of elbows
we scratched til they bled
split lips and scraped knees
I would follow you anywhere
Burrowed in your old clothes
you didn’t wear dresses
so neither did I.
Curled up on your too-green carpet
watching the fish in your tank
commit suicide one by one.
Can we stay the same?
Before Momma’s on the phone
shouting about faulty vaccines.
Before the world descends upon us.
In the night
you would slowly voice the thoughts:
what is the value of a human life
if it is miserable. If people laugh and mock,
if that life is silently and hopelessly
alone, and suddenly aware of it’s own strangeness.
It takes hours, to string this together
creeping towards 3am in the pitch dark.
we are sitting on the floor,
I promise with all of my eight year old honor
all of my fighting might,
I will not abandon you to this cruel world trapping
you. All this unknown grief
for the emotions you cannot understand.
Jul 8, 2011
Jul 8, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC