"cluster" poems - Hello Poetry

"cluster" poems

Thank you ~ for a life not to trade blessings, in spades tight spaces behind laundry doors packed closets and open drawers gator tails, tarnished brass cracks in kitchen sliding glass wet towels, withering plants foundation filled with carpenter ants buckets piled with shoes and tags village clothes and saddlebags peeling paint and broken walls ****** seats in bathroom stalls clogged pantry frigid rooms table scribe and carbon fumes comfort capsules empty tanks broken limbs from children’s pranks **** finger double tongue long goodbyes and sidewalk dung cluster flies chavie’ clique accompanying the hypocrite cracked back and hidden smiles chalk on board with mr miles atomic wedgies closing doors wrotten eggs and open sores jaw jack nasty folk dinner calls for pig in poke penny pinchers double dip yellow mouth and silver tip brown nosers thick red tape paper cuts and pimple nape gallivants so out of norm the joy of life… in basic form

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Jan 14, 2017

Jan 14, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC

cultivation of gratitude

Thank you ~ for a life not to trade blessings, in spades tight spaces behind laundry doors packed closets and open drawers gator tails, tarnished brass cracks in kitchen sliding glass wet towels, withering plants foundation filled with carpenter ants buckets piled with shoes and tags village clothes and saddlebags peeling paint and broken walls ****** seats in bathroom stalls clogged pantry frigid rooms table scribe and carbon fumes comfort capsules empty tanks broken limbs from children’s pranks **** finger double tongue long goodbyes and sidewalk dung cluster flies chavie’ clique accompanying the hypocrite cracked back and hidden smiles chalk on board with mr miles atomic wedgies closing doors wrotten eggs and open sores jaw jack nasty folk dinner calls for pig in poke penny pinchers double dip yellow mouth and silver tip brown nosers thick red tape paper cuts and pimple nape gallivants so out of norm the joy of life… in basic form

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Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth, wine, smooth as a golden sword, soft as lascivious velvet, wine, spiral-seashelled and full of wonder, amorous, marine; never has one goblet contained you, one song, one man, you are choral, gregarious, at the least, you must be shared. At times you feed on mortal memories; your wave carries us from tomb to tomb, stonecutter of icy sepulchers, and we weep transitory tears; your glorious spring dress is different, blood rises through the shoots, wind incites the day, nothing is left of your immutable soul. Wine stirs the spring, happiness bursts through the earth like a plant, walls crumble, and rocky cliffs, chasms close, as song is born. A jug of wine, and thou beside me in the wilderness, sang the ancient poet. Let the wine pitcher add to the kiss of love its own. My darling, suddenly the line of your hip becomes the brimming curve of the wine goblet, your breast is the grape cluster, your ******* are the grapes, the gleam of spirits lights your hair, and your navel is a chaste seal stamped on the vessel of your belly, your love an inexhaustible cascade of wine, light that illuminates my senses, the earthly splendor of life. But you are more than love, the fiery kiss, the heat of fire, more than the wine of life; you are the community of man, translucency, chorus of discipline, abundance of flowers. I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine. Drink it, and remember in every drop of gold, in every topaz glass, in every purple ladle, that autumn labored to fill the vessel with wine; and in the ritual of his office, let the simple man remember to think of the soil and of his duty, to propagate the canticle of the wine.

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27.2k

Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth, wine, smooth as a golden sword, soft as lascivious velvet, wine, spiral-seashelled and full of wonder, amorous, marine; never has one goblet contained you, one song, one man, you are choral, gregarious, at the least, you must be shared. At times you feed on mortal memories; your wave carries us from tomb to tomb, stonecutter of icy sepulchers, and we weep transitory tears; your glorious spring dress is different, blood rises through the shoots, wind incites the day, nothing is left of your immutable soul. Wine stirs the spring, happiness bursts through the earth like a plant, walls crumble, and rocky cliffs, chasms close, as song is born. A jug of wine, and thou beside me in the wilderness, sang the ancient poet. Let the wine pitcher add to the kiss of love its own. My darling, suddenly the line of your hip becomes the brimming curve of the wine goblet, your breast is the grape cluster, your ******* are the grapes, the gleam of spirits lights your hair, and your navel is a chaste seal stamped on the vessel of your belly, your love an inexhaustible cascade of wine, light that illuminates my senses, the earthly splendor of life. But you are more than love, the fiery kiss, the heat of fire, more than the wine of life; you are the community of man, translucency, chorus of discipline, abundance of flowers. I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine. Drink it, and remember in every drop of gold, in every topaz glass, in every purple ladle, that autumn labored to fill the vessel with wine; and in the ritual of his office, let the simple man remember to think of the soil and of his duty, to propagate the canticle of the wine.

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I walk into the mirror box again and it’s as if my life really is just an extension of my own metaphors. I’m caught in the mirror maze, searching for something in the mirrors at angles, but all I can see is myself, my sad, stupid self, stretching on and on forever with the same boring face, the same boring feelings, again and again until I stop being able to make out the details. Am I looking back at myself or am I looking forwards to the future? Will it always be the same or has it merely been the same since forever? I stare into the mirror tunnel at all these selves repeating themselves, forcing the years, the weeks, the days into the same strict patterns, merely following the self that came before them, merely mirroring the feelings, only doing it worse and worse with each new rendition. It’s just me, I think, *in the mirror box, caught up in myself because I am selfish and horrible.* I’m selfish and horrible and I want to turn my back on myself but how can I possibly do that in the mirror box? I meet myself over and over, and it’s just me, in all this vast, repetitive vagueness, just me in this long stretch of lonely unsettledness that surely doesn’t end. I want to smash my own face in, so I close my eyes and try to think, maybe, maybe, maybe, because I don’t want to be this grey-cloud self forever. I can’t be, and so maybe, just maybe, somewhere beyond all these selves there’ll be a day when I’m down on the shore and the sea will be calm and the sky will be faded purple. Love will not sink down into nothingness because in the cool evening air, my heart will be full instead of gaping and my mind will be at ease instead dwelling on it’s own boringness or entangling itself in own self-created sadness. And maybe, I’ll have abandoned my book and its pages will be dry because I won’t have been crying into it. They’ll be no mirrors, just the ocean, glinting like an amethyst cluster in the half light and I’ll rest my head on the shoulder of the girlfriend I'll meet someday and I’ll smile in this beautiful liminal moment and nothing will be tainted by the dread of returning home. We’ll kiss – on the shore – and rewrite it forever and maybe the stars will fall out of the sky when I shake it and all my trains will run on time and all the wounds in the world will heal simultaneously. It’s a moment surely stolen from someone else’s poetry, but I’ve got to cling to something to avoid becoming lost entirely in all this dark, intangible vagueness. There’s got to be at least one imaginary moment that isn’t just me, reflected over and over. There’s got to be one moment that doesn’t stare back at me from inside the mirror box.

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Jul 27, 2018

Jul 27, 2018 at 5:15 PM UTC

and so what’s beyond the last self I can see

I walk into the mirror box again and it’s as if my life really is just an extension of my own metaphors. I’m caught in the mirror maze, searching for something in the mirrors at angles, but all I can see is myself, my sad, stupid self, stretching on and on forever with the same boring face, the same boring feelings, again and again until I stop being able to make out the details. Am I looking back at myself or am I looking forwards to the future? Will it always be the same or has it merely been the same since forever? I stare into the mirror tunnel at all these selves repeating themselves, forcing the years, the weeks, the days into the same strict patterns, merely following the self that came before them, merely mirroring the feelings, only doing it worse and worse with each new rendition. It’s just me, I think, *in the mirror box, caught up in myself because I am selfish and horrible.* I’m selfish and horrible and I want to turn my back on myself but how can I possibly do that in the mirror box? I meet myself over and over, and it’s just me, in all this vast, repetitive vagueness, just me in this long stretch of lonely unsettledness that surely doesn’t end. I want to smash my own face in, so I close my eyes and try to think, maybe, maybe, maybe, because I don’t want to be this grey-cloud self forever. I can’t be, and so maybe, just maybe, somewhere beyond all these selves there’ll be a day when I’m down on the shore and the sea will be calm and the sky will be faded purple. Love will not sink down into nothingness because in the cool evening air, my heart will be full instead of gaping and my mind will be at ease instead dwelling on it’s own boringness or entangling itself in own self-created sadness. And maybe, I’ll have abandoned my book and its pages will be dry because I won’t have been crying into it. They’ll be no mirrors, just the ocean, glinting like an amethyst cluster in the half light and I’ll rest my head on the shoulder of the girlfriend I'll meet someday and I’ll smile in this beautiful liminal moment and nothing will be tainted by the dread of returning home. We’ll kiss – on the shore – and rewrite it forever and maybe the stars will fall out of the sky when I shake it and all my trains will run on time and all the wounds in the world will heal simultaneously. It’s a moment surely stolen from someone else’s poetry, but I’ve got to cling to something to avoid becoming lost entirely in all this dark, intangible vagueness. There’s got to be at least one imaginary moment that isn’t just me, reflected over and over. There’s got to be one moment that doesn’t stare back at me from inside the mirror box.

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The tide collects it all by morning; The drama and the ***** napalmed across the path. The scenes at second warning for most had been swept away Before they wiped the sand from their shoes. Empty cans of Dutch and Tuborg slouched on the dunes Are tight-lipped about the Velvet Strand's secret ecosystem; An underground microcosm; A peripheral cluster of seething emotions drowned. Memories of those years - although some expired, The vestiges take pride of place - hold a cosmic clump of smells, Tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends. I never before understood what I was holding on to. Winters down in the shelters nearly killed us but we Huddled through the cold, lit cheap firelogs and Found our oblivion. It didn't take much for me to develop A stagger - tolerance for a lot of things was learned later. I narrowly recall my first taste of poor judgement and Hazy-headed stargazing. Six cans of Stonehouse Dry cider - most of which ended up on the hillside - Was a ridiculous endeavour that will always be sublime. At the heart of it, I did it to impress a girl; The one every boy has or has had that sticks; Who holds your firsts and your hands and makes Things simple if only for her complexity; The one that never fails to bring upon digression when Pens are involved. Revisiting reminiscence on a jarring note, I think of my Junior Cert exams and a cross-dressed man Exposing himself to two uniformed boys behind the public toilets. This one doesn't stir the joy of the others. This one I wish would dissolve; An ugly, awkward blotch on a childhood. Luckily fondness trumps disgust when recalling that place Because of sunrises and sunsets absorbed from the roof. The Summers spent jumping the gap and drowning in the Heat of the sun were everything. The fugitive sand between our toes and under finger nails Became an accepted nuisance, a part of the territory; A lingering grain or two to drag you back. I miss waking up with the smell of last night's faded fire.

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May 3, 2015

May 3, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC

Faded Firsts and Firelogs

The tide collects it all by morning; The drama and the ***** napalmed across the path. The scenes at second warning for most had been swept away Before they wiped the sand from their shoes. Empty cans of Dutch and Tuborg slouched on the dunes Are tight-lipped about the Velvet Strand's secret ecosystem; An underground microcosm; A peripheral cluster of seething emotions drowned. Memories of those years - although some expired, The vestiges take pride of place - hold a cosmic clump of smells, Tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends. I never before understood what I was holding on to. Winters down in the shelters nearly killed us but we Huddled through the cold, lit cheap firelogs and Found our oblivion. It didn't take much for me to develop A stagger - tolerance for a lot of things was learned later. I narrowly recall my first taste of poor judgement and Hazy-headed stargazing. Six cans of Stonehouse Dry cider - most of which ended up on the hillside - Was a ridiculous endeavour that will always be sublime. At the heart of it, I did it to impress a girl; The one every boy has or has had that sticks; Who holds your firsts and your hands and makes Things simple if only for her complexity; The one that never fails to bring upon digression when Pens are involved. Revisiting reminiscence on a jarring note, I think of my Junior Cert exams and a cross-dressed man Exposing himself to two uniformed boys behind the public toilets. This one doesn't stir the joy of the others. This one I wish would dissolve; An ugly, awkward blotch on a childhood. Luckily fondness trumps disgust when recalling that place Because of sunrises and sunsets absorbed from the roof. The Summers spent jumping the gap and drowning in the Heat of the sun were everything. The fugitive sand between our toes and under finger nails Became an accepted nuisance, a part of the territory; A lingering grain or two to drag you back. I miss waking up with the smell of last night's faded fire.

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I adore the lightness of your eyelashes How they are the moment before takeoff I adore your laugh How it bounces like a cluster of balloons flying away I adore your hands How they electrocute me with warmth I adore your arms How they are strong enough to never let go I adore your eyes How they aren’t just a window to your soul, but to the entire universe I adore you Like the moon loves the sun I adore you Of a consuming caliber I adore you Like the summer needs just a hint of rain *I adore you with every single fiber of my being.*

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Sep 7, 2014

Sep 7, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC

I adore the lightness of your eyelashes How they are the moment before takeoff I adore your laugh How it bounces like a cluster of balloons flying away I adore your hands How they electrocute me with warmth I adore your arms How they are strong enough to never let go I adore your eyes How they aren’t just a window to your soul, but to the entire universe I adore you Like the moon loves the sun I adore you Of a consuming caliber I adore you Like the summer needs just a hint of rain *I adore you with every single fiber of my being.*

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A tired old man groans As he hand you some Asian culture cuisine. Riddled with spices It tickles the little thing in the back of your throat As you swallow the substance. Face now flushed Like a cluster of fire ants crawling on the hill Calling it their home. Home? Where was it? Your memory slips. Glee storms the man’s face As he studies your expression. “Seems like you can’t handle such a simple thing." Clouding your judgement, you bite your tongue In desperate attempt to knock back the sense That gone up and left. However It fails. Numb as the lightbulbs turn into bottle-cap suns Concealing sight With the light that it shares. Count as your heart stops With eyes bloodshot His crafted words echo In your failing ears.

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Jun 23, 2015

Jun 23, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC

A tired old man groans As he hand you some Asian culture cuisine. Riddled with spices It tickles the little thing in the back of your throat As you swallow the substance. Face now flushed Like a cluster of fire ants crawling on the hill Calling it their home. Home? Where was it? Your memory slips. Glee storms the man’s face As he studies your expression. “Seems like you can’t handle such a simple thing." Clouding your judgement, you bite your tongue In desperate attempt to knock back the sense That gone up and left. However It fails. Numb as the lightbulbs turn into bottle-cap suns Concealing sight With the light that it shares. Count as your heart stops With eyes bloodshot His crafted words echo In your failing ears.

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If you weren't dark skin you'd blush, You and your pleasantly "spring" demeanor, blooming smiles in secret inside your hazmat suit, from any type of feelings, you are already infected, -- and contagious, yet refuse to admit the goosebumps on your neck, without the fortunate luxury of showing your emotion society has deemed you timeless, an eloquent flagrant aroma, the definition of fine wine with a zest -- a spiciness of an impatient "summer", you are warm, and the stem of your smiles comes with thorns of poison, weapons of mass destruction, so you're cloaked, tucked away from societal norms, and expectations -- who are we to judge, you are correct, your skin, is the right tone, to grab the attention for all the unwelcome, literal and figuratively baring a cluster of ideas, wants, desires -- requested by only the elite, pasteurized and preserved until then.

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Sep 1, 2015

Sep 1, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC

(daughter of Egyptian Goddess Sekhmet) the un-Suppression of the Black Woman pt.1

If you weren't dark skin you'd blush, You and your pleasantly "spring" demeanor, blooming smiles in secret inside your hazmat suit, from any type of feelings, you are already infected, -- and contagious, yet refuse to admit the goosebumps on your neck, without the fortunate luxury of showing your emotion society has deemed you timeless, an eloquent flagrant aroma, the definition of fine wine with a zest -- a spiciness of an impatient "summer", you are warm, and the stem of your smiles comes with thorns of poison, weapons of mass destruction, so you're cloaked, tucked away from societal norms, and expectations -- who are we to judge, you are correct, your skin, is the right tone, to grab the attention for all the unwelcome, literal and figuratively baring a cluster of ideas, wants, desires -- requested by only the elite, pasteurized and preserved until then.

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A new babe on the way, Does she arrive today? The stork is on standby, Is she coming down the slide? A star in heaven's berth, Winging her way to Earth, Now an atomic cluster, Has she got a dust buster? Her future unplanned, Soon in Earthling's band, When is she coming down the slide? Right now, the stork is on standby!

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May 8, 2016

May 8, 2016 at 11:14 PM UTC

STORK ON STANDBY (For my expected great-niece.)

A new babe on the way, Does she arrive today? The stork is on standby, Is she coming down the slide? A star in heaven's berth, Winging her way to Earth, Now an atomic cluster, Has she got a dust buster? Her future unplanned, Soon in Earthling's band, When is she coming down the slide? Right now, the stork is on standby!

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Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow under a bush, a bird, a bluebird, three herons, a dead hawk rotting on a pole— Clear yellow! It is a piece of blue paper in the grass or a threecluster of green walnuts swaying, children playing croquet or one boy fishing, a man swinging his pink fists as he walks— It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots in the ditch, moss under the ****** of the carrail, the wavy lines in split rock, a great oaktree— It is a disinclination to be five red petals or a rose, it is a cluster of birdsbreast flowers on a red stem six feet high, four open yellow petals above sepals curled backward into reverse spikes— Tufts of purple grass spot the green meadow and clouds the sky.

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7.2k

William Carlos Williams

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow under a bush, a bird, a bluebird, three herons, a dead hawk rotting on a pole— Clear yellow! It is a piece of blue paper in the grass or a threecluster of green walnuts swaying, children playing croquet or one boy fishing, a man swinging his pink fists as he walks— It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots in the ditch, moss under the ****** of the carrail, the wavy lines in split rock, a great oaktree— It is a disinclination to be five red petals or a rose, it is a cluster of birdsbreast flowers on a red stem six feet high, four open yellow petals above sepals curled backward into reverse spikes— Tufts of purple grass spot the green meadow and clouds the sky.

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i know you deserve the universe and i'm just a star, burning bright but burning fast burning out a cold cluster collapsing in on itself, a black hole; i will **** you in, bend and break your light and swallow you whole 'til you're as lost in me as i am in you i know you deserve the universe and i'm just a star, burning bright but burning fast burning out a could cluster collapsing in on itself: i'm not enough. pass me by, seek your galaxies it will be enough for me just to feel you in my orbit at least once before i implode.

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Jan 30, 2017

Jan 30, 2017 at 5:55 AM UTC

i know you deserve the universe

i know you deserve the universe and i'm just a star, burning bright but burning fast burning out a cold cluster collapsing in on itself, a black hole; i will **** you in, bend and break your light and swallow you whole 'til you're as lost in me as i am in you i know you deserve the universe and i'm just a star, burning bright but burning fast burning out a could cluster collapsing in on itself: i'm not enough. pass me by, seek your galaxies it will be enough for me just to feel you in my orbit at least once before i implode.

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As the wind blows across the fiery desert, The desperate people of Yemen sigh. How many more will suffer today? How many more children will cry? A Saudi-led coalition Strikes with a heartless disregard, Leaving behind misery-- Death and destruction its calling card. Choking the poor country, the Saudis Organized a major blockade, Cutting off vital medicine, Food, and water, and stopping all trade. Cluster bombs have fallen on cities. Thousands of innocent people have died. Hospitals and schools have been hit. How can such horror be justified? Millions of people risk starvation If all the bombing does not end. The Saudis hunger for more and more weapons, And they have billions of dollars to spend. A bomb made by Lockheed Martin Hit a Yemeni school bus Killing fifty-one people, and hurting Many more, thanks to us. A U.S. bomb hit funeral mourners; One destroyed a marketplace. That our support causes such Atrocities is a disgrace. The people suffer from cholera-- Something that is hard to avoid When a country's sanitation Facilities are being destroyed. A massive humanitarian crisis Plagues the country despite appeals To end the conflict by caring nations, While major players dig in their heels. Sunni-Shiite conflicts continue With innocent citizens caught in between. Callous leaders turn their heads, Afraid to speak up or intervene. -by Bob B (10-17-18)

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Oct 17, 2018

Oct 17, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC

As the wind blows across the fiery desert, The desperate people of Yemen sigh. How many more will suffer today? How many more children will cry? A Saudi-led coalition Strikes with a heartless disregard, Leaving behind misery-- Death and destruction its calling card. Choking the poor country, the Saudis Organized a major blockade, Cutting off vital medicine, Food, and water, and stopping all trade. Cluster bombs have fallen on cities. Thousands of innocent people have died. Hospitals and schools have been hit. How can such horror be justified? Millions of people risk starvation If all the bombing does not end. The Saudis hunger for more and more weapons, And they have billions of dollars to spend. A bomb made by Lockheed Martin Hit a Yemeni school bus Killing fifty-one people, and hurting Many more, thanks to us. A U.S. bomb hit funeral mourners; One destroyed a marketplace. That our support causes such Atrocities is a disgrace. The people suffer from cholera-- Something that is hard to avoid When a country's sanitation Facilities are being destroyed. A massive humanitarian crisis Plagues the country despite appeals To end the conflict by caring nations, While major players dig in their heels. Sunni-Shiite conflicts continue With innocent citizens caught in between. Callous leaders turn their heads, Afraid to speak up or intervene. -by Bob B (10-17-18)

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Your breast ... is this a breast , Madam ... or it is a cluster ... from a bunch of grapes ... flowing with longing ... to a mouth ... that exhausted by thirst ... longs to it's honey ... as a bee always longs ... to get refresh ... inside the soul ... from the cluster ... of this breast ... your breast sweetheart ... then she said ... yes it is ... it's yours ... this breast ... it's a sweet one ... as an apple swollen ... drown with beautiful image ... inside it for you ... a tasty sweet charm wine ... for no one created ... created just for you ... to enjoy this breast of mine ... then she said again ... come for me ... come to my sweet breast ... get whatever you pleased ... from it's wine ... with a beautiful kisses ... until you get drunk ... of my tasty wine ... and keep all the night do ... with a lot of kisses ... it's yours ... those ******* ... keep me enjoying ... your kisses ... hazem al ...

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Jul 20, 2021

Jul 20, 2021 at 12:15 PM UTC

Your breast ...

Your breast ... is this a breast , Madam ... or it is a cluster ... from a bunch of grapes ... flowing with longing ... to a mouth ... that exhausted by thirst ... longs to it's honey ... as a bee always longs ... to get refresh ... inside the soul ... from the cluster ... of this breast ... your breast sweetheart ... then she said ... yes it is ... it's yours ... this breast ... it's a sweet one ... as an apple swollen ... drown with beautiful image ... inside it for you ... a tasty sweet charm wine ... for no one created ... created just for you ... to enjoy this breast of mine ... then she said again ... come for me ... come to my sweet breast ... get whatever you pleased ... from it's wine ... with a beautiful kisses ... until you get drunk ... of my tasty wine ... and keep all the night do ... with a lot of kisses ... it's yours ... those ******* ... keep me enjoying ... your kisses ... hazem al ...

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We were warm in that sunlight Love ran thick in succulent leaves Unfolding when the day would fade Moving in the sunlight as the shadows chased Dusty gray green happiness Even keeled gentle curves of feeling Rosy blush edging our forevers Blunted points of conversations We can last long on the waters we keep Though we separate as time goes by Conjoined in a cluster at the base of our relationship Our love is like the succulents Long lasting, Long lived

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Aug 10, 2014

Aug 10, 2014 at 10:09 PM UTC

something-simple

A Love Like The Succulents

We were warm in that sunlight Love ran thick in succulent leaves Unfolding when the day would fade Moving in the sunlight as the shadows chased Dusty gray green happiness Even keeled gentle curves of feeling Rosy blush edging our forevers Blunted points of conversations We can last long on the waters we keep Though we separate as time goes by Conjoined in a cluster at the base of our relationship Our love is like the succulents Long lasting, Long lived

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Shall we pause to consider the shudder of a butterfly's wings that sets the hurricane spinning or the descent of the final raindrop that breaches the groaning levy? Shall we ponder the moment before a chorus of "maybe's" morphs into the vain eloquence of history? Roiling in the broth of chaos a cluster of causes startles the surface - unfurling a queue of effects that dot the timescape like rows of teetering dominoes. Typhoons twist villages to ruins, armies rise to victory or succumb to the despair of defeat, or a medical miracle is born from the agile mind of a doctor conceived in a Chevy's back seat. So here we stand on the ridge of time ourselves both caused and causing, cradling the sphere of chaos in our hands - uncertain what effect will be our being after all our causes are enumerated. Time will surely tell - as soon as we tell time exactly what to say. August, 2013

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Aug 29, 2013

Aug 29, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC

robert-c-howard

Shall we pause to consider the shudder of a butterfly's wings that sets the hurricane spinning or the descent of the final raindrop that breaches the groaning levy? Shall we ponder the moment before a chorus of "maybe's" morphs into the vain eloquence of history? Roiling in the broth of chaos a cluster of causes startles the surface - unfurling a queue of effects that dot the timescape like rows of teetering dominoes. Typhoons twist villages to ruins, armies rise to victory or succumb to the despair of defeat, or a medical miracle is born from the agile mind of a doctor conceived in a Chevy's back seat. So here we stand on the ridge of time ourselves both caused and causing, cradling the sphere of chaos in our hands - uncertain what effect will be our being after all our causes are enumerated. Time will surely tell - as soon as we tell time exactly what to say. August, 2013

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our coolest babysitter lit a long joint and drove us to church in her well worn '87 oldsmobile with chipped gold paint a drooping side mirror and a tape player that smelled like stale london gin mothballs and a sunset butterfly heart at the same time it had a deep ocean green calcite mandala dancing from the windshield mirror and a steal-your-face tattooed on the back glass she used to blare brit-pop trying to make the speakers bleed that day when they finally oozed she swerved us left through the other lane and sunday morning fog to cut a jagged path through thick woods and into an oak tree with a soundtrack of slow motion oasis and screeching tires i clammored to the backseat to block the window glass from your beautiful angelic blonde head as dew sprayed into the vacancy from the ditch and when i pulled the seatbelt spiderweb out of your mouth and lifted you out of the car i was standing barefoot in a cluster of bright red sumac next to an ant hill pile of twisted steaming metal and you were dripping blood from your eye and knees asking me if we'd be late for sunday school but you were awake and trying to smile so we followed the powerlines back to the main road holding hands dizzy and sweating worried no one would ever find us limping while the springtime songbirds held their tongues for us but when the hot ringing in my ears finally stopped the sirens grew loud and close and the birds too began their wet lipped eulogy sometimes i think about missing church that day when the weather's bad on nights like last night sometimes i remember our babysitter when the fog rolls in over the road in the morning i wonder if she still gets high on the good stuff while she drives or if she's just a treehugger

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Aug 23, 2015

Aug 23, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC

seatbelt spiderweb

our coolest babysitter lit a long joint and drove us to church in her well worn '87 oldsmobile with chipped gold paint a drooping side mirror and a tape player that smelled like stale london gin mothballs and a sunset butterfly heart at the same time it had a deep ocean green calcite mandala dancing from the windshield mirror and a steal-your-face tattooed on the back glass she used to blare brit-pop trying to make the speakers bleed that day when they finally oozed she swerved us left through the other lane and sunday morning fog to cut a jagged path through thick woods and into an oak tree with a soundtrack of slow motion oasis and screeching tires i clammored to the backseat to block the window glass from your beautiful angelic blonde head as dew sprayed into the vacancy from the ditch and when i pulled the seatbelt spiderweb out of your mouth and lifted you out of the car i was standing barefoot in a cluster of bright red sumac next to an ant hill pile of twisted steaming metal and you were dripping blood from your eye and knees asking me if we'd be late for sunday school but you were awake and trying to smile so we followed the powerlines back to the main road holding hands dizzy and sweating worried no one would ever find us limping while the springtime songbirds held their tongues for us but when the hot ringing in my ears finally stopped the sirens grew loud and close and the birds too began their wet lipped eulogy sometimes i think about missing church that day when the weather's bad on nights like last night sometimes i remember our babysitter when the fog rolls in over the road in the morning i wonder if she still gets high on the good stuff while she drives or if she's just a treehugger

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In days dead and burried in time, In a very far away enchanted clime, In the mighty kingdom of Nineva Where there fairly shone forever, There once was a strange lonely wood That ever in fairest robes of green stood By the edge of a fair shoreline of pearl, Whose mystery none may tell nor unfurl. For akin to the most effulgent yonder star That forevermore scintillates from afar In a splendiferous novelty golden cluster, So thrice scintillated the gem's luster. And 'tis for this that as we all truly know, All mortals, I say, all mortals of long ago Gravitated from corners of distant lands On the quest for riches by those strands. Once, sweltering was the noontide When upon a violent lonely rolling tide A bunch of desperate pirates were seen Nearing that wood of emerald sheen. In a while, they'd gathered all they could, Leaving not a single gem in the wood. Alas! A wind murmured upon the skies In faint whispers: "Woods have eyes" So muttered all birds - all birds of the air, All creatures in caverns desolate yet fair, All leaves upon strange shadowy trees, And all - all creatures of wild lonely seas. But, despite the looming dark omen, Swifter than plummeting drops of rain, So hastily dashed every single pirate Blindingly minding not about their fate. They raised their silvery sails to take sail But hark! All this - all this was to no avail; For upon the skies no wind was seen To render them across so wide a sea. In a jiffy, louder than birds of the skies All gems whispered, "Woods have eyes." From that moment on, all lost their sight, Doomed never to behold the sun's light. And now, upon those murky restless seas They dost weep but no plea can please, For they were doomed to rove evermore In search of their long forgotten shore. ©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 29th.July.2018.

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Jul 29, 2018

Jul 29, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC

KikodinhoAlexandros

WOODS HAVE EYES

In days dead and burried in time, In a very far away enchanted clime, In the mighty kingdom of Nineva Where there fairly shone forever, There once was a strange lonely wood That ever in fairest robes of green stood By the edge of a fair shoreline of pearl, Whose mystery none may tell nor unfurl. For akin to the most effulgent yonder star That forevermore scintillates from afar In a splendiferous novelty golden cluster, So thrice scintillated the gem's luster. And 'tis for this that as we all truly know, All mortals, I say, all mortals of long ago Gravitated from corners of distant lands On the quest for riches by those strands. Once, sweltering was the noontide When upon a violent lonely rolling tide A bunch of desperate pirates were seen Nearing that wood of emerald sheen. In a while, they'd gathered all they could, Leaving not a single gem in the wood. Alas! A wind murmured upon the skies In faint whispers: "Woods have eyes" So muttered all birds - all birds of the air, All creatures in caverns desolate yet fair, All leaves upon strange shadowy trees, And all - all creatures of wild lonely seas. But, despite the looming dark omen, Swifter than plummeting drops of rain, So hastily dashed every single pirate Blindingly minding not about their fate. They raised their silvery sails to take sail But hark! All this - all this was to no avail; For upon the skies no wind was seen To render them across so wide a sea. In a jiffy, louder than birds of the skies All gems whispered, "Woods have eyes." From that moment on, all lost their sight, Doomed never to behold the sun's light. And now, upon those murky restless seas They dost weep but no plea can please, For they were doomed to rove evermore In search of their long forgotten shore. ©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 29th.July.2018.

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Chubby Bellies just what is the matter with matter that's dark is it clandestine because it won't show it's face but it seems to be everywhere that you look especially if you look deep into space the energy created is also quite dark literally tearing gravity apart I know this is really hard to explain but won't you please have a look at my chart if you look here at these many galaxy clusters gravitational lensing is required to see when you use the cosmic magnifying glass effect there is a bulging middle to a large degree more study is required they call it CLASH cluster lensing and Supernova survey with Hubble I gathered this info from space dot com chubbie bellies creating this bubble Morpheus aka Gomer LePoet

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Sep 4, 2011

Sep 4, 2011 at 10:02 PM UTC

Chubby Bellies just what is the matter with matter that's dark is it clandestine because it won't show it's face but it seems to be everywhere that you look especially if you look deep into space the energy created is also quite dark literally tearing gravity apart I know this is really hard to explain but won't you please have a look at my chart if you look here at these many galaxy clusters gravitational lensing is required to see when you use the cosmic magnifying glass effect there is a bulging middle to a large degree more study is required they call it CLASH cluster lensing and Supernova survey with Hubble I gathered this info from space dot com chubbie bellies creating this bubble Morpheus aka Gomer LePoet

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Mixed girl Being mixed, I’ve never quite fallen into a category. No I’m all not black, No I’m all not white, But a sweet mix. Problem is in most situations I am forced into a slot, Told what I am and what I am not Don’t hold me to stereotypes You don’t know me Don’t take me and shove me into a cluster of a single ethnicity Don’t judge me based on the color of my skin How I’m too light or not light enough Too dark or not dark enough The fact of the matter remains I will never be a single race, a single ethnicity I am African American, Irish, Polish, and Native American “Mixed girl”

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Apr 22, 2015

Apr 22, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC

Mixed girl Being mixed, I’ve never quite fallen into a category. No I’m all not black, No I’m all not white, But a sweet mix. Problem is in most situations I am forced into a slot, Told what I am and what I am not Don’t hold me to stereotypes You don’t know me Don’t take me and shove me into a cluster of a single ethnicity Don’t judge me based on the color of my skin How I’m too light or not light enough Too dark or not dark enough The fact of the matter remains I will never be a single race, a single ethnicity I am African American, Irish, Polish, and Native American “Mixed girl”

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There's a sister who floats with hungry collarbones and a razor-edged smile. She smokes sadness when she isn't ready to exhale. She is beauty in fine art and wrath the colour of thunderstorms; the rain comes when she smiles. Holier than thou and quick to judge, with antiseptic perception known to bring out the things you were not aware existed. Addictive, those imprints from her feet will stamp all over you; nimble fingers puppeteering those who fall out of her thoughts. She is selfish and always leaves, leaves, leaves. She ran away at the first tremor; she did not stay to watch the concrete crumble. But she picked me up when the concrete friction broke my knees, lashed tyrants with her tongue and prowled behind the boyfriends that came and always went. This sister whom I project; the image of her I mirror. She is love and laughter and moods that taper and flare. She is a cluster of persons, a bomb liable to a detonate on a short fuse. She is trouble ailing in the best possible way; her flames light up the shade.

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Apr 9, 2015

Apr 9, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC

Hazardous aesthetics.

There's a sister who floats with hungry collarbones and a razor-edged smile. She smokes sadness when she isn't ready to exhale. She is beauty in fine art and wrath the colour of thunderstorms; the rain comes when she smiles. Holier than thou and quick to judge, with antiseptic perception known to bring out the things you were not aware existed. Addictive, those imprints from her feet will stamp all over you; nimble fingers puppeteering those who fall out of her thoughts. She is selfish and always leaves, leaves, leaves. She ran away at the first tremor; she did not stay to watch the concrete crumble. But she picked me up when the concrete friction broke my knees, lashed tyrants with her tongue and prowled behind the boyfriends that came and always went. This sister whom I project; the image of her I mirror. She is love and laughter and moods that taper and flare. She is a cluster of persons, a bomb liable to a detonate on a short fuse. She is trouble ailing in the best possible way; her flames light up the shade.

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I am a plant. I am a thistle. Cirsium arvense. Creeping thistle. When you first see me I am a beautiful, colourful flower. But if you come closer, you will notice two things. 1. I can ***** you. My needles are few and nearly invisible, but very sharp. 2. I am not ONE flower. I am a cluster of a hundred tiny flowers. I am possibility. My opportunities were not the best when I was a seedling. The ground was dry and the sun burning. However, as the forest around me, the sunlight that hit me directly lessened. The rain made the ground more fertile. The ground is still too dry. I need more moisture to live. It is difficult to see the sun at all through the dense trees. I wish I could at least see a little bit of the sun. I am a plant. I am a thistle.

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Oct 9, 2022

Oct 9, 2022 at 8:54 PM UTC

Creeping Thistle

I am a plant. I am a thistle. Cirsium arvense. Creeping thistle. When you first see me I am a beautiful, colourful flower. But if you come closer, you will notice two things. 1. I can ***** you. My needles are few and nearly invisible, but very sharp. 2. I am not ONE flower. I am a cluster of a hundred tiny flowers. I am possibility. My opportunities were not the best when I was a seedling. The ground was dry and the sun burning. However, as the forest around me, the sunlight that hit me directly lessened. The rain made the ground more fertile. The ground is still too dry. I need more moisture to live. It is difficult to see the sun at all through the dense trees. I wish I could at least see a little bit of the sun. I am a plant. I am a thistle.

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Night approached us, with a full moon. I began to cry, and you to laugh. Your contempt was a god, and my whinings, a chain of doves and minutes. Night left us. Crystal of pain you wept for distant depths. My sadness was a cluster of agonies, over your fragile heart of sand. Morning joined us on the bed, our mouths placed over the frozen jet of a blood, without end, that was shed. And the sun shone through the closed balcony, and the coral of life opened its branch, over my shrouded heart.

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4.5k

Federico García Lorca

Night of Insomniac Love

Night approached us, with a full moon. I began to cry, and you to laugh. Your contempt was a god, and my whinings, a chain of doves and minutes. Night left us. Crystal of pain you wept for distant depths. My sadness was a cluster of agonies, over your fragile heart of sand. Morning joined us on the bed, our mouths placed over the frozen jet of a blood, without end, that was shed. And the sun shone through the closed balcony, and the coral of life opened its branch, over my shrouded heart.

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Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow under a bush, a bird, a bluebird, three herons, a dead hawk rotting on a pole— Clear yellow! It is a piece of blue paper in the grass or a threecluster of green walnuts swaying, children playing croquet or one boy fishing, a man swinging his pink fists as he walks— It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots in the ditch, moss under the ****** of the carrail, the wavy lines in split rock, a great oaktree— It is a disinclination to be five red petals or a rose, it is a cluster of birdsbreast flowers on a red stem six feet high, four open yellow petals above sepals curled backward into reverse spikes— Tufts of purple grass spot the green meadow and clouds the sky.

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4.5k

William Carlos Williams

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow! It is not a color. It is summer! It is the wind on a willow, the lap of waves, the shadow under a bush, a bird, a bluebird, three herons, a dead hawk rotting on a pole— Clear yellow! It is a piece of blue paper in the grass or a threecluster of green walnuts swaying, children playing croquet or one boy fishing, a man swinging his pink fists as he walks— It is ladysthumb, forget-me-nots in the ditch, moss under the ****** of the carrail, the wavy lines in split rock, a great oaktree— It is a disinclination to be five red petals or a rose, it is a cluster of birdsbreast flowers on a red stem six feet high, four open yellow petals above sepals curled backward into reverse spikes— Tufts of purple grass spot the green meadow and clouds the sky.

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There lives a woman who Seems mystical, even mythical --It is true-- Because she is biblical; Rarer than a precious jewel. She is virtuous She is loyal She is courteous... She is royal. She shines brilliantly, like a star cluster trapped inside a room. She glistens like jubilant sun rays dancing atop the ocean. The wind of her voice sets inspiration in motion, Like a sonic boom. She is powerful. She is virtuous, Who is worthy? Just Wonder & coil In a corner & toil As you ponder this. And honor this Acknowledgment, Because she is royal. Don't dare compare her to the likes of Nefertiti or Isis. They are not so estimable, You couldn't buy her even with a million zeros before the decimal, Because... She is priceless. So the King adorned her, Because the King adores her. She is beautiful, so they say, But such a meager word could not suffice, Because her true charm emanates like waves In the ardent expression of her practice of life. And from her mind and her soul. Her precious heart--more precious than gold-- Looks like a kaleidoscope of rare gems, Darting dazzling colors; the spectrum in whole. Diamonds die in comparison, Hand her a diadem... She is special She is jovial She is gentle She is royal. She is not haughty, Nor does she flaunt like worldly wenches do. She tells girls who've been told they're peasants they can be a princess too. She is not naughty, Nor does she taunt like wanton vixens do... Because she is godly. Yes, indeed there lives a woman who Seems mystical, even mythical --But it is true-- She is virtuous, She is royal... She is you.

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Jan 22, 2016

Jan 22, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC

There lives a woman who Seems mystical, even mythical --It is true-- Because she is biblical; Rarer than a precious jewel. She is virtuous She is loyal She is courteous... She is royal. She shines brilliantly, like a star cluster trapped inside a room. She glistens like jubilant sun rays dancing atop the ocean. The wind of her voice sets inspiration in motion, Like a sonic boom. She is powerful. She is virtuous, Who is worthy? Just Wonder & coil In a corner & toil As you ponder this. And honor this Acknowledgment, Because she is royal. Don't dare compare her to the likes of Nefertiti or Isis. They are not so estimable, You couldn't buy her even with a million zeros before the decimal, Because... She is priceless. So the King adorned her, Because the King adores her. She is beautiful, so they say, But such a meager word could not suffice, Because her true charm emanates like waves In the ardent expression of her practice of life. And from her mind and her soul. Her precious heart--more precious than gold-- Looks like a kaleidoscope of rare gems, Darting dazzling colors; the spectrum in whole. Diamonds die in comparison, Hand her a diadem... She is special She is jovial She is gentle She is royal. She is not haughty, Nor does she flaunt like worldly wenches do. She tells girls who've been told they're peasants they can be a princess too. She is not naughty, Nor does she taunt like wanton vixens do... Because she is godly. Yes, indeed there lives a woman who Seems mystical, even mythical --But it is true-- She is virtuous, She is royal... She is you.

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