"bystanders" poems
let it not be confused
let no one else's name
ring throughout these sentences
let this be a hatchet
let me put this to rest
this is not a test
i don't want to think
about shipwrecks anymore
i am tired of folding apologies
into origami birds
and placing them
at the headstones to your tantrums
this is not is not geology class
these are promises
written on razorblades
*& if you are getting choked up
then maybe you should be*
maybe we should be buried
with our telescopes face down
my mouth is full of sorry
all for being honest
we are falling out of orbit
we are burning bystanders
so cast away your callous condolences
because no one is clapping
in this waist deep water
this is not a baptism
so do not tell strangers
that this was a chance to drown
any differently
i am not a catalogue
of constellations you cannot name
this is not mythology
so stop believing your horoscope
i am not a wishing well
i am just a wall for you
to paint post nuclear fallout & antonyms for catharsis on
we destroy the things
that are not ours-
the wanton ways
we embody wrecking *****
and then cry over the rubble
this is not a heap or a mosaic
this is leaping
off a thousand story building
with no one to catch you
at the bottom & maybe
that's why some quiet moments
are so fragile, maybe that's why butterflies have mimicry
your words are black powder
and poetry is your musketry
i guess that makes me your blindfold
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
You cannot hide,
It will find you.
It is not meant to be camouflaged,
Rather avoided by those who claim
They are innocent.
It is not what you have done or
What you will do;
It is what you failed to prevent.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
There are bloggers and selfie-takers,
Know the difference.
There are noisemakers and peacemakers,
I can show you the evidence.
There are admirers and haters.
Be especially mindful.
There are well-wishers and supporters.
Be very careful
The are naysayers and yeasayers
Always be aware.
There are brothers and brother's keeper,
Always ready to take care.
There are destroyers and fixers,
Separate them.
There are mixers and blenders,
We need them.
There are writers and publishers,
They need each other.
There are readers and proofreader.
Both read for different reasons.
There are bystanders and onlookers.
Both will be watching.
There are movers and shakers,
One of them has the edge.
There are dreams snatches and vision busters,
Be on the lookout.
There are ghost whisperers and Ghostbusters,
Both have connection to a ghost.
There are buyers and sellers,
Each one benefits.
There are singers and there are dancers.
Everyone provides some entertainment.
©IvanBrooksPoetry
21/8/2018
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
The week has to have a weekend
Days have to have a tomorrow
And goodbye to yesterday’s/
In turns will bring the months to an end/
What do we have to face
moving forward setbacks and more
worried looks in the bystanders eyes..
When all is set and done, we have to say grace
We have to look up every morning and whisper to the skies.
The news broadcaster’s never speak of genuine love,
They only wishes to be littered,
While, begging folks to do their part
The cooing of the dark lonely dove
a symbol that there’s is no more love in ones heart
during the these stressful day/
Ten o’clock curfew at night,\/
Essentials workers must only be seen at dawn/
No more than ten to twelve people on sight/
And large outstanding gathering must be gone/
Black Friday’s deals, window shopping strolls
Everything seem on hold, the biggest black hole of 2020/
And nothing spoke to me: not even a 60 inch flatscreen TV/
Let’s take a page from the Jewish customs
Bury the dead in the next seventy two hours/
All November traditions is limit/
Thanksgiving Day a Tic, tok
All Saints Day, All Souls Day, Mischief Night, Bonfire Night
Once you take down the statues, of useless figures
Would History of the injustices will be erase/
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 6:58 AM UTC
Beaumaris,
carnival of soft pastel tones
of damp evenings
of tramway cars
with small orange lights
distracted bystanders
the empty bridges
the silent horizons
pale lace on a parasol,
light sepia dreams
of a particular Monet,
forgotten, unseen
before the rains came.
Many years later,
I found her
so tenuous, so subtle
in what little was left
yet there it was, her soul
all new shades
of melancholy.
Now I just swim,
every now and then
in that blue ocean
of her blueness,
the Sea of Oblivion.
In the glimpse
of bright reflections
of sunshine
on the water,
of salted afternoons
in a country
where it no longer
rains
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
You stopped responding at my second
jesus **** joke, but I didn't care,
and I was the one at work. Aces.
Even vacation is stressful for you,
although I'll admit my humor isn't great,
but amongst friends I'm hysterical.
I only have about a handful,
and they're all ******* weird as me
except for a couple or several.
I'm not a big fan of most people I root for,
I'm terribly sarcastic, and if I love you
I might want you to fall on your ******* nose.
It's a fifty-fifty split,
or seventy to thirty.
I'm a ravenous cannibal when
I put words down to something tangible.
I'm also late to work or early,
and all my friends get my friends jobs
right before we leave or get fired
or get too poor to stay where we are.
It's a horribly satisfying way to live
but a ******** way to want to die.
I'm a coward and a liar with great hygiene,
I liken myself akin to the noble cockroach,
because I'm a nuclear survivor!
And the post-apocalypse started
right after Hiroshima, and now they
watch or **** everyone,
and people police people.
If you can't afford the rent stay with strangers
or starve to death on the streets while
middle class lunatics watch you evaporate
"rationally" as bystanders in a new world war.
It's not even a subtle genocide.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Peppermint sigh
In the calm twilight
The moon yawns
And stretches, over the sea
Glowing, beyond the extent
Of vision, of knowing
Slowing, down now
Freezing, right where it is
One big mystery
Forever left unsolved
We get away with it
Time for Plan B
I clutch my chest
My heart beats quickly
Then hesitates before
Stopping abruptly
It's nauseating
Noise-consuming
Time-consuming
We are waterproof
Cheap bystanders
In the headlights
Not the headlines
If only vision were clearer
Closer, stronger
Hold on to me
Loosen your grip
On reality
Let go
I'll always be here, for you
Let's go
I'll always be yours, my dear
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 4:18 PM UTC
radio playing, laughter transforms
into screams, metal crunching and
closing in, a flash of red hair,
or is it blood
the smell of dirt and smoke,
hands pull me from the wreckage,
covered in crimson water that
is not my own
searching eyes and choked shrieks,
where are they, where are-
face-down, still, twisted into
unnatural positions, unconscious,
the deafening screams are my
own, falling to my knees
helpless, seeing red but not in
anger, somewhere an ambulance
arrives, parents and bystanders
watch with unwavering fear
they scream for their mother, and
she is not breathing anymore-
uncontrollable shaking, a breath is
finally taken, but the battle is not won,
rushing, bright lights, tears and mud
staining my cheeks
she can only see shadows, his neck
is broken, another scream, a phone goes
off in the next room, a man in uniform
takes my hand and doesn't let go
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
He enters the room, smirk on that hideously gorgeous face. The *******
Walks by the young girls like he owns the swag of a thousand Biebers.
He is mistaken. Or are we?
"Push the air through your diaphram" he says with a sly grin, looking across the room at her.
She looks back. Defiance on her lips? No. Intrigue.
Their eye contact puts a weight on bystanders; The building pressure of a crescendo waiting to be released.
She breaks it. He frowns.
He is impressionable but very rightly so.
She sighs.
Victory sings an out of tune pitch.
He walks over, dragging Zachary's broken French horn behind.
Looks like this student will have to wait; His teacher is on a mission.
"Mission accomplished" he thinks as she sits on his living room couch, wine of glass in hand.
He resides in his bedroom, awaiting the inevitable.
He walks out to find an empty wine glass and an empty room.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
Helen sends me scraps of poems for repair. "Shreds of lettuce," she calls them. I fool around with them in my role as Poetry Doctor (see my banner photo). In her extended absence, I will post our convolutions. While the final product is mine, the vision, the imagery, the notion of the poem is all hers and therein lies the true authorship.
From Helen, Dec 2
Here is the last of the salad,
dressing not required...
savoir-faire [?sævw???f??
Upon a plate
of deliciousness
the lettuce
is usually
pushed to the side
to wilt
and be scrapped
into an
Industrial bin
were we all begin
as fodder for worms
turning garbage
into words
Nourishing
nothing
but our own pride
bon appétit
Helen
---------------
The Human Word Salad
Now it is dressed....
all poems, no exception,
the bad, the exceptional,
all begin
in an
industrial bin.
wormwood,
wormword
the ancestors,
feast on the scraps,
garbage letters discarded,
the wilts of alpha lettuce,
the word waste of the
every day beta jabber,
plate pushed-aside decorations,
all but none, bystanders
and they
turn them into words,
though inedible, incapable,
of nourishing life individually,
yet their recycled deliciousness,
unquestioned.
when
each sole word,
re-birthed in the compost
of the delivery room of that bin,
meet in the maternity ward
of our minds
words wed,
poems form,
and all the true nourishment
the world needs
begins anew.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Guns are everywhere in sight
Muzzles, fire and fright.
Blood running through sewers
like flooded rivers in mid-May,
when it should be running through veins.
Slain bodies once filled with life
are now filled with undeserved death.
Pain seeps through the eyes
of brutalized victims as they weep.
A mother pleads to God
with hopes He will breath life
back into her daughter's lungs
as a child stands over the rotting
bodies of bystanders,
and waves at the flies
Unrest fills the air
while fire's are burning under water
Tragedy burns the face down to a tear,
Could Hell get any hotter?
Mirages mirror terror,
Silence in broken mirrors.
It may seem that voices don't exist
in places like this,
And that a difference lies off
in the distance;
out of reach, unattainable.
But they do.
A blind man's eyes become
his hands and his ears
when he needs to see,
While the mute lack a voice,
they still find a way to say,
"Hope is never all lost."
They need to know they are not alone.
Battles are being fought all over this world.
War, famine, sexism, racism.
A fight between mother and father.
Grief for the loss a lover.
We can all relate,
in one way or another.
Ignore ignorance, become informed.
Silence does not defeat violence,
nor is strength needed to beat it.
Courage and a heart
are needed to defeat it,
along with the will to believe
it can be defeated.
Throwing punches with fingerless fists
and broken spirits can seem useless,
but more has been done
with less.
Remember, a voice with something to say
is harder to forget
than a voice
that is
silent.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
wallpaper women
are ripped down in single sheets,
replaced by prettier ones
with more labyrinthine markings
and colours that shine,
but even then, a picture is placed overtop,
in a fine gold frame and a fibre canvas
with artwork drawn by feeble hands
wallpaper women,
are women.
they are you and i. we are bystanders,
eager to scream out, but a single hand
covers our mouths like a veneer.
we are to blend in,
we are to not speak,
unless we are asking,
“how may i take your order?”
we are a service, a factory,
we keep the world going.
wallpaper women
are artwork,
art that is not noticed by them,
who continue to believe
they are mere pieces of decoration,
something to make the walls pretty.
if we are artwork, why are we covered
with frames and photos and decoration?
wallpaper women
are people.
we are nurturers by nature,
lovers through hatred.
and so many refuse to see
the storm above the soft clouds.
wallpaper women
are told to blend in.
but we are ripped down like pages out of a book,
crumpled up and thrown into nothing.
if you value the story so much,
why do you keep taking pages out?
wallpaper women
are not the future,
they are the past.
women are the future.
women.
women.
women,
need to be heard.
women need to say “i am here too”
because we are not
just wallpaper,
we are beautiful ****** artwork
that deserves to be seen by
every
******
one
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:10 PM UTC
History is written by winners
Their story's the one that is told
The loser's are like dust in a zephyr
Blown away by the wind and the cold
A battle is waged on a hillside
The armies are dressed in chain mail
One side is left battered and dying
So...which side will write down the tale?
A submarine sinks in the channel
It's just off the Dover coast shore
No one survives but the story
of sailors we'll here from no more
Villages destroyed by a virus
It spreads through the town really quick
You know that the story gets written
By the survivors who didn't get sick
Pompeii was wiped out, that's a given
A volcano did wipe out the town
The people were burned to a cinder
So who writes, when there's no one around?
In the movies the cowboys and Injuns
All fight for control of the fort
Do the Indians spread tales of their losses
Do they write it all down just for sport?
As years changed the stories came forward
Of the armies and people who died
They were defending their loved ones and country
It's too bad they were on the wrong side.
As time lumbered on to the future
The winners were not just the ones
Who told what had happened that day
They were not just the ones with the guns
Bystanders came and told what they saw
This would change how stories were told
There was now a new player with stories to tell
And the winners did not look so bold
Things now were written that no one did know
Of the other sides battle attempts
They were not heroes or winners but, losers no more
For these writings now made them exempt
They spoke of their battles, their loyalty, grit
To stand strong and fight for their lives
Even though it was futile, they still thought they would win
Thinking only of children and wives
Now history is written as quick as it comes
Television has surely changed that
You can watch things at home on your big screen tv
And you can feel like you're where things are at.
Deception is gone and the truth now is told
In seconds, not years like before
You see things as they happen, and the final result
May shake your soul to your core.
So....now History is written by winners
and by losers as well just the same
And no matter, whatever the story
You now know all players by name.
Regardless of whatever the story
Be it ****** or sports, games or war
We can now see just how each one has ended
And their honor, and that's what life is for...
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 5:04 PM UTC
you have the formula
A Love Poem Recipe:
Fij = G(Mi x Mj)/Dij.
This formula, simplified, means that trade between two markets will equal the size of the two markets multiplied together and then divided by their distance.
(The model gets its name from its mathematical similarity to the equation in physics that describes gravitational pull.)
