"checkmates" poems
I want to fold up Constantinople
And tuck it in the crease of my pocket
With a rock and a harlequin opal,
Nestled against your map of Nantucket —
A keepsake framed by a tired locket.
Sunlight pours past panes like gold tapestries,
Blue-sky-checkmates belonging to Vermeer
And his Woman with a Balance — trophies:
A man crowned a chivalrous cavalier,
A gentleman of this tremendous sphere
Misunderstood by societal norms,
And expectations set by precedent.
All while a bird coos cucurucu, warmed
By yellow light, freed from discontented
Murmurs with song. I want to read segments
Of the map on the curved back of your hand,
Knuckle-mounds like the knees of a woman
You once said you loved between shorthanded
Compliments and the words of Walt Whitman —
Blanketed by a bible and a man.
Maybe our web-tangled thoughts coexist
With the sky, place our feet firm on the ground.
Or maybe they’re a window that insists
On temptations, the mind, rewritten sounds,
Coming alive, and wanting to be found.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 10:52 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
I be really chill as ****
Chill as ****
Technically on the break but that's all in
my head,
Penitentiary mindset but no longer locked
up, you didn't hear from me,
So that's not what I said,
Moving around the creases , in and out
of situations , not my main occupation,
But I'm working up the nerve to live and
survive and survive,
And I don't know how long I could stay
alive , in this ongoing cycle,
Throw your feelings out ,recycle,
I be really chill as ****
Chill as ****
Let the chamomile flow though the veins and such, I got a,
Soft spot for nature in my own little way,
Nobody else strong enough to evade my
space, Ya hear me,
Really chill , to the point of no return from
this cloud that I'm on, I could never come
down off this plane, its real strange,
But I'm sane,
Chill I'm telling you.
/
Don't drag your partners down along with ya' to the grave,
When fakeness is engrave into their brains like a bad movie that
Persuades ,never know, might bring the pain,
Shut up,
Close your eyes,
Matter of fact open them, stay awake,
Trust no one,
Talk to everyone,
Don't become a dead body in a lake,
Don't seal your fate,
You planned this ,You planned this,
You planned this, don't run from it,
You planned this ,the parasite lingers like
A therapist,
You planned this,
There's no other way to say your views are distorted,
Turning every which way as a sign,
It's a crime, systems take over your life,
You didn't plan it,
But they planned it,
This is propaganda we've been handed,
Your life expectancy isn't really candid,
I know we all gotta' die someday , lie awake somewhere,
Don't be a bandit or a sinner, that’s impossible,
Is this country really free ? Is it optional ?
The feds will hold , a grudge to different race cause their superiors told,
I feel like life is game without the checkmates,
It never gets old.
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
.
Blush the sky with teardrop rips,
let the blood flow free
to spill 'pon the cheeks and fall,
creating puddles of coy crimson.
A mind slowly disintegrates,
no-one tries to halt the decline
and it washes away reason,
the victim unable to resist submission.
Corpuscular clashes with synaptic
and the result transforms tragedy
from the root of all sadness
into an icon of blind worship.
The teardrops freeze on a blank face
that masks a venomous enemy
wrapped in a Hood of poison
that swallows the blushing sky.
A cage of pitch black threads
patiently studies the inner pendulum,
the tick tock of search and destroy,
time weaving its panic dark webs.
Psychotic anxiety in the waiting room
as horses dance on candle flames,
the Knight checkmates his own King,
the pawn is an easily taken prisoner.
The coy puddles of crimson burst,
shattering the mask to reveal another,
a shadow-hand coils its claim,
and the journey begins, cometh the Hood.
© Pagan Paul (11/08/19)
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 4:49 AM UTC
What I can give is more than you can take.
I love you.
Alone in life, we've only made a few mistakes.
I hate you.
All inside, a gutterpipe dreamscape.
Love *****
My ***** mirror has never looked so clear.
Love rules.
For every denial, grow two checkmates.
I love you.
It was just a gutterpipe dreamscape.
I hate me.
What we made, an inkling of what we could create.
Die young.
Eyes never locked, our stares were blank.
Live forever,
Together. In our gutterpipe dreamscape.
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 7:32 AM UTC
The world is a giant corner to sustain on
It blends into a fragment of little things to make it look impeccable
A petite of agony a dash of joy and all hints to be okay
Touring the field of your corner you ought to taste every share of it
All sums up to look like vanilla honeyed candy
Always delightful from a distance and perfumed when handy
When the flowers get cross-pollinated
That's when you witness new species in life
You cherish few you hate some but have to swallow them and drive
Not all the moments will be fascinating
Not all the moments will be rough
But you need to march on solid
Even when fear checkmates you
Even when an infant's smile can make you feel butterflies
Even when you are surprised by blowing the candles at midnight
Even when your cot has tasted yout tears regularly
Halt, Stand and Breath put up an act of grin
Pretend to be okay
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC