"catastrophies" poems
Eighteen years have passed me
I still marvel at picturesque clouds
They pass us overhead, with grace, like the ground they face isn’t rotten.
Find me that girl who smiles every day
Exchanging her three am thoughts
Into golden plated words that are beautiful
They belong in her poems.
Sadness stained cheeks covered in blush
She’s so lovely, people think
but she’s just glad her mascara is waterproof.
My grandmother has dainty hands, unlike mine
and I was jealous.
until I realized that they were covered in blood
years before I was born and knew what pain was,
making a living and treating her blisters at the same time.
Six children but it used to be eight before two passed away
“Sofian, he died before your grandfather by a few years”
Her heart broken in half and tears encrusted in her skin
But she still has delicate and pretty hands right?
People say they love one another,
But I can’t even count the knives on their backs anymore,
There are too many.
When I find myself in solitude,
I subsequently lose myself in thought.
You know,
I am ashamed.
These angels that watch us every day
I know they weep at our state
And I am done pretending it’s fine.
This is a world where the ground shakes in anger,
The sky cries out of despair
And the air thickens out of confusion
I am all of nature’s catastrophies
In the shape of a woman.
You will see me in the corner
Praying for lost souls
Including my own
Hoping that one day we’ll reunite in a place
Where words don’t drip blood
And authors find that writing is easier when happy
But for now, we can’t get enough of pretending.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
Intangible like the scent of mist
that was him
Delightful like a thoughtful gift
that was him
Pure as the first tears of a child
that was him
Provoking like revenge fantasies
that was him
Sudden like catastrophies
that was him
Enlightened like the city lights
that was him
Honest like a father's vows
that was him
Vivid like the colored crows
that was him
Distinguished like the sun among all stars
that was him
Detailed like the winter's sky
that was him
The only man that made me cry
that was him
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
old letters postcards color slides
entries in diaries drafts
of letters maybe never sent
fill boxes after boxes after boxes
left to me by my parents and their ancestors
going through them
I sort out letters documents certificates
prayer books with scribbles on the margins
school grades awards old birthday wishes
of all the photographs I only keep the ones
on which I recognize the faces
those of the strangers I have never known
and never will
I ditch
together with the many color slides
of mountains I have never climbed
and never will
and of my parents friends whom I don‘t know
and never will
with whom they somewhere spent good times
all these were part of my dear parents universe
in my world they mean nothing
have no significance beyond allowing me
to glimpse selected moments of the lives of those
who‘ve come before me and have gone
disappearing quietly
into the mists of history
leaving blurred views
as through a frosted window
about their pleasures loves anxieties
catastrophies and tragedies
enough to tease imagination
too pale for certainties
hints from the past
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
a green silhouette of grey, towering in secret turmoil
where shadows shuffle past clothed in draperies of U
like the front door of a public house at night time
on moments they stop and peer through windows
as if searching for themselves
and seeing themselves not within
place a hand on each others shoulder
with slender tapered touch to life
and wander on looking
for the fresh warm rain of belief, any belief
they just don't care
dark as unforgiven justice
neither divine nor temporal forms
shadows that reflect no change
ensure no truth, show no energy to immerse
and this applies no effort to pick their chaos
nor specialised catastrophies
though do marshal devils of distinction
from the ramparts of the night
who dance in crooked form
twisting around the indolence of faces
peering through others windows
howls too for they make such howls
as such the shadows dismiss them
to their own oblivion
the shadows in their old humiliating story
move on still peeping, peeking and peering
but they languish in a wander land
always calm and reasonable
they move on like gassed first world war soldiers
but trembling inwardly with a frightful rage
cursing priests veined with age
who have told everyone's confession
and doctors slowly losing their hair
who never confess their secrets
not even to veined faced priests
and sometimes in a few seconds
these few but precious seconds
before the next window
it is remembered, yes remembered
shadows are the colour of light
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
why is it
that this day weighs heavy on my mind
though nothing special has occurred
except the usual bad news
of deaths and fighting and catastrophies
greed and abominable politics
my private life is safe and fine
remote from all the global strife
it runs a fairly pleasant course
with just occasional disturbances
could that weigh heavily on my mind?
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC
Too much time has been spent focusing on the past
Without it this reality would not exist
But settling in the comfort of familiarity is not growth
This new reality is the next step
It's uncomfortable
But there's no more time
for experiments
test runs
or observation
Time to glance ahead
With feet planted in the present
Not because the future is bright
Like everyone chatters about
But because it's coming
And it's coming now
Hard lessons have yet to be learned
Deaths and heartbreak will be mourned
Catastrophies will turn back the clock
Undoing everyone's hard work
Only so much growth can sprout from the nutrients of one event
And survival results in a layer of strength just to be worn off by the next wave
Feb 26, 2019
Feb 26, 2019 at 6:51 PM UTC
your skin was a manifesto of its own
your heart beat; somehow always
sounded like a busy tone
because I'm tired of using your veins
like a telephone
waiting for you to just pick up already
and say hello
with a certain sense of peacefulness threaded throughout your voice
like an air of perfection that would always be
a little too far out of reach
and I wonder if you know that each
and every morning I make one too many cups of coffee
one for me
and one for a chair that's been empty
for weeks
I wonder if she watches you play
chess as if you're opening a safe
and I bet she has no ******* idea that
your hands can create
catastrophies
and laughter can turn into
screams
in seconds
I want to tell her that legends know nothing of love or investment in one another and as hard as he's trying
if he tells you he never loved me
he's lying
because there's no denying
that at two in the morning
when you're cold and lonely
and the only thing you want is to be touched by something other than
your own boney knees
that a certain sense of nostalgia is laced within the air of your bedroom
I'm not sure what I'll do when the flowers on the front porch start to bloom
we planted them together in the spring
I'm still holding you true to your word
that thunderstorms only bring
beautiful things
dandelions and daisies and maybe
eventually
a chair that's not empty
holding hands,
and kisses
between coffee
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
I think of you
as I listen to the roar of waves
crashing against the shoreline in
booms and swirls.
I think of you
as I listen to the bubbly giggles
of children playing in the sand
guardians of starlight and sunshine.
I think of you
when ships and guns sink their claws into my island
with warrior after warrior stumbling across our shores
readying for ****** catastrophies.
I think of you
as he slanders a good woman
poisoning his family with hate and cynicism
silently
watching him abuse us verbally and mentally.
I think of you
when my heart is on the verge of breaking
letting tears fall in silent streams
shattered and trying to piece itself together.
I think of you
as birds chatter amongst themselves in trees
sernading my troubles into lovely lullabies
stirring peace within my soul.
I think of you
when I'm cold and my skin turns pale
shaking frozen thoughts
with those of you
happy and smiling.
I think of you.
I remember you.
I miss you...
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Crash! Smack! Ow!
The chair broke.
Yeow! Galump! Swoosh!
A cat runs away with glue on its tail.
Vroom! Crunch! Grrr...
Dad's motorcycle met its end.
Clip! Clip! Done.
The raspberry patch is no more.
Pop! Wheee! Plop!
A jar of peaches sits on mom's head.
Ahhhh!!!!
She's gonna get us! We're dead!
Two children's little legs dash over the threshold.
HE He he he...
Gurgle, growl, burp,
Tummies are empty.
Whimper, pout, please!
Hush.
We're hungry, we'll clean, we're sorry.
Sigh, reach, hug,
Love.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
Open your heart
open your soul
and let love flow
open your eyes
open your mind
and see love flow
we're surrounded by hate and catastrophies,
But yet love is still greater.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 1:11 AM UTC
I always told you keep
your secrets like ink, right up
under layers of my skin where I can see
the black mark they leave.
Impermanence never deterred me from reaching
for your hand like an anchor to measure my weight against
paper-thin realities. Sink with me, lace
my muscles and bones with
the soft heavy haze
of summer,
let it rest heavily
inside my head. Mark my body where
it's out of sight,
mark these moments each
on the wall, leave them etched in tallies like
we don't care how many we win or lose.
In such a state as we are,
everything fades
into the white noise of soft
muttered phrases.
I twist my fingers around my anxieties, make them
diluted and palatable for the journey ahead;
I've been afraid of losing ground or losing you
but it's unclear now as to how
those fears came about in the first place, and their threads are unraveling
as we speak.
I think I tend to glorify
these things more than I should, more than letting them fade
into the background.
The subconscious is a lonely place, no man
should have to go there alone.
Dress this up or
down, but
the underpinnings remain
the same, and I've always found comfort
in the way the ache
of all the world's catastrophies rests
in my bones like a shared
evolutionary sorrow;
I like how the pain grows
my muscles stronger and my skin
thicker. I think stitching
myself into you has added
new layers to these moments and new stories
behind my eyelids and a few new marks
on my wall of "chances I'm glad I took."
I think taking in the pain has given
me the voice so sought-after and I think
I've grown enough of it through my blood now to build
you up how you deserve, and to show you
that casting stones is not always
a plan for failure; sometimes we find miracles
in the middle
of wrong calculations.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 12:22 AM UTC
it is a lovely sunny summer day
and yet the atmosphere feels different
as if a chilling haze had cast a net
over the luscious green of nature
darkened the pond‘s bright sparkles
made flowers droop their faces to the ground
trees sway their branches somberly
people look strangely serious
I guess it is the news that reaches us
along the ether waves
feeds our mobile phones tvs and radios
all about deaths corruption wannabe dictators
catastrophies lack of support
no wonder the views of our world
are rather solemn
even on the brightest days
Sep 16, 2019
Sep 16, 2019 at 6:26 PM UTC
Should my body be a temple
I do not want it to be
a high cathedral in Rome.
I do not want its walls.
I do not want it to be
a protestant church.
I want my body
as a temple
hidden in the deep Amazon forests.
Because my body is... Wow.
My body is magic.
My body is tangled tree tops,
hair-you-can-wash-with-just-water.
My body is waxy walls,
skin shining from jojoba oil.
My body is vines tangling,
limbs which swing freely from
any place.
My body is sacred
on my own terms.
Ink is not to touch the surface.
Ink is not to cover the walls.
I want them
plain
and brown
and muddy
like reviving clay
mixed with rosewater and honey.
My temple is only to be marked by
tornadoes
and rains
and catastrophies.
Should my body be a temple
it will be honest and rough and brutal.
Like the rainforest it will be
damp
with the dark ghosts
running freely.
I do not wish for my body immortality.
Let my temple fall apart
under uncaring skies,
set ablazed by the sun,
blown away by the wind.
Let it waste away under
the violence of nature
for should my body be a temple
let it be at peace with the earth and the cosmos.
That is the only way I know
my body would be effortless and wise.
Not behind stone and marble.
Not inhabited by a choir of angels.
Not decorated in gold and silver.
Should my body be a temple
let it be a wild animal scream
in the middle of the night.
Let it be texture,
sound,
pulse,
life,
then death.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
Nobody tells me nothing,
So I have to tell me self.
I tell myself the very samething,
As everybody.
I tell my self that I have to stay strong,
I tell my self to accept every catastrophies,
I tell my self to fix what's broken,
I tell my self to stop crying,
But,
I never tell my self that i'm human.
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC