"catapult" poems
The failed seduction
by drunken discussion
and skunk fueled
consumption, leads to
a compunction dysfunction
suspended in animation
the digital tides
of expulsion
catapult me into a
an eschewing propulsion
and the limitations
of re-imagination.
As far as I was aware
I was imprisoned
in nothing more
than the realms of
Skype and FourSquare
but for the Feng Shui
of trapped energies
and google-mapped memories
adorning the locations
of complacent hallucinations
amid the dark fibre
communications
with a female
of Nordic persuasion.
The compliments and comments
and poems I sent
were lost to the myriad
of random intent
I was attempting to be clever
and metaphysical
she on the other hand
was PHD level
and psychoanalytical
ergo my metrical composition
was utterly lost
in a conversation
on metaphorical reproduction
and the magic and mysteries
of osmosis
and the application
of modification
by transduction.
The moral of this tale
- if indeed there is one -
is if you are going to Skype
with a mentally superior type
do not before hand
have a blistering
smouldering
grass pipe
with a flagon of ale
lest you be a
gibbering earthling
destined to fail.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
I just stood transfixed, letting her eyes light
the smothered wick in me that needed the oil of love
with anxious stutter I asked, "Is your name Grace?"
"It really is, you are right there, but pardon me
I am Grace Fallen" I took it as a joke and smiled,
"Dear fallen flower, your grace resurrects my crucified spirit"
I have seen them all, blooms, perfect, fragrant,
the ones that catapult one to momentary bliss
with a wink, a word that touches somewhere tender
or share love, fresh like butter, that seems gushing from the depth
that not even expect any kind of reciprocation,
blowing like fragrant breeze, caressing drooping trees.
Women with such luminance ,bless their ilk
whom one only could think as incarnates
came down to lift this miserable world
up from the quagmire, the ***** pit it has fallen
because of the absence of feminine grace in abundance
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
If you are the healer lay your hands on me, I am diseased you can set me free. If you have the will I have the desire, if you collect ashes send me into the fire.
If you are the liar then I am the fool, I wanna hurt myself by being close to you.
So catapult me into the sun and I'll burn baby burn, catapult me into the sun and I'll burn just for you.
If you are the liar I am the fool I will survive to be used as your tool.
Ten pence piece lays heavy on the heart, loose change love affair that's falling apart.
so catapult me into he sun and I'll burn baby burn, catapult me into the sun and I'll burn just for you.
Breakdowns and shakedowns got me bruised by your heart, it wasn't the words it was action from the start! You are the seducer I am the user together we feed off of each other.
so catapult me into the sun and I'll burn baby burn, yes catapult me into the sun and I'll burn just for you.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
All your life, you've wished for wings
While I've learned the notes the ocean sings.
To stroke the sky where it hugs the shore,
To ask the waves if we've met before.
You took your first flight as I was learning to float,
You build yourself a catapult, I dug myself a moat.
Both our hearts are equally blue,
And neither one has learned to hide.
Like lovers' eyes, you're lost inside-
Intoxicating, infinite, new.
We'll gallop together on common ground,
Sea horses with eagles true love have found.
No wind nowhere, dear, ever behaves,
The sky weeps tears and the sea laughs waves.
Where sky meets sea at the end of the world,
Where they kiss and intertwine to the beat of their song,
With the sun as a lone fiery partition,
That's where we belong.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
Master the art of
Flipping your L's (losses) into lessons
Because more often than not,
They are disguised blessings
If they sort of set you back
It's for you to bounce back
Like a catapult or slingshot (or Big Sean)
But never lose sight of your mission
The flying beautiful butterfly
Once crawled as a caterpillar
Think about the trees,
They never give up during the wintry days
They only shed their leaves
(For humans, drop the extra baggages)
But trees bounce back during spring
Sometimes, you just gotta
Take a deep breadth
And exhale peace
Ensure to keep breathing
And you'll sure get back on your feet
Calm the nerves,
Take a deep sleep
But don't sleep in the deep
You didn't fail
You only found ways that would not work
Credit to the man that invented the lightbulb
Take the blows but get back up
Very soon, the hardwork will pay off
Put in more work
And relent not
Naysayers will always talk
Don't be discouraged to put in work
Your success will soon prove them wrong
There is light at the end of the tunnel
As there is light within your spirit
Flick it on
And you'll be on a winning spree
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 10:49 PM UTC
Fingers cut palms as hands turn to stone
And a catapult hurls the projectile home
Knuckles collapse from bone meeting bone
Down in the alleys where miscreants roam
Suggestions of violence fill gutters with blood
Fill heads with the sense of nefarious thrill
Their skin turns to ash and their brains into mud
Rage in the kingdom of eager to ****
The children are soldiers who train everyday
Cowboys and Indians, Robbers and Cops
****** is plot and the actors will play
Portraying the place life will come to a stop
Violence is cancer, and love is no more
Edge of our seats waiting for the next war
Dedicated to the deceased and forgotten, Love and Peace
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
It was December 27th,
Nineteen and fifty one
The day the Christmas snowball war
Had officially begun
It started in the schoolyard
It was supposed to just be fun
But, by the time the whole thing ended
No one knew just who had won
The grade five class were ready
All lying there in wait
As the kids from home form seven
Approached the schoolyard gate
With a yell the whole thing started
They were served up on a plate
the kids from home form seven
would not forget this date
The air filled with projectiles
Launched from wet gloves by the score
As the victims ran for cover
They were hit by four score more
They were bruised and hurt and battered
As they ran for the school door
Now, the kids from the grade five class
Lay waiting there for more
Two teachers came to stop them
Get them back into the school
but, the kids just launched more snowballs
Using scarves now as a tool
They would catapult their snowballs
which was really, really cool
And the teachers ran for cover
In the safety of the school
They'd built a wall near four feet high
To protect them on both sides
It channeled all who entered
The walls acted as guides
At most their little walkway
Was only eight feet wide
and their victims ran for cover
For the school, a place to hide
It was dark when the attack happened
The form seven kids came back
They'd left the school from the front door
And had now planned their attack
Their first snowball hit it's target
With a loud resounding crack
It was clear that old form seven
Was truly fighting back
The teachers had a huddle
Met inside and chose to fight
They would wait until the battle
Had gone on into night
They would sneak out of the building
With the absence of the light
And attack the grade five children
And show them how to fight
The air was full of snowballs
Bodies, gloves, scarves abound
there were children hitting adults
And there were children on the ground
They'd been at it for six hours
When they heard the alarm bell sound
It was time to get inside for bed
Before the prefects came around
The snowball fight at Wellesley
Public School in fifty one
Is the one that they remember
Out of all of those they've done
In all one hundred people
Were involved in all the fun
For next year they are building
A snowball launching gun!!!
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
The point on the end of an arrow could slice a heart open.
I wonder if that’s how Cupid works.
Would he catapult the arrow into our chests,
and as we are heartbroken,
he tears the arrow from our beating hearts?
I marvel at how someone who makes you feel loved,
can be so cruel.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
Saturday I was the happiest knight in your kingdom
Sunday I extinguished loves burning embers with mere chewing gum
Monday I answered your call..... to muster arms, your period enemy.
Tuesday I saw my purple sky fall around me like attacking dragons.
Wednesday I cried bitterly making my own wailing wall.
Thursday I built a trebuchet, to catapult me back into your life.
Friday I lost my sanity when I heard only the Pied Pipers fife
I wish there was another day, I need another chance.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
An attitude
Of gratitude
Will catapult you to a high altitude
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC
In your very pure mouth ( god save it )
clanked metal mouthpiece
by cold water in a strange basement
or perhaps even less
Morning doves catapult
leukemia
Astro goth acid wars
White fire black ****** mania
Could we just kiss
right here this September
not have to wake up
or sleep ever again ?
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 3:43 AM 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
Janice sat beside you
on the bombsite
off Meadow Row
looking towards
the New Kent Road
watching the people
and traffic pass
you with your catapult
and she with the doll
her gran had bought her
from the market in the Cut
Gran said those are dangerous
Janice said
pointing at the catapult
not if you’re careful
and responsible
you said
but they fire stones
she said
guns fire bullets
you said
they can **** people
David killed Goliath
with a stone
she said
I heard it in church
I only fire at tin cans
or other such targets
you said
she looked at the sky
at pigeons flying overhead
what about birds?
she asked
no I don’t shoot at birds
although I did fire
at a rat once
but missed
and it ran off
I hate rats
she said
there was one
on our balcony once
and it frightened me to death
you laughed
you remember that coalman
who stomped on that one
along the balcony by your flat?
yuk
she said
horrible blood and guts
everywhere
and on his boot
you said
she hugged her doll
close against her
don’t remind me
you studied the doll
in her arms
the way it was close
to her chest
her hands caressing
the painted china head
the yellow flowered dress
and small white socks
and black plastic shoes
you’d make a good mum
you said
watching her rock
the doll in her arms
do you think so?
she asked
yes
you said
maybe one day
I will have a real baby
she said
and rock it to sleep
and feed it with a bottle
and burp it
and change its *****
like I saw a lady do
in the toilets
of Waterloo station
and Gran said
it wasn’t hygienic
not there of all places
Gran said
I’d have to have
a peg on my nose
if I had to change
a baby’s *****
you said
I think men
have weaker stomachs
than women do
she said
I think mothers
are given stronger stomachs
when they have babies
it’s God way of helping them
deal with babies
I’d rather have a catapult
than a baby
you said
or a doll
do you want to hold my doll
and I can hold your catapult?
she asked
no thanks
you replied
if my mates saw me
I’d never live it down
she kissed the doll’s head
and said
likewise
but there was a smile
on her lips
and a sparkle
in her eyes
and a beauty
in the way she sat
in her orange coloured dress
and bright red beret hat.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
Once upon a time paradox
There was a king in a castle of rocks
The castle was tall and to all who saw
It shined and shimmered by light by Law
The king was happy until his vice
Showed him a castle of rocks could not suffice
The reason this castle needed to change
Was because of the House of Endless Strange
The house shined so great the king shielded his eyes
He secretly hoped it was all lies
He ordered his men to work so fast
So he could have a castle of glass
The workers watched their hands turned red
As the king’s greed was joyfully fed
The castle complete from tip to feet was seen
To shine and shimmer by light by moonbeam
But the cost of this king’s vice
Was to be paid in an unforeseen price
He went to war with neighboring lands
And the catapult launched stones to every man
He did the same to the House of Endless Strange
And they smiled at the stones he gave
To react they attacked to throw the rocks back
And SMACK! The glass cracked since it lacked
The ability to not crumble
Under every rock that made it tumble
The king was to rebuild his castle, you see
To the castle it was once to be
Once upon a time paradox
There was a king in a castle of rocks ...
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.
Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?
To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.
With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.
I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.
Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic. Now I use it to influence my movements.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
(For G. H.)
Say, does that stupid earth
Where they have laid her,
Bind still her sullen mirth,
Mirth which betrayed her?
Do the lush grasses hold,
Greenly and glad,
That brittle-perfect gold
She alone had?
Smugly the common crew,
Over their knitting,
Mourn her -- as butchers do
Sheep-throats they're slitting!
She was my enemy,
One of the best of them.
Would she come back to me,
God **** the rest of them!
**** them, the flabby, fat,
Sleek little darlings!
We gave them *** for tat,
Snarlings for snarlings!
Squashy pomposities,
Shocked at our violence,
Let not one tactful hiss
Break her new silence!
Maids of antiquity,
Look well upon her;
Ice was her chastity,
Spotless her honor.
Neighbors, with ******* of snow,
Dames of much virtue,
How she could flame and glow!
Lord, how she hurt you!
She was a woman, and
Tender -- at times!
(Delicate was her hand)
One of her crimes!
Hair that strayed elfinly,
Lips red as haws,
You, with the ready lie,
Was that the cause?
Rest you, my enemy,
Slain without fault,
Life smacks but tastelessly
Lacking your salt!
Stuck in a bog whence naught
May catapult me,
Come from the grave, long-sought,
Come and insult me!
WE knew that sugared stuff
Poisoned the other;
Rough as the wind is rough,
Sister and brother!
Breathing the ether clear
Others forlorn have found --
Oh, for that peace austere
She and her scorn have found!
2.3k
billboard's calligraph --
past the haze of Manila infested
by car sprawls and belching machines.
magnanimous treatise of tarpaulins,
people chin-up asking God
with askance
something like this
"o god make this bearable
like a mound of fresh fruits
from ****** labour."
maniacal sensurround:
earth-shattering frequency
of footsteps trampling the mouth
of monolith shadows - the peak
of this quake is our complete silence.
rain's catharsis in effect
sousing us in the blood of unreal light.
this diastolic shrinkage
jamming the beat of constricting vessels.
the adrenaline surges
within the dermis of this pretension.
a collective of tired beings heeding
the recherché of voice metamorphosing
into form, a dagger-butterfly
paring us skin to bone, cranial
to visceral, soul to nothing -
catapult of a trajectory spit
plummeting in eased-up pace
from Taft Avenue flyover
to a subjugated wagon of scraps
and empty wine bottles.
today's paper reads:
"Palace hits hiring
of **** dancers"
fancying to fall right in the
spanked curved of this
insatiate melodrama - something
prayer could not save from
this land's mutinous ignominy.
we resume to fulfill our madness,
hundreds of tack-headed people
rolling down the streets of Makati,
drenched with rain's trilling aftermath.
squinting to look at
no sun, only the grieving of skyscrape,
thumbing down unidentified objects
in the depth of loose pockets,
desperate for home.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
I try my best to appear graceful
to look like my day to day existence
is perfectly orchestrated into
a symphony of flowers and lace
And then there are the days
I would rather saw my own legs off
than leave my bed
surrounded by chocolate and self pity
What causes each see-saw drop and lift
is unclear
but as I obsess over my internal and external self
the people I love with the power of Thor’s hammer
obsess undress and caress
their bleeding wounds
desperately suppressing all incoming growth
screaming for pleasure without making a sound
embracing chemically induced illusion
instead of embracing each other
instad of embracing themselves
instead of embracing their mother
and I, masochistic and bursting with back and forth
delay my inevitable catapult to the future
the worst thing I could do is leave
the worst thing I could do is stay
The best thing i can do is embrace myself
the only thing I can do is embrace them
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
~
*Strapped to the catapult
I sportively plan my escape
By listening to pictures
In stereo
Of the flight
Of a fitful fugitive
Who sculpted depressions in ice
Throughout the flowerbed
Where there is no true sunlight
Only its influence
And by inhaling this fragility
Onto glass
Lowering the thermostat
Like a guillotine
Until hypothermia
Took his oppressors
This coldness might well
Be everlasting
But then, so is the will to survive*
~
Aug 7, 2021
Aug 7, 2021 at 1:53 PM UTC
O LOVE! O LOVE! WHY ARE YOU EVER DEVOID OF LOGIC?
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Mankind in its pathetic folly entice you in a dint of stupor
Knowing not your true colour and texture
Endeavoring to achieve glory in your mastery
With the so limited human capacity
In grey faith that you are a cradle of bliss
But O love! Why are you ever crooked?
Young men and women in strength of their sinews
Toil day and night in ******* of humanity
Praying and whining incantations with the hope for optimal love
Ornamenting their bodies with diamond and bronze
Fibre and silk ornamented to helm of providence
In the foolish quest for love equillibria
But in full stretch of your vice, you impish love
You catapult all away to the shifted goal posts
O love! O love! Why are you ever ruthless?
You hate the learned but you favour the strong
You hate professors but you favour the soldiers
You hate the rich but you favour the agile
You hate the lawyers but you favour the footballers
You hate the pastors but you favour the ruffian
You hate the whites but you favour the Negroes
You hate the groomed but you love the ragamuffin
You hate the chaste but you favour the mistress
O love! O love! Why are you ever illogical?
Love, I revere you for wickedness and irrationality
In all of your history you scored sum *** laude
In the duo as blend of your domain, Look;
You never dwell in a genuine companionship
You like where the couth will interject;
Amidst fornication between married and single ones
Amidst adultery in the triangle of foul compassion
Amidst miscegenation between black and white
Amidst infatuation between the whole and the lame
Amidst conjugal appetite between the old and the young
Amidst concupiscence between house master and houshelp
Amidst immorality of married master over the wallowing servant
Amidst libidos between literate teacher unto the peasant pupil
Amidst disordered passion among the sly lesbians
Amidst impious ********** among the suave gays
O love! O love! You are the most wicked force!
Love I am told; your colour is red
You may be red or you may not be red
But all in all, you deserve poetical veneration
For your herculean ability to bend the most wise;
In your force you made sagacious Shakespeare to bend
In your force you made Princes Diana to bend and bend
Bending downwardly stooping for Afawoyed the moor,
In your stupefying dint you made Napoleon de Bonaparte
To bend and bend downwardly stooping for Josephine
Josephine a famed she-Casanova in the gone Paris
Among the then humanity and the then animality,
In your impairing machinery you set sons on their fathers
In the roman empire of Antony and Ceaser
In the scramble for Cleopatra, the Egyptian queen
Beauty of her aquiline nose heavily hovered perhaps
In the eyes of the Roman beholders
The father and the son only to sent the empire
To the love forlorn smithereens!
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
*Don't wait till I'm tired to encourage me,I won't move on
Don't wait till I'm crippled to tell me about miracles,I won't believe
Don't wait till I'm frozen to warm me,I won't appreciate
Don't wait until I've stepped the trap to caution me, it won't help
Don't wait till I'm shattered to tell me I can be whole, I won't listen
Don't wait for me to yawn to give me food, I won't eat it
Don't wait until the treasures are depleted to tell me if I dig I'll find
its useless to tell me passion will drive me insane after I'm out of my mind
Don't wait till I'm famous to praise my pieces, aren't you seeing them now?
Don't wait until the Antelope has turned tail to hand me the bow
Don't wait for the birds to fly off the tree to hand me the catapult
Don't wait for me to step on the live wire to lecture me about vaults
Don't wait for me to slip and fall to tell me the place is slippery when wet
Don't wait until you've wronged me to preach "forgive and forget"
Don't wait until I'm in flames to tell me not to play with fire, bury my ashes
Don't try shutting stables after they're gone, instead run after those Horses
Don't wait until I'm soaked to give me an umbrella,I won't accept
Don't wait for the storms to wreck me to show me how to sail
who can listen to instructions while battling waves and hail
Don't wait until the snake has stricken to tell me about the venoms
for a dying man has no time and ears for caution then on
Don't wait for the war to devastate and ruin to preach peace
bombs would have deafened or the machetes cut me piece by piece
Don't wait for me to plunge to ask me if I've worn a ******
like a kidnapper freeing hostages prior demanding for ransom
Don't wait until I've dived into the Sea to ask whether I can swim
Don't wait for the end of days to find out whether I believes in Him
Don't wait until I'm bleeding to tell me about the beauty of scars
or until a clear night to praise the beauty of stars
Don't wait until I'm malnourished to bring me aid
until I'm dead and gone to praise the words I said
Don't wait for my life to flood to dredge the silt
that wouldn't be kindness, that would either be mockery or guilt
Don't wait for me to find someone to feelings for me admit
Don't wait to offer a helping hand when I'm totally deadbeat
why wait to raise a wall when you can fill the crevice
you have something to do, to instill, to say, to caution, to give
do it now while I smile, while I'm strong, while I live
Don't speak about the adulterations after I've drunk from the chalice*
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC
There is someone in my house.
It's late at night and I can hear the sound of vegetables being chopped in the kitchen.
I am supposed to be home alone;
all of my family is out of town.
Why do I hear someone in my house?
Hiding in my room,
I wait.
Could this be just another hallucination?
Could this really be happening?
There is someone in my house,
and I know it now,
because the chopping stops.
I hear footsteps.
I pull the covers over my head,
as if being completely covered in my comforter
will make me invisible to the stranger creeping in my house.
There is a child at my bedroom door.
She is very small and very young.
She barely is taller than my arm rest on my desk chair.
She is staring at me with the one eye not being covered by her hair.
Her hair is long and midnight black,
the street lights pouring in from outside are visible in her hair,
creating a silver glow to her dark complexion.
Her head is cocked to one side,
hair falling in her face.
I start to move and realize I'm paralyzed.
I try to speak but I cannot move my mouth either.
There is a man in my doorway.
He appears suddenly,
like the wind on a chilly day.
He's tall and has broad shoulders.
It's obvious he never skips out on the gym.
He has a pale complexion,
his skin glows in the amber street lights.
He moves swiftly,
taking two long strides to reach my bed.
In my head I'm screaming,
in all reality the only sound that could be heard,
is the sound of the plastic the man is tying around me.
Plastic wraps around my
throat,
mouth,
arms,
legs,
and I still cannot move.
I cannot breathe.
Plastic wraps perfectly around my throat,
keeping me from being able to breathe easily.
I cannot even open my mouth to gasp for air,
I am completely restrained and paralyzed with fear.
There is a man in my bedroom,
and he picks me up with ease and tosses me into my hallway
before checking the other rooms.
The voice in my head echoes,
*You're dreaming,
Wake up Drew.
He is not real.
That child is not real.
You're suffocating.
Your arms are burning.
You're not breathing.
You must wake up.
Wake up.
Wake up!
Wake up now, Drew!*
With all the energy I had,
I catapult out of my bed.
Breathing heavily,
I rub my arms,
happy to feel they are no longer burning.
I think to myself,
thank God this was all just a nightmare.
I look up and see
There is a man standing in my doorway;
I'm no longer dreaming.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 1:03 AM UTC
water was showering over me
warm steam with coffee scented molecules
quenching the dry air.
a thought was in my mind:
porcelain can’t hold coffee grounds.
something nice would be fresher air
as fresh as frenchly pressed coffee.
so, in my thoughts, i dripped on the rug
and made footprints over to cup one
(it was wasting heat, losing steam)
so i used the momentum
of its northward-traveling aroma.
an air freshener was made
(as i turned the cup in my hand)
to a catapult of filtered black sand
no grounds to spill, but coffee’s scent
poured through the air as it went.
lifted level, tipped right askew,
my nostrils flared as coffee flew.
the air freshener that was thought
occupied a braid of air,
perfect aroma.
then liquid’s caught.
gathered by carpet, furniture and clothes,
coffee no longer kissing my nose.
my eyes open,
the warm steam is still around.
thoughts no longer on coffee grounds,
but rather the soap in my hair
and on warm cup one
still waiting there.
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 9:14 AM UTC
The horizon is the impossible goal.
* It is the goal of trying to catch up with the sun, trying to surpass the infinite boundary that exists only from the limitations of the eye.
* It is the goal that takes years of labor and toil, and when it seems like it will soon be over, it always sets itself further out of reach.
* It is the goal, simple and straightforward at present, but winding and demanding the further along the path one goes.
* It is the goal that must be undertaken alone, regardless of how many are on the path with you.
* It is the goal that is always present, even in times of rest, the one that looms over you, stalking you like prey, hunting you when you aren't hunting it.
* It is the goal whose journey many have taken, but none have returned from.
* It is the goal which, after having been attained, is rumored to reward you in ways that will continue to manifest far into the future.
It is the goal that you can never attain, and yet you must cross the horizon.
It is the goal that you must attain, and yet you can never cross the horizon.
* You can never cross the horizon, only perpetuate the hunt for what lies over it.
* You can never cross the horizon, and you constantly remind yourself of this when you insanely continue to run through the toil of the process.
* You can never cross the horizon, but in the quest for it, you are forced to make alliances, work with others to catapult yourselves across the same goal.
* You can never cross the horizon, but the effort to do so leaves you with a stronger sense of self, knowing how you react in the face of adversity, and understanding how the journey shapes you.
* You can never cross the horizon, yet you refuse to quit when each trial bends the bones of your back, when every step shreds the skin on your feet, when the heat cooks and boils your brain, when all the nerves in your being direct your heart to stop, except that one, that lonely one, that one which refuses to quit.
* You can never cross the horizon, and as the sun shrinks deeper, the hunt becomes more and more desperate with every step.
* You can never cross the horizon; in trying, you will only exhaust all of the resources and time that is given to you, all of the energy and strength that was left in you, and all of the creativity and ingenuity that was built in you.
You can never cross the horizon.
Until you do.
And when you cross the horizon...
The rest is up to you to write...
Apr 13, 2011
Apr 13, 2011 at 3:11 AM UTC
We're on a bomb site
behind the tabernacle
looking for some
ammunition for
my catapult
which I carry
in the back pocket
of my jeans
Fay is looking
amongst the debris
of old bombed
out houses
or just area
left where
houses stood
it's a sunny day
holiday time
no school
-makes me happier-
is this one too big?
she asks
I look over
no that's a good one
I say
she brings it over
to where I stand
she holds it
between her
thin finger and thumb
and she drops it
into my palm
I weigh it up
and down then
drop it into
my pouch
-a knotted handkerchief-
she looks at me
her blue eyes
searching me
her fair hair
brought behind
her head in
a ponytail
have you ever
thought about self?
I look at her
self?
I say
what do you mean?
the I of us
what we call me
I look nonplus
and look down
for more small stones
a nun at school
said the I
in Christianity means
the I crossed out
in the form
of a cross
in other words
our self is not
more important
than that I or self
of another
and as a Christian
we should put
the self
of another first
I find a small stone
and pick it up
and finger it
so the cross is
supposed to show
self crossed out?
I say uncertainly
she looks at the stone
I'm holding
yes that's what
she was saying
self denial I think
is what she meant
Fay says
scratching her head
this nun at school
does she ever
tell jokes?
Fay frowns
no not as far
as I've heard
well I could
tell you one
O'Brien told me
but it's not for girls
to hear
not girls
as good as you
I say
Daddy says jokes
are sinful to say
and to hear Fay says
when I innocently
told him one
the other year
a girl at school told me
he spanked me
and said never
to hear or say jokes
ever again
what was the joke?
I ask
shouldn't say
she says
there's only you
and me here
no one will know
if you tell me
except God
and I guess He's
heard it before
I say
she looks at me
her blue eyes
staring
ok but don't
tell Daddy
I told you
she says
I promise not to tell
your old man
I say
well a man took his wife
to the cinema
and as they waited
in the queue
a man in front of them
passed wind
and the husband
said to the man
how dare you
pass wind
in front of my wife
and the man said
sorry I didn't know
it was her turn
I laugh and so does she
and I like how
her eyes sparkle
when she laughs
and her face lights up
like a summer day
then she's looks
at her hands
that was good
I say
but it's sinful
she says
but the brightness
in her face and eyes
didn't go away.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC