"ceasefire" poems
I'm lost in the never ending pit of my own confusion
Swaying left to right
Held up only by the wind blowing me to and fro
If only my feelings could make their opinion known,
But they long to remain hidden among the whispers of the swirling breeze
I attempt to stand
Only to be knocked back to the dust
Which leaves me dizzy and disoriented
If only the whirling tempest would cease to throw its fiery darts,
But they fail to notice me calling for a ceasefire
So I am left, lost and astray, on the cold ground,
While the gusts continue to becloud the world around me.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
*bury me with the shameful ashes of our past
drown me with your passionate kisses and whisper me that we'll last
take the one last innocent glance
before i drink the liquory glass
i'm on ceasefire
so ready to conspire
hold me tighter and
share me your drunkful desires*
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 3:14 AM UTC
I. “I will always love you. I need you.”
A small seed is planted
In ground that has long been barren
Any flower or tree or life that has tried to grow
Has been cut down by her own callous blade
Against olive warm flesh
Or surpassed by the loud rumblings and grumblings
Incessantly begging the girl to eat
But now,
A ceasefire
The girl is loved
She is cautious, at first
Perplexed by the boy’s affection
But he sweetly holds her hand
Looks at her with eyes of wistfulness
As if she was an intricate work of art
A thing of beauty
And she decides
To
Let
The
Seed
Grow
II. “I’m not sure how I feel anymore.”
The girl had grown into a lemon tree
Made from light and love and vitamin D
But he took away her light
He forgot to hold her hand
He looked at her with eyes of apathy
As if she had become a colorless, bland
Thing of normality
And she decides
To
Let
The
Boy
Go
III. “I’m sorry. I still need you. I want to make it work.”
The girl thought she had grown on her own
But she wilted without her sun
She cut herself down out of pity
Because all her lemons had turned sour
She was no longer beautiful
But now,
The boy returns
Sad to see that her tree is gone,
He asks to plant a seed again
But the girl is trying to plant a new seed
Her own seed to create
Her own light
Love
Beauty
So that the tree will belong to her
But she misses the boy
She struggles to find a seed to plant
Too distracted by rumblings and grumblings
Because she keeps forgetting to eat
She looks at the boy with the seed
And she decides
She
Does
Not
Know
*“One day she left without a word. She took away the sun.
And in the dark she left behind, I knew what she had done.
She'd left me for another, it's a common tale but true.
A sadder man but wiser now I sing these words to you:
Lemon tree very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet
But the fruit of the poor lemon is impossible to eat.”
(Peter, Paul & Mary – “Lemon Tree”)*
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
~
dark early pre-dawn
body suspended between the-dark ochre earth tones of night,
and the teal pealing notes of warning of an impending morning,
signs aborning, me rising with urgency of the leaden half deaden,
torn from the bed casket to venture into a different kind of twi-lights,
nature demanding both intake and outtake, a restoration of balance
but first a bumbling wobbling, the body as carnival bumper car,
installing soon-to-be-bruising for later examination-exhumation,
lurching from handhold crevices in the walls like crazy cliff climbers,
my balance disturbed, eyes try tearing apart the sticky glue of night,
my sense of direction keeping me from free falling into green glass
edges of glass tables, barely, and not always, red cuts evidentiary
“my balance disturbed” words fresh formed, and a poem expulsion
required to balance the unjust scales of spirit soul and the body cage,
patch an negotiated agreement between warring cousins, just a
twenty four hour ceasefire to retrieve the wounded and the
corpses unfounded in the small copses of false shelter,
like my ancestors expelled from Spain, making escape to be
strangers in strange lands, or remain hidden in place neath disguises
of clothes of new poems, prayers for old and new gods
this new poem comes quick like a young man making first love,
for the poem has been written by thousands nights of practicing,
so ready for quick retrieving in a smattering of a few minutes,
expulsion expulsion
what a perfect verbiage to capture the night terrors, the differentials,
the procession path between what was and what will be,
when my balance restored and this poem’s completion installation
in the body of my work, as a nail disguised in the works of my body,
entering by command of the pitch black gods
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
You tell me another story.
But I gathered some facts.
Lame excuses' it's a lowry,
I'm so fed up of your acts.
Getting the tinnitus because I'm lovelorn,
So tired of locking yours with my horn,
Are you dead tired of fighting too?
Did you not know this already too?
Gaining what out of the fight you are,
Only we can be the best possible friends.
Come descend back home,
A helpless heart awaits you,
Another ceasefire beckons,
Come let's bury the hatchet.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 6:22 AM UTC
The wonders of the world are outside my bedroom window
In the night, whispered conversations are exchanged
A premature tulip turns to her neighbor to tell her that tomorrow, it will be her day to blossom
The cricket's tune dances in the gentle breeze, carried to faraway places where open windows welcome their song
The birds lounge in their beds made of twigs and brush, their colored bellies swelling with every gentle breath
Their sighs are nature's lullaby; steady and peaceful
In this world, conflict is a mirage
Chaos is a myth
And war comes to a ceasefire
After all, nature needs her beauty rest
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
My Middle East is torn
Divided into sects and stones
Desert full of rage
Ancient cities bearing witness to atrocities
In the name of the merciful
Let the killing begin
Seek justice in an afterlife
For God is deaf
Ceasefire!
long enough to bury her face
Under the classroom's desk
Or onto her dead mother's chest
Nameless casualties in numbers
Gaze at the brilliant night sky
Rain of shells, rekindling the dark-ages
No truce is left
For God is deaf
The Father carried his young one
A lifeless log returned to earth
Faith unshaken among shouts and prayers
Let the words avenge you
Curse the creator in whispers
And spiral not into an uncharted nihilistic ground
Fuel your hate
For God is deaf
Commemorate the dead
With roses on their heads
Or with poems on their gravestones instead
Morality embedded in poetry, blood is shed
Humanity on trial
Blame not my words
For God is deaf
And in my Middle East
He remains,
Undead.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC
Start a riot to warn the crowd,
Of the upcoming battle between
Two nations drowned in greed, power, corruption.
Start a riot to tell them all:
Now is the time to rise up.
Now is the time to stop this madness.
Now is the time to join forces together
To help make this world a better place.
We see no reason in violence,
And we don't want to end the silence,
We want to be heard; we want to be seen.
We're tired of living in between the shadows and the unseen.
After all…
What do they expect to gain besides debt and victory?
Do they get their kicks off death and misery?
It seems we're soon going to be trapped in this ****** duel.
Avoiding obstacles, hidden mines while
Protecting ourselves from hollow-point shells
Finding a way to escape this impending hell.
We don't want to face whatever may bring,
But it seems we have no choice.
While they're fighting
with their venomous words,
Spilling lies to crowd… convincing them
They're safe in their homes…
We're taking matters in our own hands.
I'll admit we have no actual desire to start a revolution,
We only want them to pull back, ceasefire.
This is why we're taking a stand.
We just want to live in peace and harmony,
Not in discord and calamity.
We all have a voice,
And we will be heard.
We are indestructible; we are incredible.
We are invincible.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
How hard it is to breath when streetlights flicker across the faces of brick houses
and how lucky you must be to sleep below the stars, a new patch every eve
To the girl with high heels clacking on paving slabs, remorseful ears hear all
and with a shimmering bow in your hair the birds do sing in distant trees
- a song of you
What sort of feelings are these, when hedgerow heroics are ignored
and the tin can roofs in some shanty town are rusted, with babies sleeping below
The man with lackadaisical swinging arms is singing to the fruit bats, nighttime solitude
and disabled on his scooter, the obese man sells basketballs at cut prices to teens in tracksuits
- a deal for two
When hydrogen gambling men in suits blow holes in the world and sit back laughing
and when brown eyed rebels sing Allah hu akbar in mountainside dole drum, cavernous bedsits
The seas of some eternal land will rise with cleansing attributes to wash away the ******
and intoxicating blues men sing ballads of the end, with delectable imperatives, scorned by it all
- I will think of you
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
but can science explain why
people seem to feel
especially insignificant at night
can science tell us why
the moon seems to smile sadly back at us
during our loneliest moments
and tell us ‘i know, i know’.
call a ceasefire.
extinguish the burning city:
do not fear the night
it is filled with light we cannot see.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
Star crossed lovers, were we
Passion burning bright
We took upon wings
It began to take flight
Wordless conversation
Your name on my breath
Macabre heart melodies
And the dance of death
My ultimate act of hope
An act of valor
Desolate tears
Adoration colored pallor
Acid dipped colloquy
Mind tires, succumbs
Angelic contradictions
Senses numbs
Whispers of footsteps
Paramours’ ceasefire
Blood spilled emotions
No longer my desire
Unwept severed promises
Hearts struggle to breathe
Disunite in same direction
Faceless anonymity
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 2:04 AM UTC
the war zone is open
a simple stumble
onto a carelessly unplanted landmine
the photographic proof
of the ones in the winning troops
a wire was tripped
my carefully grounded feet
now stumble sightlessly through
confused by combat
as the clouds of battle
brew and storm
mushroom around me
my soul is shattered
by the shrapnel of the relationships
that were never quite had
grenades packed with unbidden love
a thousand times stronger
than any known explosive
scar and pock my psyche
with their silent detonations
the rockets of unreason
guided by an unbalanced radar
pierce the pretend walls of armor
which were never successfully reinforced
this isn't the first or worst battle
know it won't be the last,
because
there is no safe zone
there is no ceasefire
there is only surrender
to the ceaseless uncertainty
a prisoner of my own
hostile forces
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 7:31 PM UTC
i. ablaze
no canvas can hold your portrait
all fine lines and smudges,
like this crumpled paper heart can.
no acid earth blooms sickly flowers
so vivid and surreal,
like your lips formed falsities
hollow insignificances, haloed in sickening silence
no song croons heartbreak
quite as heart-wrenching as
these words you leave unspoken.
and nothing lights up this darkness quite like
the dazzling glow of how
i burned up for you:
ii. fluorescent
at night these empty streets whisper
rumors of embers stirring, rekindling
the remnants of a great fire.
out of ashes i rise, singed and searing to touch.
lights and cigarettes line the paths forward
and backward; i wander them aimlessly.
nothing lights up this darkness
quite like the glow of how
hundreds of streetlights burn for me.
iii. ceasefire
nothing lights up the darkness
quite like the glow of how
i illuminate from the inside out again
no longer an all-consuming blaze—wild and destructive,
or a fluorescent light—the artificial brilliance a borrowed comfort
i cannot call my own;
i uncover my heart to find light again,
not an uncontrollable fire, or the reflection of a stolen light,
but the halcyon glow of a ceasefire.
iv. light up the darkness
and nothing, nobody can light up my darkness
or line my street sides
quite like i can.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
I thought the ceasefire had come.
I had survived the press gangs
and carpet bombs
and the drum of war had been
reduced to the constant undying
thud of my heart.
I was hoping to feign retreat.
Three days of deepest winter
before a new year in the sun
hanging like Christ over the Zodiac
and not from the branch
of my father's tree.
The extension cord came loose.
Bread knives are now curious
fascinations
and sit in my stomach like
so much red wine and that writer's pride
in greeting death.
I was hoping to gain a peace.
To place it like a necklace
or badge of honour on my breast
to remind the tourists of the ******
that ravaged the town
I had grown up in.
I have eight years left to die.
After that I will grow fat
and loose in mind
and forget why sadness is
so important in the modern world
of dying art.
I was hoping for vague release.
Something to **** cowardice
and that hesitant breath before
the pull of a blade or jump to the sea
of endless black hole
and icy relief.
I thought the ceasefire had come.
We had stood outside to watch
the confetti
fall to the ground with delay
in a wind we had come to suspect
would destroy us.
I was hoping to gain belief.
I thought the rockets had stopped
or else been pointed to the sky
in a bottled message from all mankind
to another place,
to another time.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
The space between the notes from the piano and the thoughts in my head,
Dancing for clarity, harmonious cooperation engage, thee I bade.
For my posture poses inquiries as my pulse proposes answers
And the prospect pulls eagerly at the corners of my consciousness..
Thrice kismet collide--Will, you, and I.
A softer understanding to provide strength with ease,
passion to separately seize, while love flows ever so free.
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
Across the air rang like a choir,
Screaming out, "please ceasefire!"
My enemies my death conspire,
Hunting as with wolflike desire,
Each soul appears not but a liar,
Flesh torn, ripped on barbed wire,
Lust a blood like burning fire,
Swept away with ashes prior,
Kindling under darkest desire,
Shadowed street hunts supplier,
Skeletal corpses crawl to acquire,
Trading of souls given and buyer,
Needing a fix goes higher, higher,
Laced with delusions do transpire,
Beautiful psychosis of thorny brier,
Taken ahold discarded shier,
Memories faded in treaded tire,
Eyes glare don't dare to enquire,
Undoubtedly lost in death retire.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
You'll never say
"I love you"
Just like
I'll never say
"I'm Happy."
Because our words are bullets
And
Neither of us
Can handle
The recoil
What if
Our lives
Aren't
Bulletproof
These thoughts
Will rip through
Their centers
Exploding
Outward
Downward
Shattering our Foundations
Making us fragile
And we will fall.
Our best hope
Being that the wind
Blows us
Into each other
Standing
Ambivalent
From
Death
But the winds
Are breaths
Of
Our demons
And they
Only
Breath for destruction
They are
Dragons of Warfare
So we sit
In our
Ceasefire
Wondering
How long
We can
Hold down
The fort
Treading on
Unmarked territory
We try
To watch
For ***** traps,
But they lay on
Places most beautiful
And I can't help
But aid the
Enemy,
Revealing
The chinks
In my armour
As I attempt
To nuzzle my way
Into yours.
But it is in
The dead of night
That your enemies
Come,
Monsters
Filter your dreams
To darken
Even the
Lightest peace.
Your demons know
How to
Push you
Past
Where you thought
You could go
To a place
That looks
Too much
Like a haven.
They can
Turn your
Own words
On you
And make you
Feel like
you are on
A suicide mission
Their voices
Whisper
So clearly
"What am I even fighting for?"
And suddenly
No cause
Seems worthy enough
And you
Lay down your arms
Because
This is not your first time at war.
You know these trenches.
You feel the shrapnel
Ringing out
Through your bones
And in these
last moments
Of
Utter Defeat
You think
To yourself
How you would
Give
your
life
To go back
And
Release the Trigger
Because
How could
This fight
Be worth
The limbs
And
Hearts
You've broken?
So I stand
Before you
At
full attention
Swallowing
My bullets.
I
Am
Not
Scared
Of
War,
But yours
Is a casualty
I cannot dismiss.
And though
I believe myself
A Revolutionary
I am
Choosing
To
Pick my battles,
Which proves
To be
My civil war
Defying myself
For my
Adopted Cause.
Before,
I could not decide
If I was
A lover
Or
A soldier
And now
I've found
You've
made
me
Both
A paradox
Similar enough
To
I'm not happy
Like
You don't love me
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
Morning.
Temporary ceasefire with insomnia,
Marked by cheerful birds.
Morning.
Start of hostilities with drowsiness,
Combating alertness ceaselessly.
Morning.
Opening salvo with heavy caffeine support,
Awakening the senses with hot beverages.
Morning.
Food, an uncertain ally.
Alertness or comas—it’s sometimes close.
Morning.
Battle lines redrawn,
But war continues perpetually.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
Cold heartless liar,
A gun loaded for the siren,
Behold and never ceasefire,
Pull the trigger
and
Spark the fire.
Apr 17, 2019
Apr 17, 2019 at 8:32 AM UTC
Your mind,
So beautiful
Causing the soldiers
Battling within my head,
To ceasefire
An ongoing conflict
Finally at rest.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
How long have you been loading those
armour-piercing
0.30 caliber
bullets of regret into your mouth?
Do you fire them at will?
Does the safety
(of holding your tongue)
sometimes get neglected
(like you)?
When will you learn that holding your fire protects
not only uninvolved civilians
but also the ones close to you?
When will the war against yourself end?
Do you think a ceasefire will highlight the blood
that stains your hands,
the lives you took with your bullets?
The dead don't listen
but the living make you wish you couldn't
either.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
Engaged in combat
No ceasefire
A beautiful mess
A chaotic art
Head vs. heart
Lately I side with the heart
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 1:21 AM UTC
On 1st meet
Being silent
She let them to talk
They spent most time
Talking,
About war
About arsenals
About win and loss
About strength
About tears
All about blood
On 3rd meet
It was a different story
She heard, they were talking
About roses
About peace
About love
All about life
On 2nd meet
She spoke
They listened
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC