"cankers" poems - Hello Poetry

**the sighs in our chest that emanate from a different kind of breast cancer** wrote these words prior, then, certainly uncertain of the exactitude of their meaning, clearly unclear of their useable intention, yet the too real wrathful sensations that inspired their caesarian creation, the sigh's very own exhalations, floatations devices for the interned-no-longer emotions, escapees via the crevasses of chest ribs splitting open, return to glory thanking me for freedom given let posterior eloquence suffice, let brevity guide my self's interior diagramming, lengthy explications and deep analytics, I leave to you, the astonished medical examiner and the horrified mortician chest ripped, my hand reinserted, the blighted scourges, the abscessed cancers, the obsessive relentless cankers, asking shamelessly why have I returned to the crime scene *the sighs are air-borne, ready for air plucking, all cloud seeded, deeded for poets to seize and commence, to plant and invent, a mountain top trickle to a mighty river of poems to be recovered and discovered, unrehearsed and unleashed but you and I have unwished, unfinished business, as of yet unwritten, one last poem to honor our mutually assured destruction, for this day will be rewritten differently*

0

Oct 14, 2017

Oct 14, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC

left-foot

The sighs in our chest that emanate from a different kind of breast cancer

**the sighs in our chest that emanate from a different kind of breast cancer** wrote these words prior, then, certainly uncertain of the exactitude of their meaning, clearly unclear of their useable intention, yet the too real wrathful sensations that inspired their caesarian creation, the sigh's very own exhalations, floatations devices for the interned-no-longer emotions, escapees via the crevasses of chest ribs splitting open, return to glory thanking me for freedom given let posterior eloquence suffice, let brevity guide my self's interior diagramming, lengthy explications and deep analytics, I leave to you, the astonished medical examiner and the horrified mortician chest ripped, my hand reinserted, the blighted scourges, the abscessed cancers, the obsessive relentless cankers, asking shamelessly why have I returned to the crime scene *the sighs are air-borne, ready for air plucking, all cloud seeded, deeded for poets to seize and commence, to plant and invent, a mountain top trickle to a mighty river of poems to be recovered and discovered, unrehearsed and unleashed but you and I have unwished, unfinished business, as of yet unwritten, one last poem to honor our mutually assured destruction, for this day will be rewritten differently*

28

Photoframed Half-winged butterfly Broken; blackened On a wall Of mitosis Blood-- Onyx oblivious -Oh woe 'I-call-it' And cherish the crate Which cankers within- It's time I shed --Anatomy, Because the colour Of space Is defective.

0

Oct 1, 2015

Oct 1, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC

Strataic

The Anatomy of Photo Frames

Photoframed Half-winged butterfly Broken; blackened On a wall Of mitosis Blood-- Onyx oblivious -Oh woe 'I-call-it' And cherish the crate Which cankers within- It's time I shed --Anatomy, Because the colour Of space Is defective.

16

we are not clean in the way that clouds pound lightning down on golf carts. we are circumspectral. we soil by way of true love tossing cankers and spleen-balloons by strobe-light. we have ginger eyes that scheme the tombs of our docile rictus and the barbed lush of our offending reconcile. we are not clean where the filth is excellent, but where the pollution is exquisitely the least meaning. full of some Life in the Death. my dearest, my darkest... yes we have no sphere without the cubicle and useless timepiece. we have no light. save the dapple from a distant blur, upon the surface of a placid lake of chill fire. a remote scope of reason on the fringe of a boundary we had no faith in, but a religion to hate with. we came from the sacred and bled for the fake **** that drove us Mazzy. I'd Fade Into You. and be some kind of real. and you'd have to be.

0

May 17, 2013

May 17, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC

third-eye-candy

" my dearest, my darkest..."

we are not clean in the way that clouds pound lightning down on golf carts. we are circumspectral. we soil by way of true love tossing cankers and spleen-balloons by strobe-light. we have ginger eyes that scheme the tombs of our docile rictus and the barbed lush of our offending reconcile. we are not clean where the filth is excellent, but where the pollution is exquisitely the least meaning. full of some Life in the Death. my dearest, my darkest... yes we have no sphere without the cubicle and useless timepiece. we have no light. save the dapple from a distant blur, upon the surface of a placid lake of chill fire. a remote scope of reason on the fringe of a boundary we had no faith in, but a religion to hate with. we came from the sacred and bled for the fake **** that drove us Mazzy. I'd Fade Into You. and be some kind of real. and you'd have to be.

16

In final autumn heat, Two weeks after apple picking, The bushel baskets sag, Laden with the summer's pickings. Growing sadness clings to me. I sort the dead and dying From the thinning lot, Fearing loss of all to rot. The first to go, Soft and brown, Nearly fall apart, Require gentlest touch; Dripping cadavers Leave healthier neighbors Wet, in danger of early death. In separating them, I hold my breath. On spotted skins I then Must concentrate; Look for inner decay: Sagging indentations, Fallen stems; Hollowed caverns From bird bites and beetles; The evidence of worms' Varicose trails, faintly brown, Just visible beneath the skins, Revealing company within. My eye looks inward first, then out. I know what this malingering's about; The cankers that I seek may find me out. Hesitation clouds my separations; I wonder what a paring knife might do To save some portion, To spare the summer work Of apple trees. I wonder, does the apple Dread the knife, considering strife As much as I, when I confess my sin And writhe beneath the penance My sinning puts me in?

0

Sep 23, 2017

Sep 23, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC

don-bouchard

Apple Sorting

In final autumn heat, Two weeks after apple picking, The bushel baskets sag, Laden with the summer's pickings. Growing sadness clings to me. I sort the dead and dying From the thinning lot, Fearing loss of all to rot. The first to go, Soft and brown, Nearly fall apart, Require gentlest touch; Dripping cadavers Leave healthier neighbors Wet, in danger of early death. In separating them, I hold my breath. On spotted skins I then Must concentrate; Look for inner decay: Sagging indentations, Fallen stems; Hollowed caverns From bird bites and beetles; The evidence of worms' Varicose trails, faintly brown, Just visible beneath the skins, Revealing company within. My eye looks inward first, then out. I know what this malingering's about; The cankers that I seek may find me out. Hesitation clouds my separations; I wonder what a paring knife might do To save some portion, To spare the summer work Of apple trees. I wonder, does the apple Dread the knife, considering strife As much as I, when I confess my sin And writhe beneath the penance My sinning puts me in?

41

A tattooed man, burly and grey, twists his hemp-fiber rope. He thinks only of this cable’s lay, not of wistfulness or unfulfilled hope. His skin is bronzed and deeply creased echoing the waves of the sea. The grey wisps of his forearms’ thin fleece recall thousands of mornings misty. His thick fingers grasp like old iron anchors as his mind glides through his tasks. He pays no heed to the long-faded cankers on his worn body from times long past. Silently he furls the white canvas sails and stows the great ropes below. He calmly swabs with a mop and a pail all the sea salt on the deck white as snow. The now naked oak masts still rise to blue skies as seagulls circle and sing their own lay. But the sailor man hears not their cries — He turns the capstan: Anchor aweigh. The oaken ship now glides at slow pace, adrift on the wide open waters. A smile takes shape under grey beard’s lace: He seeks the hand of Poseidon’s daughter. He’s the last of the crew on this ship of the line. He sails to be one with the sea. He waits in calm as the smell of the brine signals his new bride has welcomed his plea. Ages hence a wreck will be found with just one skeleton aboard. But upon one bony finger, a round gold band shines out like a vast hoard.

0

Oct 16, 2024

Oct 16, 2024 at 6:48 AM UTC

jackgroundhog

The sailor’s lay

A tattooed man, burly and grey, twists his hemp-fiber rope. He thinks only of this cable’s lay, not of wistfulness or unfulfilled hope. His skin is bronzed and deeply creased echoing the waves of the sea. The grey wisps of his forearms’ thin fleece recall thousands of mornings misty. His thick fingers grasp like old iron anchors as his mind glides through his tasks. He pays no heed to the long-faded cankers on his worn body from times long past. Silently he furls the white canvas sails and stows the great ropes below. He calmly swabs with a mop and a pail all the sea salt on the deck white as snow. The now naked oak masts still rise to blue skies as seagulls circle and sing their own lay. But the sailor man hears not their cries — He turns the capstan: Anchor aweigh. The oaken ship now glides at slow pace, adrift on the wide open waters. A smile takes shape under grey beard’s lace: He seeks the hand of Poseidon’s daughter. He’s the last of the crew on this ship of the line. He sails to be one with the sea. He waits in calm as the smell of the brine signals his new bride has welcomed his plea. Ages hence a wreck will be found with just one skeleton aboard. But upon one bony finger, a round gold band shines out like a vast hoard.

32

Pen to page, my pointless proverbs Kettles on, forgot the water Wasted time is wasted space Letdown, seems its all it takes Clean the *** and purify Only me, myself and lies Canopy of granule paste Gagging on the rancid taste Chorus warbles into gain Amplified the great white plain Stale thoughts of how and why Leave my memories mystified Boiled river's steaming stew Bubbles deep inside of you Cankers soar across my lips Leading these into abyss Candy coated carmine stain Sway the crowd to your disdain Pen to page, my pointless proverbs Dont know why I even bother

0

Jul 12, 2017

Jul 12, 2017 at 7:41 AM UTC

david-flemister

Restless Ramblings

Pen to page, my pointless proverbs Kettles on, forgot the water Wasted time is wasted space Letdown, seems its all it takes Clean the *** and purify Only me, myself and lies Canopy of granule paste Gagging on the rancid taste Chorus warbles into gain Amplified the great white plain Stale thoughts of how and why Leave my memories mystified Boiled river's steaming stew Bubbles deep inside of you Cankers soar across my lips Leading these into abyss Candy coated carmine stain Sway the crowd to your disdain Pen to page, my pointless proverbs Dont know why I even bother

20

Your promises are oxidizing And they are almost as honest as your eyes My grin is slight weak at the knees that buckle and bulge as if to mutter a dismal Plea and beyond the creaking window where foliage cankers and boughs ***** buds like helpless infants There Is You. You that drapes Nirvana with seeds seeds that rip and skewer and vacate like parasites with their weeds that sprout with haste And thou is a plague that ravages without pity With Your Roots that reek of desperate wails And although I am conquered And still somewhat small I will trudge through your vapid regrets With celerity

0

Sep 18, 2014

Sep 18, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC

ally-3

011.

Your promises are oxidizing And they are almost as honest as your eyes My grin is slight weak at the knees that buckle and bulge as if to mutter a dismal Plea and beyond the creaking window where foliage cankers and boughs ***** buds like helpless infants There Is You. You that drapes Nirvana with seeds seeds that rip and skewer and vacate like parasites with their weeds that sprout with haste And thou is a plague that ravages without pity With Your Roots that reek of desperate wails And although I am conquered And still somewhat small I will trudge through your vapid regrets With celerity

19

How unique that what we search for and seek is inside us,us the weak,us the strong and inside so it was all along and we knew not. But now we've got the twenty first century, a time for the cruel and the bloodthirsty,the fools and the prancers,cankers on the sidewalks of society. If this is the humanity we live in I think that I might put my hands up and give in,I am tired of seeing demons where the angels ought to be. But you won't forget me I won't let you, I'll be in your face each morning,noon and night,reminding you that this is who I am, the man who didn't want to stay and watch as what we have just wastes away,who would instead, once ideas formed inside his head go off to seek,once more unique but no less weak,others with the same ideal, while in the unreal or the real depending on the way you feel it's easy to be bogged down in the picky details of a plan and yet the man who walked away can come back and sketch another day and in another time,perhaps when things have worked out,which is well and fine,that other time becomes the time that is the time to make the move.

0

Mar 24, 2014

Mar 24, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

That Monday blue

How unique that what we search for and seek is inside us,us the weak,us the strong and inside so it was all along and we knew not. But now we've got the twenty first century, a time for the cruel and the bloodthirsty,the fools and the prancers,cankers on the sidewalks of society. If this is the humanity we live in I think that I might put my hands up and give in,I am tired of seeing demons where the angels ought to be. But you won't forget me I won't let you, I'll be in your face each morning,noon and night,reminding you that this is who I am, the man who didn't want to stay and watch as what we have just wastes away,who would instead, once ideas formed inside his head go off to seek,once more unique but no less weak,others with the same ideal, while in the unreal or the real depending on the way you feel it's easy to be bogged down in the picky details of a plan and yet the man who walked away can come back and sketch another day and in another time,perhaps when things have worked out,which is well and fine,that other time becomes the time that is the time to make the move.

12