~~~
long ago, swore off
the love poem business.
lying that this
the last poem ever published
moan not,
statistically, for sure be
a heart-infected sick teenager
bemoaning/high fiving
their fated status
but I don't need to add to
that smoldering pile
the excellence, the richness,
the virtuosity
of the formula
a metaphor,
for the bounty and the risk,
in any love affair, thus love needy
for a diagrammed explication
two markets, soft upon each other,
multiply their trade in love and kisses
can you kiss her (him) but once?
nonsense!
saying I love you
but once a day,
like it was a vitamin,
preposterous!
no, love expands like a gas
(a distant cousin to our formula),
filling in the empty spaces,
escaping through crevices,
spilling, oft filling up
the nearby bystanders
in love,
there is no thing as
one touch clicking
but one touch
reveals the genetic marker,
the initial intimacy injection
Let the addiction begin!
ten thousand grasps,
some soft, some hard,
upon each other,
till fingers go lifelong contented numb
desire and affection spread like a
positive infection,
the curative powers
elegiac,
but never prosaic and though
formulaic
think more
voltaic and paradisiac
electric heaven
go forth and scribe
you got the secret
recipe
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
i.
caren forgot about her morning. caren forgot it was wednesday. caren had an event and she was not there.
caren is a shadow. caren is an absence of space. caren is a gap that people shy away from, women in black dresses sidestepping past her memory.
caren is a woman with a streetcar. caren is a woman with an office job. caren is a woman with a social network. caren goes to functions. caren is no longer a function, but a product of her own actions.
caren forgot herself.
ii.
shattered windshields. broken glass like triangle teeth. more monsters lurk in mirrors than in the recesses of the closet. behemoths wait by water coolers, demons sit in sweaty three-by-fours. the devil wears a motorcycle helmet and caren hasn't learned from her mistakes.
iii.
run a red light. it's december and she's egging on the new year. frosted features and blinkers hide hot flashes. she's impatient for her age, a businesswoman at her best.
a shift in gear. a change in mood. road rage, road rash. a few words from a dark knight on a whinnying bike.
iv.
lane changes and unintentional nudges. motorcycle launches the devil like a dove to heaven. caren stays earthbound, blood spilled to nourish the ground. fertilizer runs through her veins, and vampire trees in city parks drink it up. bystanders drink it up.
v.
caren is a casualty. caren is the victim of her own habits.
caren is a corpse in a coffin. caren is an elephant in the viewing room.
caren is to blame in eyes and minds. caren is condemned in whispers, but caren is lamented out loud, so caren is proud.
caren got **** done.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
I want to erase the figment of my imagination that I’ve allowed you to becomeYou are so opportunistic having used every moment we ever had as a time of spawningYou left traces of yourself that would grow beyond what my mind could containand with your absencethose pieces of you have enlargedThey’ve progressed into long thick arms having my thoughts in choke holds that the top wrestlers have yet to discoverThanks for showing me who you really areYour name is Monsterand I want to remove your electromagnetic tentacles from the nerves of my brainsever your suction cups coat them in a batter flavored with lemon pepper seasoningand deep fry them turn your manipulative tactics into a fine cuisine for the hungered palettes of innocent bystanders that will chew you upswallow youand digest you as the waste of time this aspect of youhas been to meToo bad I’m not bulimicAfter the binge of these false memories I’d gladly shove my finger down my throat and ***** you into filthy toilet bowlsflushing you ‘til you reach your destinationwelcomed by a sea of sewageWhen it comes to the likes of youamnesia has never been so desired.
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 9:56 PM UTC
Light shoulders, heavy wings:
Grief as elevation
Grief placed in the mouths of babes and bystanders
Grief visited in sterile places
Grief spoon fed for weeks
Grief taken to momentary extremes
Grief as a diving bell
A 10cm network for all you need/nothing can ever be too fresh
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
More than one person remembers that day
as hot and tasting of catastrophe
in the flavor of airbag dust and gasoline.
We were talking as you drank your root beer.
Windows down. My shoes off…
4:02.
Your eyes widen
as metal screeches and the revving of engines
winds down, a man wearing sunglasses
yanks on my door, but it protrudes
into the cab. Another man takes you out —
shouts to me to move. I can’t
find my shoes and my wallet is soaked.
Bystanders flock like they would at a circus
where a lion’s attacked his tamer.
Tears flow more freely than blood.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. God, my fault spills
from my bruised lips until finally,
I collapse to the pavement like the fender
of the opposing Mercedes.
I tried but failed to explain
that swerving the car to save you
meant near-death for me. Only after
regret and responsibility that crushed
my lungs faded, the way mascara dries,
did I acknowledge,
I am here.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
And at the end of the day,
There's always more to see
In your life, through your eyes,
And in your dreams, through your mind;
So don't worry.
