"clamber" poems
Black surges, forges piling emotion,
Foraging, attaining such predicted erosion.
Color the rubies to a diluted amber,
Brittle, dripped gems are toxic, I clamber
To the lamp as to see my implicit devotion.
Vitals ascend, and I can't perceive
This motionless forfeit I often receive.
Aid is essential, it holds potential,
To cure this conflicted, addicted vessel.
My heart on my sleeve, I'm undeceived.
I implore to explore, as breath, I leave,
So close to dying, I'm on the eve
Of darker clothing, and flowers to family,
Hallucinate my abnormalities.
Yet somehow, I am still on my feet-
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
there is a monster beneath
the lofty, billowing sheets of my bed
beneath the mattress
the box spring
the carefully crafted wooden frame.
[he lives in the shadows,
in the obscurity there.]
i should feel sheltered...safe,
underneath these sheets,
[like my mother’s arms
tucking me in tight,
don’t let the bed bugs bite.]
but when my arm dangles off my bed,
when i commit that fatal mistake,
i feel a draw to the ground
more forceful than the force of gravity
seizing my hand
paining to pull me under.
and i know it is the monster.
i feel his yearning
for the blood and guts of a child...
his desire to rip me apart
like a lion does his prey.
i take back control of my hand,
wrap my arms around myself,
feigning safety.
for as we all know
that monster could very well
clamber, creep out
climb onto my bed
and swallow me whole.
i don’t know why he hasn’t yet --
perhaps he likes the challenge
of waiting for me
to be susceptible enough to
forget myself
and leave my arm suspended
for more than
just a moment.
i am curled up into a fetal position
paralyzed by my fear.
the anxiety invades my joints
so that i cannot move anymore.
i fall into a fitful sleep
and wake up to sunshine radiating
through my window,
casting the intricate patterns of
my curtains on the rug.
during the day,
the monster cannot survive.
but when nighttime falls
the darkness returns,
my trepidation returns
and the monster is alive.
well, again.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
I've never been able to get good sleep.
My eyes darker than black holes, I spiral down.
I try to clamber up, but I'm in way too deep.
Daydreaming at night.
The loss of myself, but very aware of my state of mind.
Release is only found within the sunrise.
Every night I stumble on the moon.
I jump star to meteor, hoping gravity pulls me into the space between. Maybe then I can get some real good sleep.
History book worthy battles, I wonder who will be the victor.
Love or loath; a sword drawn to my heart.
Arms apart, head thrown back.
I'm not even entirely sure what part of me I'm killing, I'm just praying for relief, I just want some sleep.
I was sick of the suffering, autopilot is my new definition of personality.
Memories have turned into sadistic nightmares.
Let me free myself from this close eyed, open mind torture.
I cant even stand to walk around my own mind, silence is full of beasts I have yet to slay.
I'd rather hide in the wounded parts of me, call myself a survivor.
A survivor of nothing out of the ordinary.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 2:56 PM UTC
What Hope Remained?
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
When putrid plumes dulled morning into night
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent,
As mortals wept and earthborn angels went
With downcast eyes to clamber heavens height.
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
When panicked sirens wailed a lost lament
And backs were bowed beneath ungodly weight,
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent
As boots bore souls up treadmills burnt and bent
To scale a void devoid of dawning light.
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
For those in sight of angels heaven sent
Atop the world to aid their mortal plight,
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent.
When wingless brethren conquered feared ascent
To gift last hope to all who saw their might:
What hope remained when hope for hope was spent?
Hope lived in heart-struck deeds of bold intent.
In The Fall
I chanced upon a stranger in the fall,
Cosmetic garb of office black and white
Portraying calm demeanor of his plight
As shadows panicked on a stricken wall,
And oft' I find my mind in numb recall
To look upon that helpless human kite
Who tumbled from the terrors of a height,
Yet graceful as an eagle in a stall
Before it plummets earthward -- 'Neath the pall
Of twisted steel rended by follied flight,
That stranger lives forever in the light
Suspended in iconic timeless sprawl.
I wonder, in the briefness of his fall,
Did he derive the meaning of it all?
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
i think
beyond all lies
and twists of personal interpretation
there is a final sunset
somewhere
but the only problem is
i think the road to it
is like the rainbow bridge
you can only walk on it if you're a god
but somehow
a vine seems to grow in me
that will clamber the long divide
of space
and let me glimpse
that sunset
if i remember right
the vine is called connection
to a vital nerve in Christ
and by the life inside
it lays a road of many colors
so i can walk the bridge of colors
and see the colors
that the sun makes
just before the end
but it's not sad at all because
i think the end is like an upside-down horizon
and when the sun goes down
at last
it's rising for the last time
and this time,
it's the Son
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
' make haste' she urges,
as they clamber to the peak.
an orange sun violently explodes,
** culminating in mindblowing fire works.**
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
(inspired by Robert Pinsky)
Morning sun on his face
steady motor murmur
vibrating the hose
Bluebells clamber
over the hill’s top -
nothing to remember
only the same engine noise
that keeps making the same sounds
under his head poised
and pulsing the same beat
no-one to say his name,
no need, no-one to praise him
only the engine’s voice - over
and over, running under him.
© M.L.Emmett
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
Hidden, oh hidden
in the high fog
the house we live in,
beneath the magnetic rock,
rain-, rainbow-ridden,
where blood-black
bromelias, lichens,
owls, and the lint
of the waterfalls cling,
familiar, unbidden.
In a dim age
of water
the brook sings loud
from a rib cage
of giant fern; vapor
climbs up the thick growth
effortlessly, turns back,
holding them both,
house and rock,
in a private cloud.
At night, on the roof,
blind drops crawl
and the ordinary brown
owl gives us proof
he can count:
five times--always five--
he stamps and takes off
after the fat frogs that,
shrilling for love,
clamber and mount.
House, open house
to the white dew
and the milk-white sunrise
kind to the eyes,
to membership
of silver fish, mouse,
bookworms,
big moths; with a wall
for the mildew's
ignorant map;
darkened and tarnished
by the warm touch
of the warm breath,
maculate, cherished;
rejoice! For a later
era will differ.
(O difference that kills
or intimidates, much
of all our small shadowy
life!) Without water
the great rock will stare
unmagnetized, bare,
no longer wearing
rainbows or rain,
the forgiving air
and the high fog gone;
the owls will move on
and the several
waterfalls shrivel
in the steady sun.
3.2k
I've had my fill of llamas
And of all the woes they bring
For though they stop by frequently
They never say a thing
I find it rather ignorant
That a humpless dromedary
Should force on me its company
But not its commentary
I'm getting sick of llamas
My nights are fraught with dread
They wait until I'm fast asleep
Then bounce around the bed
My slippers smell of llama dung
The carpet's had its day
My house is getting crowded
There's a new one every day
I just can't move for llamas
They're piling up in drifts
Relentless in their appetite
I'm feeding them in shifts
I have to clamber over them
To get to anywhere
Would anyone like a llama?
I would simply love to share
I really can't stand llamas
The ******** just don't quit
And if they don't get their pop-tarts
They've a tendency to spit
They multiply quite rapidly
Devoid of conversation
I think I'll have to leave them
And resume my medication
**
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 5:41 PM UTC
The scientist-psychiatrist
the psychologic sociologist
has proved with his statistics
and his data-riddled literates
that nothing will be crippled
if they sweep the city clean
if they slay not only Tybalt
but the whole Verona scene
so they ****** it from our hands
from our brains and those to come
as the Ravens sear across the lands
and bindings come undone
They watch the pages flitter by
and cackle with delight
as the populace of fiction
by their hands is ripped alight
The licking of the laces
by the hungry tongues of flame
will ravage on the characters
you've come to know by name
Montag barrels forth and finds
the Fahrenheit has risen
Hester screams and claws her mind
out of this hellish prison
and Dorian will clamber up
to sit atop the pile
and weep for Pictures yet to sup
upon his looks and guile
And you'll watch as they obliterate
the city from within
de-storying our Paradise
so it won't be Lost again.
But I, Calpurnia? I warned you
that the fiery clouds would rain
I told you all, fictitious youth,
but you called me insane.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:52 PM UTC
When I think back to the past, my memories seem to blur together as if I have spent twenty one years on a non-stop merry-go-round. Ups and downs, too much to take in at once, the people you love only a splotch in your spinning, ever-changing field of vision. You wonder how long they’ll stay, leaning over the metal railing separating them from you; you wonder if they’ll call out to you until they become hoarse…but no one stays for long.
You think it’s fun and harmless until the carousel stops and you realize you’re the only one left. You clamber off the platform in a drunken stagger and wait for your mind, still caught up in the whimsical whir of charisma and carelessness, to catch up with reality. Eventually your thoughts slow and your vision steadies. Everything comes into focus. It seems eerily quiet compared to the cacophony of conversation and carnival music that was swirling and intertwining in the air just minutes ago.
Now there’s silence and you’re left to contemplate your past…and your future. This is the reality check, the wakeup call that sends so many adolescents into a panic; an early mid-life crisis if you will. Twenty one years spent so quickly, so carelessly…only eighty more to go.
And you can only wonder, “How will I waste those?”
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
A palatial forest,
Full of verdure only to be seen under
The Lucent celestial body
Owls stay secluded beneath the
Caliginous shadows,
Tree limbs swerve and waver from the
Fluttering wind.
Pathways scatter across the canvas
Filled with greenery
Vines clamber to the ground,
Fallen leaves lie withered through the earth,
Under the nautical dusk
Thus shows the beauty of a forest at
Night.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 12:11 AM UTC
Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;
Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face.
2.5k
Can someone tell the folks upstairs
That their floor is my ceiling.
They stomp about,
Scream and shout.
In a fleet,
They drag their feet.
They tap dance in their hall,
And cause my crockery to fall.
While they boisterously shake,
I'm forced to stay awake.
They slam their doors,
and I settle scores,
By returning a 'thud',
Which goes unheard.
And finally when they clamber to bed,
I thank my stars and think in my head,
Those noisy wrecks,
Are a pain in our necks,
I would have loved them more,
Had they lived on another floor.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
(inspired by Robert Pinsky)
Morning sun on his face
steady motor murmur
vibrating the hose
Bluebells clamber
over the hill’s top -
nothing to remember
only the same engine noise
that keeps making the same sounds
under his head poised
and pulsing the same beat
no-one to say his name,
no need, no-one to praise him
only the engine’s voice - over
and over, running under him.
© M.L.Emmett
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 7:48 AM UTC
For years I’ve had marbles tucked in my mouth,
Different colored weights that pulled on my glands, on secret saliva.
For years I’ve had marbles in my mouth and I forgot to spit them out or hide them away so I let them become permanent placements in my always-cavities; soon they even slipped so easy into my bloodstream.
The black ones made me say yes too often.
The reds made me want to bleed.
The blues made me cry, obviously. They stood guard on my tear ducts, deciding when and how to show emotion. They didn’t let me cry that night. They didn’t let me cry for months. Now I am crying almost everyday, and I am shooting those blue marbles straight to the moon; I’ve had it with avoiding emotion every day of my life.
The yellows made me want to forgive you, made me want to **** on sunshine, made me want to clamber into your mother’s arms, let her know that it wasn’t your fault. The yellows are ********
The cat eyes have me avoiding eyes with every man on the street, so sure they will spit out words that they expect me to lap up like milk with an easy grin, tail twitching for attention. The cat eyes have me distrustful, have me always knowing it could happen again.
The rainbows loosened my tongue, had me admit secret sexualities, let me march in parades and kiss girls, had me falling over myself tripping into love.
I’m not sure who this poem is for anymore, or what it’s even about. The doctors say I have the cleanest bloodwork they’ve seen in a while, I don’t ask them about the marbles. They refer to some of them as disordered.
I’m not sure if they’re marbles anymore, I think they’re just me,
and I’m sorry I’m getting off-track, the marble in my hand right now is glitter and sparkle and confusion and I’m trying so hard to stay put.
Give me the orange ones, the fire, ones that looks like Mars
or Jupiter.
Give me two moons, or maybe sixty-six.
Give me a giant ladder.
This is about running away.
This is about playing with your marbles
and learning everything about them
and staying put.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 5:11 AM UTC
Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now, our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
Alas! that pang will be severe,
Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,
Departing for a distant shore.
Well! we have pass’d some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;
Where from this Gothic casement’s height,
We view’d the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell,
O’er fields through which we us’d to run,
And spend the hours in childish play;
O’er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss,
It dar’d to give your slumbering eyes:
See still the little painted bark,
In which I row’d you o’er the lake;
See there, high waving o’er the park,
The elm I clamber’d for your sake.
These times are past, our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes, I must retrace alone;
Without thee, what will they avail?
Who can conceive, who has not prov’d,
The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly lov’d,
You bid a long adieu to peace.
This is the deepest of our woes,
For this these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,
Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu!
2k
Everyone is so
scared.
How could you not be?
The only way that could happen
is if you'd planned your whole life out from the start--
very carefully stacking block upon block,
building your massive tower to your dream destination.
What do you do when you get there, though,
when you’re done?
You keep stacking towards your next dream,
rushing onwards, onwards to
the next destination,
the next layer,
each one a little less solid than the last.
And finally, when you get there,
there, the end goal of your whole life--
the perch atop which you sit, staring down,
with nowhere else to go,
at the final place you’ve been dreaming of all these years--
hell, was it worth it?
Worth all the anxiety and sweat and the meat being squeezed from your soul,
everything you’ve been working towards forever?
... what the hell is it, what are you even looking at, tell me!
I scream at you,
“Tell me, what's so great about where you are up there--
the view?”
But you are wise.
You’ve got to be, you’ve lived your whole **** life already.
You chuckle, and your wrinkles are friendly.
“Come see.”
I clamber up.
It takes forever—you’re old as hell and spent your entire life building this thing.
I keep climbing, and climbing, and the view keeps changing.
I’m getting higher.
I pause once, and glance behind me
to see the sprawling architecture of every floor beneath.
I have to remind myself to breathe and
keep going.
Finally, I reach you
and shake your hand.
I am standing atop an enormous tower,
So tall I can’t make out the ground,
Gazing back down at the intricate construction of your life.
Layer upon layer, every block a different day,
every floor a different chapter in your life.
Maybe it's the thin air, but it finally dawns on me.
It doesn’t matter where we are now.
What matters is every day, every moment that you spent getting here.
I look at you, and you sigh perfectly and completely.
“So long, kid,” you salute me,
and step off the edge.
I watch you fall in wonder.
But I know your legacy lives on
in the enormous and complicated and twisting tower
that remains, a tribute to your life.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC
It's so easy to hang your head in shame,
To apologise without sincerity.
It's so easy to wither and crumple,
To let self loathing eat away at you like blight.
It's so easy to allow yourself to become nothing; something temporary.
Simplicity is a requirement,
we avoid all which attracts anarchy within us.
We do not anticipate accidents, we do not anticipate
those who clamber into our lives and shine
with individuality and complexion -
we fear those who possess difference.
It reminds us of what we lack,
or of what we are too afraid to expose to others.
And I fell in love with a rose, when I am merely a dandelion.
I write poems only to destroy them immediately;
endless words dedicated to people who will never dedicate a single thing to me.
I wither, I crumple.
I chose simplicity.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
about to clamber
into bed when I looked out the window:
no moon hangs sky-side
the full moon was just this week,
wasn't it, and yet
I can't spot Selene
anywhere in the **** sky,
***** was supposed to be here
by 10:30 at the latest,
and now it's nigh on 11 and my
lunar lover is impossible to find.
cellular abuzz:
tragedy mixed with twitter
notifications.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
i walk down roadsides n smile at clouds in towering wonder and sit upon hillocks of gravel watching citylights and knowing the same kinds of light shine upon you, too, sometimes: sweet, and in flittering movements. and in this snow-flurry, a single snowflake floats down the river of endless night, and drifts lazy pattern from our respective skins to each other's; i'll clamber up, down, over valleytops and riverbeds
to find you
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 7:48 AM UTC
Flesh scaling mossy rock,
trepidatious toes clamber on.
Seraphic sunlight beating down on naked back.
Approaching the edge of all fears.
Standing on the pinnacle.
Surrounded by the best friends in the world.
all there is to do is let go forever.
brace the fall, elongate with majesty.
Rhythmic heart, beating on all cylinders.
Di Dum: Fear
Di Dum: Anxiety
Di Dum: Stress
End of celestial descent.
Arrival in ecstasy.
Piercing icy blue water,
rinsing away all woes.
Circles of smiles,
and unprecedented unity.
In nothingness,
therein lies the foundation of all things.
Euphonious drum of waterfall.
harmonious chimes of birdsong.
Velvet blanket of heart warmth.
Soul soothing of clear water.
Utopian infinities crystallizing.
Dream't like folklore and now realized.
Naked as born with no things and everything.
Tight clothed and old with many things and nothing.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
I call it the Changeover;
like an analogue radio searching for a signal
sometimes it's clear
sometimes it's static
sometimes it's in between
somewhere between far away and near
somewhere lost in the middle
between Signal and Static.
Clear Day the signal reaches out its arms as far as the eye can see
and the ears can hear
and the senses can feel
and taste buds pop and linger
and revel in new experience
and comfort in knowing
and wrapped in wonderment.
Changeover Day is somewhere between Clear Day and Nowhere
struggling to tune in
backwards or forwards
or sideways or upwards
to something
to anything that resembles a signal
like hearing voices in another room
an argument through a wall
the indecipherable murmur of music
the clamber of ushered noise
the mishmash and cacophony
like a symphony of Morse code.
Static Day is dark day
there is no signal
no senses
no sound
only indeterminate fuzz
and the crackle of broken glass
and the foghorn
and the white noise
the confusion and delusion
the paranoia of shifting jigsaws
changing pieces that never fit together
can almost make out a face through the frosted glass
the smear like bird **** on a window
halfheartedly wiped with lackadaisical whimsy
and greasy chip shop newspaper.
In the Static there is no wind
no heart to beat
no empathy or sympathy
just
cold
hard
steel
out of place in a room of feathers and feeling.
You just have to ride out the storm
tell yourself:
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
The Changeover
from Static to Signal
and the welcome return of voices
and breathing
and beating
and feeling.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
Dark emerald
Twisting lines of my imaginings
Creep upward
O'er the cold hard walls.
Disintegrate the temples
Men wrought of continental stone
Mountain disassembled
And raised here
To form
Buildings
Razed here
By the alchemy
Of green plants
And the elements
Of dark twisting lines
In my imaginings:
Even now
The dust begins to pile upon the ground
And the golden city fades
Beneath the growing green image.
Dark emerald
Twisting lines of my imaginings
Creep upward
O'er the cold hard walls.
Weave vine tendrils
Into the fabric
Of the stone,
Clamber over solemn tombs
What one life raised
Another will surpass,
Must first embrace its artifacts
And then exceed
And render into dust
The particles
Turn roundward.
Dark emerald
Twisting lines of my imaginings
Creep upward
O'er the cold hard walls.
Reintegrate the dust
To continental stone
In dark mantle
Mountain reassembled
And raised here
By alchemy
Of the earth
Turning in another million years
Beneath new life
Raised here.
Dark emerald
Twisting lines of my imaginings
Creep upward
O'er the cold hard walls.
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 7:43 PM UTC