"carves" poems
My mother should be an author
She carves her soul into millions of pieces
Leaving it behind all of the family photos
When I see my mother
I see a woman
Who wants to hide her soul in a needle
Just so the screaming can stop in her mind,
These bottles are rattling in the living room
You see they have put shackles on her heart,
She can't love anymore
Without having ***** in her water bottle.
Where is she hiding her beer?
I feel like my mother is giving me a scavenger hunt
From the shards of glass that were left on the baseball fields
My mother used to take me to.
You know she always wasn't like this
She was strong minded and had a big heart
Tonight I will tell you the story of a woman
Who lost her soul to the Keystones to the Miller Lites
To the ****** Mary’s.
Let's rewind time
See how to **** the soul in ten years
10- I look into my mother's eyes and I start to cry
Because I'm looking at a woman who I don't know anymore
9- I refused to bail her out of jail again
Because I'm afraid her kidney will fail if she drinks again
8- My mother staggered into the theater and disrupted the whole play,
My cast mates turned to me and asked, isn't that your mother?
7- I had to hold my mothers hand
Because she was throwing up the cocktail of drugs and alcohol
6- Daddy had to get mom out of jail she was drinking again
5- My mother throws the bottle across the room
And told me the reason why she drinks is because I'm Autistic
4- My mother overslept for my piano recital,
I didn't think it was a big deal
But I remember she spent the whole night crying
With a wine glass in her hand.
3- Mommy I didn't know your prescription came in a needle
2- Mommy the prescription say 2 pills a day
why are you taking 6?
1- My mother went to the doctor
Found out that she has Rheumatoid Arthritis
I don't know what that means,
But I know she will still be strong right?
0- She took me to a Dodger game for my birthday.
I remember Sammy Sosa hitting a home run that game
She told me that the only person that can **** your soul is yourself
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
Sopor fuels the pen
Darkness devours the sun
As she carves the page
With beautiful words
*Ethereal, Opulent
Sonder, syzygy*
*Vellichor, Gambol
Efflorescence, Effluence*
Words without meaning
Lurk in the shadows
And hovels of ambition
Creep onto the page
But the mind embraced
In a blanket of obscurity
Cannot find their worth
*Her Mellifluous song
Ensorcelled her lover
Bliss in limerence*
How can the stagnant
Heart waltz with stars, write of love,
Beat in unison?
How can the lifeless
Soul connect with humanity?
My words are worthless
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
the water carves its caves
out of the black rock,
little turrets of the wind
walking the battlements
of the sea's dark fortress.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 10:46 AM UTC
I hear the rhythmic clapping
And feel the pounding of feet on the ground
As dust swirls and dances around
While I sit facing the sun
In all her divine beauty.
Encased in the wood of the red gum tree,
I am at peace.
Burnum carves my totem outside
Surrounded by holy men,
Loved ones and ancestors.
This is my signifier and protection.
I am Miki the moon
Recently returned to my tribe
Heeding the call of the spirits.
My people mourn deeply
But know I will come again
To be at one with them,
First I must commune with the great creator
Rainbow spirit of the sky
For now is the time for dreaming.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
I made you of breath
of shadows and sunbeams
of boundlessness
of folding out and in like wings
of fallings and risings
from the gravity of things
I am your leaves without
limbs or leaving
I am the circles and spirals
your body carves from air
your leaps toward heaven
when you most love the earth
I was before you and will be
after you, I am the center
and the circumference
I am within and without you
And I am your comforter
when the cold winds come in
I am the point on the line
I am brief and desirable
I eat oranges and watch
the Northward flight of geese
my being roars like oceans
I rock myself in the cradle
of self doubt and other emotions
I sometimes let take control
I rock the world like a baby
I kiss the air like my lover
here and here and there
I embrace you, World
I am your second Moon
that rose from the South
I am your eyes, your mouth
your star, your tree
and something else
I am sand, river, feather,
grass, moth, l am forever
yet lost and not found
and I am something else
and I always will be
something to someone else.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 4:59 PM UTC
*pain knocks on weathered doors
fastened ever tightly
cryptic access is denied
it camouflages in the shadows
stealthily it watches
hypervigilance enhancing
catastrophe awaiting
it strikes in latent graveyards
the gale begins to form
and unleashes its fierce torrent
the latch shattered and torn
there’s now an open entrance
creeping in it slithers
engulfing to encompass
digging up emotions
buried underground there
hovering and foggy
tho’ murky does not smother
but fleshes out the psyche
entombed and cobweb covered
it crawls along the edges
and peers in secret ledges
seeps into sequesters
like dust settled in feathers
it slides through every feeling
and when it’s at its blackest
it carves the darkness out
and let’s in sunlight’s presence
© 2016janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 12:42 PM UTC
Western Sources
Mist, rain and snowmelt gather
And soak the Montana crests.
A trio of rivulets carves the slopes,
Grow to rivers that braid into a single course
And the Missouri is born at Three Forks.
Shoshone and Hidatsu rest from the hunt,
Kneel and cup their hands
To raise life giving liquid to their lips
While horses bow beside them
Bellies filled with the refreshing waters.
The river flows north dividing the tall grasslands,
Plunges over the cataracts at Great Falls,
Churns on the rocks below
And drives inexorably toward the sea.
Mandan and Sioux
Soft flute sounds drift from the Mandan village
Intertwining with the riffling music of the river.
By its banks a coarse French trapper roasts a rabbit
To share with his Shoshone child-bride.
Sacagawea sings softly beside him -
Charboneau's son stirring in her womb.
Sioux warriors on horseback
Stand guard by the shores.
How many travelers have passed?
How many are yet to come?
Beyond the rolling hills
A buffalo stumbles and falls
Pierced by Lakota arrows and spears.
Boats in the Water
At River du Bois where the Missouri
Collides with the Mississippi,
Forty men slip into boats and take to the oars
To interpret Jefferson’s continental dream -
Their keelboat laden with sustenance,
Herbs, weapons and powder.
They carry trinkets to dazzle the natives
And cast bronze medals to give them
Bearing images of their "Father in Washington"
That none had asked to have.
May, 2004
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:42 AM UTC
The hardest part is letting you walk out the door
Back to your life
That I know hurts you
That I know exhausts you
That consumes you
I want to be there for you
To take away the hurt
I want you to be yourself again
To be happy
To be free
To say and do what makes you content
Without regret
I adore touching you
Kissing you
Loving you
The taste of your lips on mine
The touch of your tongue on mine
Every caress carves with such intensity
Sometimes too unbearable
Because I want this so much
With you
Your touches
Your closeness
Your warmth
Makes me whole again
I will wait for you
My door remains open
I will let you in
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 6:15 AM UTC
Each battle their swords clash
mighty men stagger back,
with every hack and slash
little cracks break into those blades.
Each force of energy carves a new path--
victories told by this warriors tale of sand
beads of red spill openly,
and more brown rocks turned into blood
they are the clear sign
to a samurai's way to end.
A jar on the counter filled to the brim--
layers of dust coat the outside
within the hearts of mighty men
whom were slain all by one man;
now he old and gray living in a younger age.
His only wish was to be a true
samurai, one to turn into sand,
to become part of the trophy case--
sword in hand and a slight bow
he does the honorable way,
to join his samurai men.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
In a lonely place succumbs.
To my childhood till this day.
Carves the age of longevity.
When colors were once remained.
Blue captured eyes like fame.
Streets pathed along the way—
Guiding to a melancholy lane.
In times of November breeze.
Boat by boat each one sail's,
The building's growing moss—
that cries the tears of rain.
Slipping like a sultry state,
Washing what can never stay.
Filling through but twas too late.
To the race walking in romans.
Sparkles every narrative palm.
Marigolds that lead their way,
The cold traded from warm.
Everybody's longing a friend.
Dark night was a weeping tomb,
In places were life meets the end.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
I’m just a more miserable version of myself
and my pen is my weapon that it uses,
Leaking out the gas I consume
and fogging the paper with words of death.
It carves out my pain to a permanent grave,
doing the bleeding for me,
slashing across the page; ink runs,
tears run, but I
can’t run.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
there’s a piano player
on the highest floor
who lends a different genre
to the san francisco fog,
the same piano player
whose lonely sound
deepens and blossoms
while everyone’s busy listening
to their own sad luxury.
this is for the piano player
who carves the chore
out of all those stairs
so the burn in our legs
can finally yield to our heartbeats,
the piano player
whose fingers we feel
but cannot see.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:01 AM UTC
*Simplicity cannot be embellished
With the grandiose of sophistication
Its stark beauty carves out the facets
Of the rarest of diamonds, set within*
The Heart
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
I’ve been crying a lot lately.
—
Swirling thoughts, as if they try to crush my existence. An endless staircase that leads me to nowhere but despair, despair, and another despair that greets me over and over. An unfathomable, non explainable feelings that I fail to express to others; and they only came out as faint scars. Countless voices screaming into my imaginary ears that I yearn to stop, and I deafened myself from those voices by running away to even louder voices. Something inside of me that carves the walls of my skin with a gushing, sharpened knife, but I can’t grasp the reality of that knife so I just stand there and ignore it.
The cycle of me trying to fight my painful, unexplainable misery. Even so, I couldn’t cry.
I couldn’t express all of my predicament, so I couldn’t cry.
That’s why it became a cycle. Again, again, again! I suffer, to the point I want to cut my own throat and die.
“Don’t cry. Crying means you're weak,”
those were the words that were said to me ages ago. Why do I always remember that? I think the person who said that to me already forget about it.
—
Then, when I thought all of my miseries flooded inside me, they spilled. I cry, ugly face in front of the mirror. Oh boy, when was the last time I saw those eyes, that were usually red below the pupils, wet? When was the last time I sobbed that hard?
That was the first time I sat on the public toilet,
crying.
—
“What’s wrong with crying?”
A person said that to me. A person said that people who don’t cry are the weird ones; do they not blessed with these beautiful, miraculous thing called emotions? Cry, cry, cry, because tears are ...
—
So, the cycle came back to me. Gushing thoughts hitting me madly, along with staircases that still lead me to land of despair. But now, I cry when I think of them.
I cried.
And cried.
And cried and cried and cried.
—
I’ve been crying a lot lately.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 10:40 AM UTC
the skilled craftsman
he labors pen on page in nights silence
the names and faces of his students
vividly painted to him in small ways on each page
the girl with her flourish of drawings
in the margins of her work
a bird delicately drawn to appear to be dropping
the words onto the page
in amongst her arguments that shakespeare was a charlatan...
the young man from the morning bell
who dose not write as much as he carves and hacks
his words into the dull instrument of the page
crafting it in his way to resemble the angry face he wears within
this quiet man
teacher
he learns too
from the patchwork quilt of humanity
that passes year by year through his world
some shine brightly
others faded away into obscurity's cage
see him sitting in nights silence
pen in hand
a master craftsman at his labor of love
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
There's a tiger in the tree top,
playing checkers with the sun king,
cutting light across the cloudscape,
as black takes red for another king me,
God carves the stubble along the jaw line,
clean cut remedy
we all sing for the twenty-third century break me down,
break the matchbox,
light us up,
burn the red wood down,
tiger's gonna swallow the world,
tiger's gonna bleed a rectified rainbow realist chorus,
all the pawns are at root,
all players underfoot,
God's got checkers playing with the son killing world feaster,
tiger tiger, what do you fear?
oh tiger tiger, what hell do you bear?
oh tiger, how death plays you so
so foolish,
tiger tiger,
you fall
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 3:04 AM UTC
Mirror, mirror
Said the queen
Self-conscious,
Not wanting to be seen
Mirror, mirror
Every day
Urging wrinkles
Not to stay
Mirror, mirror
She was taught
If she was ugly
She was naught
Mirror, mirror
She cannot feel
Emotions ruin
Her appeal
Mirror, mirror
She feels dead
To the husband
In her bed
Mirror, mirror
Her heart is failing
Her lungs are gasping
Her kidneys wailing
Mirror, mirror
The doctor said
She has a growth
In her head
Mirror, mirror
She cannot stand
But she's still the most
Beautiful in the land
Mirror, mirror
But not anymore
Her place taken
By the child of a *****
Mirror, mirror
She needs a heart
The child has one
There's a start
Mirror, mirror
She's in so much pain
She doesn't know
How to be humane
Mirror, mirror
The child is dead
The heart is weak
But she has fed
Mirror, mirror
The heart has failed
There is no other
That ship has sailed
Mirror, mirror
She is desperate to live
She finds a corrupt magicker
And gives all she can give
Mirror, mirror
She feeds on death
Each soul she takes
Lies in every breath
Mirror, mirror
She carves words in her skin
EVIL, VAMPYR
DEMON, SIN
Mirror, mirror
She moans in the night
Her husband sleeps in a separate bed
Yet still quakes in fright
Mirror, mirror
The child is not dead
All the lives she has taken
When she could have taken one instead
Mirror, mirror
Look at her now
Twisted and broken
Macabre magick on her brow
Mirror, mirror
The child must pay
Perhaps her soul will be redeemed
It is the only way
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 12:40 PM UTC
when asked the question
"why?"
I reply
by shrugging my shoulders
why?
I don't know,
maybe I am depressed
or maybe I am just
sad,
maybe I need another cigarette,
maybe I need to pour myself
another drink
or maybe I need a half-naked
pretty young girl to **** whatever
has clawed it's way into my skin
out and into the sweaty,
dark room I sit in,
so it can evaporate,
rid itself from my being;
no matter how much
I smoke,
drink,
****
the loneliness still carves it's
entire existence into my bones
like lover's names in trees,
it leaves blood stains
and leaves me longing
for so much
more
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
From the beginning
You were running
Searching for
The unknown
The anonymous
The subconscious
The atomic particle
A molecule that would
Capture you in full
And catapult you into
The great and vast blue
Where only far and few
Have gained entry to
However, you are not
You have not
You will not
You are rotting wood
Maggots feasting upon
Vultures destroying bone
While consuming flesh
Flesh of past
Undiluted
Virtuous
Clean
Sane
Unbeknownst
To the carves
Upon thy
Self with
Name
For slavery is
The Owner of
The name
A simple
Tool
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
darling,
you wear your depression
as a mask of undeniable normality-
don't say you're messed up.
it carves wells beneath your eyes,
streaks your face with a natural glow,
weighs down your heart
so you don't fly away to the stars...
away from us-
don't tell me it steals your beauty.
darling,
it keeps your pen going
during those early mornings
after all the caffeine
has run out
and your mind can no longer battle
the long, black fingers of sleep
grasping for you-
don't write any more society-approved lies.
it leaves art on your skin,
whether it be permanent
or with assorted colors of paint,
that tell stories,
your stories,
without words.
no longer hide the battles you've fought-
don't let others scorn your victories.
darling,
you are a masterpiece,
you are perfection.
don't let this depression
own you,
but become more than it.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:46 PM UTC
The knife of life carves indiscriminately without warning
said the runts of the pumpkin patch now lined in mourning.
A farmer plucked biggest one, cutting vine, as the runts cried
a black harvest, Mama being carted off, as she died.
Sad black crows circle the day and night sky abreast and stressed
as the winds of fate wielded its teeth at the oppressed.
A blur of orange is all the crows saw amongst the quivering patch
as the farmer tiptoed the pasture wide-eyed on getting his ******
Now at the hour of her death angels play harps of fruition
in wake of the wide-eyed farmer's wayward act of abscission.
Billows of black smoke followed, taking to the ominous skies
as the incinerator took matters in its own hands as she lies.
Then all that was left were the ashes and whispers of the past,
a eulogy, as her quivering kin sat in the storybook downcast.
Pages cried out, tears filled the chapters of a great pumpkin patch
her roots holding each on the vines with love that's hard to match.
No day came off, of a jack-o-lantern smiling in a window frame
for in this family house cancer snatched mothers life just the same.
Logan Robertson
8/4/2018
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
The peaceful river does not sleep
but carves a road that runs so deep.
The silent waters trickle down
and calming lullabies do sound.
The peaceful river does not cry
though soaked with tears and never dry.
A lonely journey leads it home
to oceans wide with drowning tones.
The peaceful river does not anger
no wrath contaminates the martyr.
Temptation does not flow to sea
does not hold the river free.
Instead the river feeds the soul
weaving life where're it flow
breeding hopes for future fruit
and wiping clean the ash and soot.
Humble savior of unclean soil
without reward despite its toil.
A ceaseless flow of blessedness
The peaceful river of forgiveness.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
a river runs through a ghostly town
soaked clay red with the blood of the earth,
the land is marked with tire tracks like an addict's elbow crease
sweating oil and electrical wire,
fields tilled with the claws of a paper beast
sprout telephone poles and generations of debt
amongst indigo coffee beans,
rotting tin roofs striped with rust
creak folklore in the pouring rain,
muddied palms clinging to trust on mala beads
are stung with poisoned ink leaked from shrines golden and winking,
an ornate temple carves god sharp into a clouded sky
its steeple piercing his hands
shards of bone spilling ash onto upturned foreheads,
sun scorches unsuspecting soil and it cries exhaust fumes,
the sputtering song of a motorbike is answered
by the howl of a stray mutt in an alleyway
reverberating pleas to a clenched fist,
an unremitting flame sweeps ruin
across leaf barren trees
wind choking on smoke coughing up skeletons,
and the planet heaves
and the planet heaves
weezing on humanity's delirious daydreams
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
If my blood could illustrate,
A picture to the world,
It will tell you the exact state,
How my heart pumps its hurt.
Each ventricle pumps emotions,
Pain, anger, hope,
Up to my brain,
And down to my toes.
Slithering through each artery and vein,
Blood carves my hearts pain,
In my head,
In my head.
Working through each capillary,
It forges anger and rage,
In my bones,
My aching bones.
After its done its work,
It fights back through each valve,
And pours back into the atriums,
Devoid of fury and pain.
It was used up,
Just like my tears,
My wasted energy for nothing,
It brought me no good.
Just more hurt.
And just slowly,
As the pain and anger dissipates from my system,
And fresh blood is packaged and sent,
From my bone marrows,
It brings along a slimmer of hope,
That this new cycle of blood would carry no more pain.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 4:36 AM UTC
My fingers pluck the strings
Of willow wood mandolin
Upon my knee it sits
The wood of willow
As smooth as a feather pillow
Atop my knee sits
In steady posture
In my heart of hearts
There tears a lonely hollow
My voice shrieks shallow
The willow wood mandolin
Shatters into splinters
Splinters pierce my skin
Filling through my body
From my heart of hearts
A willow chisel carves
Away the organs
That flow and break
From my eyes
Bleed wood chips
My tongue drools
Sawdust
A girl no more sits
Under this willow
But a wood sculpture
Of steady posture
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 7:32 PM UTC