The world is in no hurry,
And in the flurry of scurrying that is a city street,
Remember to stop sometimes and take a seat
On the bright yellow-line next to the speed-limit sign
Because those who work overtime,
Always seem to turn into ***** of slime in the thrush of free-verse that is society;
And all the technicality as a result of liability issues is fine with me,
Providing they allow me to peak at the real reality to remind myself I'm free and more sightly than the tightly-knit and frightening father-figure CEO
Who can't go to sleep without affecting the lives of at least 1 million civilian bystanders,
Who forget to meander on the bright yellow-line next to the speed-limit sign from time to time.
Stop to make sure at least some of your words rhyme
When you write your hectic poetry through the overwhelming cries of 7 billion lives pushed into overdrive as a result of the 21st century.
Through all this I would like to pose a question:
Is it better to be happy than free?
Or greater to be free than happy?
And either way, if I'm working to hard,
I'll leave it to you to slap me back to reality,
Because honestly...
More than half of this was never real to begin with.
Jun 16, 2011
Jun 16, 2011 at 2:42 PM UTC
they were nothing more than momentary.
they were like the leaves that rustle by
as you walk the rocky edges of a side street's sidewalk.
they were like the car that cut you off in the middle of the city.
they were the goosebumps you got when
a random cool breeze touched the edges
of your bare arms that weren't covered
by your light blanket on a warm June night.
but, oh, we're they genuine.
their love was intense and internally satisfying for
all bystanders who were privileged with
witnessing of poetic couple.
their love ended as quickly as it began
and never again would the two be.
they'd cross paths time and time again at local cafes
and from afar they'd lock eyes in the crowded subway tunnels
but after their last lip lock,
never again did their lips meet each other's,
never again did their bodies intertwine
under sheets that almost lit up in pretty flames
due to their unusual spark.
both would never again find a
cosmic, storm-like, life-altering love
like they once created together.
they both lived separate lives and
they both died separate deaths that,
regardless of their time apart,
still silently shared an unbreakable bond,
sealed with the unforgettable memories of
their meeting;
the meeting of two souls connecting
in such a way
even Fate grew envious of. t
hey both quietly lived
and then quietly died,
always
determined to still
meet once again behind
Heaven's gates.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
Swim away
From the river in my eyes
Suppressed by the dam of insecurity
Water slowly leaking over the edge
Out of the reservoir
Out into the open
Crushing the bystanders
With millions of gallons of water
Why are my eyes so blue?
Holding back the waters
that run on the inside
Just breaching the surface
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
Rounding life’s corners on my Bigwheel
Smile splashed across my face
Eyes illuminated with glossy tears from shear speed and joy
Not considering the path ahead or the road behind
Simply now, simply sublime
Regaining control after speeding too quickly
A brief lapse in judgment nearly bringing cataclysmic spills
Up on two wheels for a moment
But now firmly planted, gripping the road
Only speed limit is desire
People see my style as I pass
Like I was from Ipanema
And I can hear my theme music blast as I fly by onlookers
Giving me a rhythm to peddle to
Getting funky on these streets
And bystanders become bydancers
Unavoidable, infectious pandemonium
People woop and get down and *****
To fill that former droning, stale silence
I feel like me again
Which is really the only way to feel
Because why should you feel like someone else?
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
What is the cost of loving you, sir?
A slap, or two, or three or four?
Even more than that
If I tip my hat
Can we make that none?
What is the cost of loving you, dearie?
I can see you're asking for quite a lot of money from me.
Can we make that none?
What is the cost of loving you, Ma Chérie?
Another lover, but one who I think
Is not your lover?
Can we make that none?
What is the cost loving you, sweetheart?
You're not so sweet I see
If you want to beat me
Like eggs in a cup
Shattered, bleeding
Can we make that none?
What is the cost of loving you, handsome?
Some hate, not from you.
But from bystanders.
Who
Seem
To
Be
Unable
To
Shut
Their
Mouths
To
Stop
Pouring
Out
Hate
Towards
Us
Over
Nothing.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 4:08 AM UTC
we both watched them run until their bodies became to frail to function
they wore themselves out and broke themselves down into nothing
we behaved as if bystanders to some gruesome accident in the making
powerless in our capability to rescue,
but burdened with the weight of survivor’s guilt all the same
we both watched them run faster than we could keep up with
their arms pumped by their sides, their elbows shoving us away
we called out to them, we screamed:
"aren’t you getting tired yet?"
but our words were lost in the dust they created
we both watched them run farther away from us,
farther away from the unknown they were searching for so desperately
we both watched them run until there was nothing left to see
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC