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Swanswart Aug 2016
I

Home
inside the house of the lording
a frenzied pumping play.

Within
the colander
pouring the mold—
an altar of fetid sacrifice
and perfumed devotion.
My personal Pentecost (conversion
out of form)
My feats are handed to me far
ahead of my own devices.
Filling it up
Faster! Filling Faster!
Draining filling faster filling!
faster faster!

Violet lids are locked open in a rose
colored stare of thorns.
Puddles form opaque
and uneasy across the floor.
Ripples flex and bend-
a taste of lavender sweat and kisses
washes across my tongue
the flavors coagulate obscenely
stirring thirsty petitions
for more

II

The sunlight slits its way through the shutter
to rest upon the floor.
It strolls languidly across the breadth of the room
defying perception with a cadence
that patiently consumes the afternoon
Within
the anxious minutes struggle to keep pace





III
Speaking with the tongues
of omens and devils
Love is nothing
and I am less
Charity is the anchor
and compassion the straight-jacket
Lies! Lies!
Memory is privy to the cure.
I am up to my ankles in defeat
Wading through my room in shackles
a supine sense of clemency
bends my knees in prayer
Mercy! Mercy!
Mercy-
for the barbarians and schemers
and those who long for sleep
for the bleeders and the healers
and the **** crowd that pays to watch
for the hidden and the hiding
the blind,  the short-sighted, and the bell gatherer on a leash
for those who have never seen their own spectacle
and for those who have yet couldn’t laugh
Mercy! Mercy!
Mercy to all
Without

IV

Within
the pool rises
In genuflection I supplicate my position
Surrounded by the baptismal abyss
I contemplate immersion
into the excrement
I have poured about myself
A frivolous query of destruction complete
It’s a sprite idea
a fairy thought
flirting with my insensibilities
teasing my degrees with magic and trance
with spells that bind the curious
to moonless night visits
and the breaching
of hoary sepulchers alone
Filling! Faster! Faster!
Draining! Faster! Faster!
Filling Draining Filling
Faster! Faster! Faster!
The colander is engulfed
within

V

Afloat in the mire
of ponderous subversion
excess has risen heavy upon my heart
swelling about my neck
with rigorous aplomb
licking my lips with tar and suffrage
To my feet
I must stand!
I must keep my head above
and chin up

Gut-check drench and saturate
seeping into my passions
seething out of my skin
and into my dreams
sealing me inside myself
It is an epiphany of osmosis
Sangfroid boiled to satiety.

An emancipation?
Is this contentment I feel?
Could this be...
I AM FUFILLED
if but for this fleeting
whim of a moment
I’ll take the burden as luxury
my soul rings with ******
my body shudders with dissolve
I am without—
Time
Needs
A Home




VI
I catch the last shards
of sunlight lingering
upon the far wall
Glowing
So alive in those last few moments
bright as language
etching vivid accomplishment
fading
memory
gone

VII

Ecstasy is swallowed in desperation
a flotsam and jetsam exchange
Grasp-breath beg and flurry
for space
wallowing head-full pleading
swimming in vibrant exhaustion
I writhe back into my skin
like a womb worm foraging
for original flesh

The casket ceiling offers me
Othello’s kiss
I see the cacography on the wall
and it’s my eulogy
blind as a battering ram I am
the walls before me
the colander cloys
the cullion claws
the cauldron is full


Boiling drown the barricade
the gallowed decision
is no simmering reaction
to the pangs of entropy
The filling has ended
my effluence has trickled to a halt
A maelstrom opens
draining Draining DRAINING
Within





VII

Without
The vortex rages
a frenzied drowning dirge
my eyes scour the darkness
scrubbing the void for light
The nothingness gawks back
shadows swirl in the pit
of my stare
I close my eyes in defiance
turning my gaze to the visions
Within
My thoughts are black
my dreams are black
my mind is an obsidian landscape
of residue and remnants
purged in the strain
of the colander
within.
CK Baker Mar 2017
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green

field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs

creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent  
through a failed ground rock)

brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail

12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)

lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Sarina May 2013
The last girl I kissed told me I have a heart like a colander,
it is 2007 and I have not met you yet
there was no reason for my feelings to be wet grounds in coffee filter
I had yet to need the caffeine, but with you,
it lays there soaking
more than five years of boiling into unattractive brown sequins.

I am still kind of the same: still hear
pinecones hitting the roof and think that rain is falling
still dream about ******* in front of my biggest infatuation.

My heart still strains a bunch of gunk, I think it could be a kidney too
but now it simmers for a while first and stores
images in locket cases, now sometimes I believe in love,
it is 2013 and my name means serene
yours is “wealth” for every bit of love you can collect, are keeping.

The last girl I kissed would not believe I gave any at all
I even rejected the sea
because inside every conch, I heard creatures who could touch me
if I would just climb into their shell-walled places.

When I was thirteen, I attempted to cook pasta without water,
this was also when I was obsessed with
cutting every photograph in my mother’s reserve
either to display it on my white plaster door or to **** those pictured.
I murdered eight different family members and myself
nine times without even sending them through a paper shredder.

I am still kind of the same:
though I soak everything up before I can throw it away.
The one with the
         crack
along the middle,
dark and so thin
words could fall through
like water in a colander.

Under the grand chandelier,
a slew of sheets
spat with confident blue juice,
cardboard-covered notebooks,
a team of paper ***** to be tossed
towards your wooden jail.

Sketches of mice, polar bears,
a recipe for rabbit at his right elbow,
red Shakespeare
and a well-read thesaurus
as scruffy
as recently rinsed blonde hair.

You always ***** the lid
on your own *** of ink, black,
sleeping silver scissors
near your French dictionary
and shells over a plastic
sunglasses case.

The table
in the room
in the house on Tomás Ortuño,
serenity bathing you,
a golden spark
of solitude.
Written: May 2013 and April 2014.
Explanation: Another possible poem for my third-year university dissertation. On 17th August 1956, while on her honeymoon in Benidorm, Spain, Sylvia Plath wrote in her journal about her and her husband's writing table, under the title 'Mr. and Mrs. Ted Hughes' Writing Table.' A work in progress.
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
When you caught my wandering eye,
love was a small word to hide behind,
an improper play seen through a diaphanous veil.
There was a new star in the sky, a mint room,
still searching for a lost dream.
I sit and watch a world die, and another take its place,
a kaleidoscope colander, as silence has its throat cut
with delicate skeletal lace and a face of porcelain.

A whisper to the zephyrs of second glance
echoing through the histories of the future,
a plea from a roving orb like a mute scream.
Did you hear me talking to the wind
where the wild things grow, recapturing misty joys.
As the Horns of Cernunnos reflect the primal stag
and the cusp of the Moon vibrates a soliloquy,
you caught my wandering eye.


© Pagan Paul (17/08/17)
.
Chloe K Jun 2013
“Just don’t leave marks,” we said,
Profiles illuminated by the hazy Manhattan skyline.
Wine trickled down our sides
As I learned I’m just a number in your phone
So maybe I’m just someone for you to ****
But *******, does it feel thick and rooted.
I’ll press your words back onto your skin
So you’ll know I’m not just a myth,
I’ve been here all along in the echo of everything you do.
I filtered life through a colander
And you’re all that was left.
I’m open and star-shaped for you.
If you’ll hold my hand in a diner,
Will you hold it in central park?
Let our lips realign,
Let me wrap you up again
Let me fold into you like origami spoons.
Olivia Kent Sep 2014
Those spuds were all dug up,
using a fork of tempered steel,
The potatoes with all seeing eyes,
Met harvest with a fleeting glimpse.
Popped neatly in a washing up bowl.
Given a wholesome freshening shower.
Into a cooker where the pressure built so.
In their hearts they softened you know.
The bubbling water, it did go.
Pressure off with the flick of a switch,
The cook she stabbed them,
The *******.
Relieved the rather hot sensation,
Through the colander they went dry and amazing.
Drizzled them with just a trickle of milk,
Added a touch of butter and pepper.
Now with the seasoning all complete,
Mashed to bits.
Let's all eat.
Dinners up,
Sweet!
(c) Livvi
I'm hungry,,,lol **
Prabhu Iyer Jan 2015
The many voices of the evening

                   gramophone the sky voice the cell phone
                   the tablet  the notebook, that monotone
                   observer of mutations purveyor of maladies
                   the persistence of memories, pale pink light sink

burning in the fires lighting up the skies

                   an old pang, smitten clang, the pain balm
                   mug-life, pen-knife, kettle-strife, all the sheaves
                   them echo-songs that haunt the drill-wells
                   that are cut wounded and wear fetching

chants, to an yearning oblation

                  bay leaf, curry leaf, yes, them colander coriander
                  there's a rhyme of charlies, looping from
                  our holy wars to now our holy hours with
                  the ombudsman, the omniman, the only God

who used to thunder for the ****

                 old Zeus, the Lord of Betelgeuse, him who we
                 called dead, exhumation, exculpation, exaltation
                 an ancient loneliness that calls from the nether
                 depths, now science, now freedom, now pagan.
Have you watched Charlie Wilson's war? It could ring a bell to why Charlie Hebdo was so long coming. Though the piece has a lot more, just mine the memes away...!
your body is a dazzling colander;
filtering my pieces out.
Prabhu Iyer Nov 2013
Floating on restless waters, tonight,
broken moons breathe in waving clouds;
Time is a colander, through which
life escapes, never to return; Yet tonight
the beanstalk remains tangled;
I sat watching swans in the moonlight
where the canal and stream met;
Rock the boat! Peace is a botheration.
Could the road that diverged loop
back to the fork? Walking backwards,
tonight, leaves and assorted bits of paper
fly forward; After the off-licenses close,
someone's dashing for the last bus
before dawn, running in reverse; three
hooded figures lost in the cemetery,
walking backwards; The moon
weeps tears of mist, that
ripple spreading inward in the puddles
after the rain; There's a weeping firefly
crawling in the sink; Or the kitchen-lamp?
Bubbles die to the siren-song of crickets.
Is there is an Ithaca fabled?
Eulalie Oct 2013
My biggest fear is that everyone will eventually discover how positively unremarkable the soul beneath this husk of a person always was,
To shy away from the cringing passersby as they gawp mercilessly at the offending blemish of my existence.
I'm trying to learn how to like myself, but it's a pathological, preexisting condition to be able to identify all of the things wrong with me simultaneously as an individual and as (un)contributing member to society.
I don't mean to be so cruel, for I know in my heart that self-love is paramount to intelligent, peaceful, pleasant enlightenment,
It's merely that I sense some ubiquitously negative energy whenever I make the attempt to muster up some sort of internal kindness.
No, it gets wasted on all the strangers and non-strangers in my socially habituating dwelling.
I'll share with them the stars from the sky and the very constellations from their hearts and make them feel positively dynamic and optimistic and they'll walk away from me with a cushy spot for hope in their pockets.
And I'll retreat to the shelter on my back, drained as if the flow of my mind were poured out in a colander, leaving the pulpy, distastefully rude thoughts that remained to wreak havoc on my crippled self-esteem.
I'm so sorry that my kindliness is some lewd pantomime of genuine altruism.
I'm sorry if I destroyed the ethereal, impossible image of who you fashioned me into.
I was always afraid that this would happen.
I decided to try some alternate honesty with myself. I don't know how I feel.
Luke Gagnon Jun 2015
I

in the dark starvation is real.
In dark, the emesis that fills my
cheeks is a currency I soak inside, animal
coinage, the fine
bulbous talons of Sepiidae.

Savagely, pelagically
starving made me rich when
Muskrat’s claws pull apart delicate meat.
Sad Spanish blood, I would like you
to panic about what has been lost.
No body, no crime—we are all cannibals; so the muskrat ate
flesh from the dugong-heavy remora

a parallax of sorts occurs
when I cannot find my own entrails—
perhaps they are ruminating in my gut—
boiling in my optic nerve.

But–I found little boys betting quarters for eating bowels
of goat. I was small enough to fit through
playground gates so I could swing
swing in earthquakes, and portents
ride out this day on the waves—to succeed

foothills, grasses, and bath salts
by the creek. I got my quarters.
They asked me who made me as Mountain
Dew dribbled down my chest.
Infant teeth shattered my infant

fists and I did not eat divvied livers and
Victim watchers.
I wrote on
my protruding
viscera
proverbs from my ancient days


–extraordinary porch things, depleted
Phosphorus, and, on bendable limbs
I catalogued my windscraped knees.

How does one so young
become
so fed up with
hunger.

II

Starving made me easier to tie.
easier to lift.
my ancient autopsy of starvation
made me feel gutted out
like Finished
ice-cream containers.
Made me able to hold my breath for
up to six minutes—starving
made me full of Household Gods and rickety
rosaries,

small brown globular clusters,
1 arcsecond of stress
capable of aligning me
with spring-loaded washers

I pop one nut—two—
Dental Work can be a rhizome,
ordering wee-soldiers from
its tethered nodes without
lactation, laceration, infection into
my sleep-deprived throat,
Choking on bird chirps
and x-ray bursts

below the cradle where
my android sleeps. I
have named him The Alabaster.
(Synching The Alabaster.)
The Alabaster–Allie–is a kind of boat
that I have hole-punched into; like
children of the deep I have hurled
nearby rocks into its lungs.
I have wrenched crumbs of my honeymoon
sidewalk, for a beast that panics.
I would trade
the last of the dugongs
for a muskrat’s smile–
now there exists a cult for Plastic
that the spotlights started,

and in the night it will not
end with the filter feeder sinking
to the depth of the imagined water column,
spinning in the Gyre disposal.
There isn’t a colander large enough
to sift through the pejorative waste.

I knew the night would be fraught.
It makes my fusiform body necessary for
transport. Makes Monophyletic solid consumption
trucks and ACE arms reach for
well-behaved spearfish bodies.
Makes days disappear and cold
seem like simmering.
Makes staying out of sight
a trim.

And I told them,
the Fusiforms and Balusters, that
the spearfish would devour the hero who comes
from afar bearing the gift of travel–
Tully-Fisher, with his cottonseed oil
“Manufactured in USA” in
compounding pharmacies.
He made me.
And I told him:

to Tell me to trawl for something less
plastic than my second
self–that I which exists
in Mary Poppins cannons, compact
intimacies, medical and portable–

to dig within my throat, discover a nurdle
that failed to photodegrade during the the day
the Sirenia sang,
the Muskrat gnawed off his leg and hand
fed it to the remora.
III

My mouth is parched
for diagnosis of rickets, for
my un-mineralized bones.
I need RR Lyrae, Statistical π,
population “II”s
to stand in for my night.
I need Sweetened,
Spoonfuls of BB pellets and
Spoonfuls of cepheids to help
the tetany go down,

myopathic infants and
ricket Rosary symbols only work
in sacrifice–In this sense,
I have constructed a panic
architecture–Craniotabes are too
vast. Prions and viroids have seeped
through,

Infections more than dreams,
for injured muskrats who yearn for
the last real mermaid’s smile,
or tears if that would smash open
the cluttered ocean and scatter
the unwanted hosts multiplying
in my spinal fluid.

In day there is no more starvation–
the remora bring me
Libations and admire
my six pack rings mobile.
My connective obligatory.

Under my fingernails are thin
crisps that may somehow create equilibrium.
Although I nibble them regularly
I can’t always swallow.
Surrounded by a dense fog of fleas
my tongue is itching.
My teeth are scratching, scraping
away the space that will always be there.


The antique aisle at the local international
superstore is handing out shriveled
heads of past didactic patients.
But I tell them it’s not what’s there that matters
it’s what’s not there. And in my case
there’s a surplus of nothing that
I can live without.
Stanley David Nov 2013
What he knows to be her lamp,
Exhaled bronze light.  
Obsessively unflinching mid-range stare,
Front teeth pushed forward, from the placement of his tongue over the years.

A vague un-answer,
Obfuscating, leftward facing eyes complete with matching set of lips,
In an unusually high voice mentioning predictables

Dragging behind the boat.
Purple refracted nylon extra tensile-strength line.

Half mesh half polyester, with a carefully closed-door shave.
Couch ridden drone strike 3 floors due north.
Considering the symbolism of when I got my coat back from her room. Saved her the trouble of throwing it off her bed.

Forward through brick, laid algorithmically and FedExed in, he could have an answer but would have significantly less automobile.
Both first and last name lower case tonight and many others.  

Silent E Novocained.
An on-again off again lightbulb.  Colander as lamp-shade.
Carsyn Smith Nov 2015
You called me golden
Like, perhaps, I could be a California river
And now I know that I am that swollen western stream
Scattered with pebbles of treasure
And you are the man that is sifting through me
Marveling at a beauty I cannot see:
Telling me how the sun made me sparkle,
Bragging about the curve of my body through the hills...
I know that I am that western vein because
I know I give more than I take,
I know I could never stick around for long...
I feel like you're like the others
Who held me in a colander and
Walked away with all I could give them.
Randal Webb Dec 2013
He was tired of the ordinary and he wanted something new.  
He wanted to hear the sound of the moon.  
He wanted to taste the tides.
     The sound of the cacti growing in the desert was like music to his ears,
but he could not remember anymore exactly just what it sounded like.  
He wanted to go back to when he did not have to remember
because he could hear it always,
but he could not go back.  

Time had put him where he was
and he could not turn back time, but it was not just a matter of that.
  He knew that somewhere he had lost his understanding of himself, and with it
his conception of the world
became skewed.  
He did not properly understand
the instrument with which he experienced the world
so he was not appropriately situated to judge what he experienced.  
Once he understands what he is
he sees his flaws.
he sees other things too.
    
The rays of the sun fell in a multitude of rays through the trees,
the canopies acting as a colander; taking up most of the rays
but allowing some to slip through
where small trees and shrubs seemed to congregate.
One of the rays fell on the boy
and as it did he opened his eyes
he was no longer a boy.
Alvin Park Nov 2010
The self-contained sunlight trickled
through her apricot skin, the dream-like sense
of suspension receded into the driftwood calm
as the birds glued to the wind chime
danced their static waltz. The closeness of
her body in the hotel room's single shared bed
focused like the uncasing of glasses from
a cotton shirt's breast pocket. The entire
room dulled as her hair fell away from
her eyes still closed but staring directly
into his neck, innocence beading her skin
like sunlight through a colander, her relaxed
breath fomenting a juvenile refinement, like
drinking cranberry juice concentrate from
a crystal champagne glass. His eyes filled
with admiration, not necessarily towards
her but the unconscious movement of her
cheek nestling against his shoulder.
Take a look at all these stories.
Every detail marked in delicate pencil.
Inventory, backstory, spells per day.
You wrote these character sheets.

You put the devil's **** in their pockets.
Keen rapier on their hip.
Their numbers clasp fingers like chain mail.
You wear it like a valiant knight.

You look like an infant covered in pots and pans.
Clanging
Babbling
Holding colander to your head playing make believe.
It doesn't even fit you right.

This armor you made yourself doesn't even fit you right.

What are you if not a knight?
What are you if not an infant?

You've fought dragons, finished quests.
Conquered battles you didn't even want to fight.
At the end of every session you collected your experience and said "See ya next week!"
This session doesn't end.
You can't just stop rolling dice.
Have to keep playing.

Drink the +5 energy Brown Liquid.
Roll to see if your car starts.
Perception check to see if you hit that baby in a stroller.
Roll charisma to try and get a discount on that Pair of pants.
Nailed it.
You didn't check for traps in this relationship.
Take 15 heart damage.
Spend the next six months trying to recover.
You are noticed by a woman.
Roll initiative.
The girl goes first.
She tells you she loves you.
You're knocked prone.
She gets an attack of opportunity on your ability to sustain relationships.
You wonder why you wandered down this alley to begin with.
Roll for Charisma Burst.
It succeeds.
She is stunned.
You run.
Double your move speed.

Burst into the town bar.
You ask for quests.
They give you whiskey.

Your vision is slightly blurred
You wake up in strange place.
Roll a perception check.
It's an unfamiliar small apartment.
Your clothes seem to be by your side on the ground.
Roll me a knowledge check.
The apartment of some girl you hooked up with last night.
Your eyes peek up from the pillow and see a beautiful...
Man.
You did not roll very high on your knowledge check.

Roll dexterity to gracefully get up from the bed and leave quietly.
It fails.
You fall flat on your face to a loud THUMP sound.
The man wakes up and smiles down at you.
Roll initiative.
You go first.
You run out of there
Double your move speed.
Roll another Dex check to see how much of your stuff you were able to grab.
You snag your bag but you never bothered to put your clothes on
So you're running down the street in your boxers with a black backpack.

Roll perception to take inventory of your backpack.
You have a change of clothes that you packed for the next morning.

Socks +5 comfort
Boxers +5 freshness
Pants +10 decency
Shirt +2 Stain.

Your laptop and chargers are all in there.
You can't seem to find your phone.
Spend a luck point to reroll perception to find your phone.
Fails.
Spend another luck point to reroll perception to find your phone.
Fails.
Spend your last luck point to reroll perception to find your Oh, thank god.
You found your phone.
Call a cab
Get the hell out of this town.
Roll effectiveness of taking this shower.
Drink the +5 energy brown liquid.

There's no "That was a great session guys!"
"Congratulations! You slew the dragon! You all get 500 experience points!"
"See you all next week."

You just keep rolling.
And rolling.
Until one day it all stops.
You roll poorly,
Encounter something way above your level.
You can run.
Find a healer.
Get home, take a full rest.
You can't just make another character sheet.
There's nobody to look at your scraps of paper.
All the characters you rerolled to be who you are now.
Bits and pieces of all the wars, quests, dragons.
They're you.
Remember them,
Learn from them.
Keep rolling.
Jack Aug 2014
Like block shaped wheels our lives stumble at the chapters we write
Corners seem dark and teeming with doubt,
alleyways call in echoes of our name,
as if tempting us to crawl when we cannot walk

                “Fear begins the parade at our fragile hearts”

Shades are drawn and slotted with eyes watching,
voices ring the halls of the buildings looming large,
rumors of pointed fingers find our ears in colander fashion,
dripping fear at our feet

                “Waves conduct sound, crashing vividly as we hear”

We cry,
hoping these tears will somehow wash the pain,
fill the gutters and move out to sea,
casting waves upon unsuspecting shores

                “Wishes…more waste than want…at least of these eyes”

When of the shadows a touch,
softly at first, then strong upon our shoulders fall…
comfort leaps to our hearts in sing song praise,
wishes become goals and finish line adventures

                “What is this light, soft yet sure, found within”

We are not alone, darkness hints at light
and butterflies fill our air with prism’d colors and soft breezes
collecting on our damp cheeks and drying the aftermath
of our understanding of reality

                “Dreams of these nightmares fade into happiness”

We find footprints in the dirt…two which are not our own,
closely, yet affectionately following our way and bringing direction
to our dreams, yet the nightmares still flourish
but we do not feel so alone

                “Fences built may keep us in yet… may keep us out”

For this hand, from a distance,
climbing mountains and fording rivers
leads our hearts to the safety of love just beyond the bricked wall,
the ivy covered monolith, the chain link disaster
which once stood locked

                “Finding that a breath may exhale peace…again”

Now stands open of the arbor of hibiscus
blooms and teapot pourings fore our eyes…open and hopeful of the coming truth
once lost beyond our dreams…and we breathe
for it feels right to breathe while standing in the darkness…not alone
True friendship will always find us and comfort us in the darkness.
Jack Jul 2013
Not alone


Like block shaped wheels our lives stumble at the chapters we write
Corners seem dark and teeming with doubt,
alleyways call in echoes of our name,
as if tempting us to crawl when we cannot walk

                “Fear begins the parade at our fragile hearts”

Shades are drawn and slotted with eyes watching,
voices ring the halls of the buildings looming large,
rumors of pointed fingers find our ears in colander fashion,
dripping fear at our feet

                “Waves conduct sound, crashing vividly as we hear”

We cry,
hoping these tears will somehow wash the pain,
fill the gutters and move out to sea,
casting waves upon unsuspecting shores

                “Wishes…more waste than want…at least of these eyes”

When of the shadows a touch,
softly at first, then strong upon our shoulders fall…
comfort leaps to our hearts in sing song praise,
wishes become goals and finish line adventures

                “What is this light, soft yet sure, found within”

We are not alone, darkness hints at light
and butterflies fill our air with prism’d colors and soft breezes
collecting on our damp cheeks and drying the aftermath
of our understanding of reality

                “Dreams of these nightmares fade into happiness”

We find footprints in the dirt…two which are not our own,
closely, yet affectionately following our way and bringing direction
to our dreams, yet the nightmares still flourish
but we do not feel so alone

                “Fences built may keep us in yet… may keep us out”

For this hand, from a distance,
climbing mountains and fording rivers
leads our hearts to the safety of love just beyond the bricked wall,
the ivy covered monolith, the chain link disaster
which once stood locked

                “Finding that a breath may exhale peace…again”

Now stands open of the arbor of hibiscus
blooms and teapot pourings fore our eyes…open and hopeful of the coming truth
once lost beyond our dreams…and we breathe
for it feels right to breathe while standing in the darkness…not alone
Written for a dear friend who at times may feel very alone
Olivia Kent Jul 2017
My peace is in bits,

My bits are in pieces.

I'm forced,through a colander through dreams what got broke.

I'm choking on a passion which hangs round my neck.

I'm broken and battered,




Life on the whole is doing me in.

I'm fighting a battle

Got not no chance of winning.

There will be no awards for me in this role.

A tumbled disaster I've lost all my goals.




There is monster living under my dress,

My monster is criminal, it's first name is stress.

It affects my being, it affects every function.

Between here and there and then and now.

In my dark space

I'm stuck at the junction.

I so detest it.

(C)LIVVI
Stress
Stephan Sep 2016
.

Like crooked wheels our lives stumble
between the chapters we write
Corners seem dark and teeming with doubt,
alleyways call in echoes of our name,
as if tempting us to crawl when we cannot walk

“Fear begins the parade at our fragile hearts”

Fear begins as shades are drawn
and slotted with eyes watching,
voices ring the halls of the buildings looming large,
rumors of pointed fingers find our ears
in colander fashion, dripping fear at our feet

“We long to speak as waves conduct sound, crashing violently as we hear”

We long to speak but we cry,
hoping these tears will
somehow wash the pain,
fill the gutters and move out to sea,
casting waves upon unsuspecting shores

“Wishes, more waste than want at least of these eyes”

Wishes, more waste when
from the shadows a touch,
softly at first, then strong upon our shoulders fall,
comfort leaps to our hearts in sing song praise,
wishes become goals and finish line adventures

“What is this light, soft yet sure, found within?”

What is this, darkness hints at light
and skies blush among prism colors
and soft breezes collecting on our
damp cheeks and drying the aftermath
of our understanding of reality

“Dreams of these nightmares fade into happiness”

Dreams of footprints in the dirt,
two which are not our own, closely, affectionately
following our way and bringing direction
to our souls, yet the nightmares still flourish
but we do not feel so alone

“Fences built may keep us in yet, may keep us out”

Fences built fall, as this hand, from a distance,
climbing mountains and fording rivers
leads our hearts to the safety of love just beyond
the bricked wall, the ivy covered monolith,
the chain link disaster which once stood locked

“Finding that a breath may exhale peace, again”

Finding that a breath, neath arbors of hibiscus blooms
and teapot pourings, exhales open and
hopeful of the coming truth once lost beyond our dreams,
and we breathe for it feels right to breathe
while facing the darkness, no longer alone
A Catherine Jul 2013
Yesterday, I plucked up the planet and dropped it into a colander.  I shook it through, taking out all the ships and lifeboats, the yachts and canoes.  Putt-putt boats and blow-up rafts.  Every life vest and floating device was carefully removed.

Today, I cried for twenty-four years.  The oceans began to rise and the coastal towns fell off the shorelines.  Everyone fled the coasts, but it did not matter.  After twenty-four years the world was covered and all things green with life were drowned and flooded.  When my tears slowed, I scooped out each eyeball, wrung them out, and then placed them back into their sockets.

Tomorrow, the water will recede for twenty-four years before I find any solid ground.  When I do, I will crawl out from the sea and let the sand scrape at my body.  The tide will wash over me until I am sprawled out, absorbing the rays on my speck of land in this ocean-world.  

The sun will sink into my skin.  I will dry out.  My brittle remains will crack and flake away when the sea reclaims its only island.
a dish containing my bones
& several vital organs
laid to rest on a bed
of colander and sage

a pretty platter
a selfless oblation

one hopes a gift of such
heart might be atoned
& wrapped in a cocoon
& sent away to float the sea

my insides ravaged
my restitution complete
she had the one/ now i own it

i have many         it is a thing



she said that they invented one

along with numerals & sandals



i think there is a gregorian all

out of date and         chanting



yet



you can’t strain vegetables with those

nor can julian



sbm.
Robyn Oct 2015
Mnyamata

I pretended you were laying next to me, stroking my hair back to kiss my face. I smiled contentedly, and on my exhale, remembered you were not here. A physical ache pains my chest. As if heartbreak was literal.
I feel like I'm losing you. You're slipping through my fingers like sand, and I'm trying to catch you with a colander. Soon enough you'll be smoke that I'm trying to catch with my bare hands.
This is the most alone I've felt in a long time. I pray but God is silent.
Tonight will be a long night. If you wake up and read this, know that it's not your fault I'm crying. I'm not sure why I'm crying. I have to many reasons to choose from.
I hope you sleep better than I will.

Ndimakukonda
you remember it perfectly
describe with accuracy

the colander metal and bent
for straining the peas and
other vegetables

potato masher

i have that too but may
have photographed the
wrong one

we shall see later

mummy’s hammer kept
in the third drawer down
even now

even now I have her fish slice
though I don’t eat fish

you know

you know
we have different memories about some things
different opinions on other matters

yet we think of her colander

both the same
There once once was a time
When you still felt young and full of life
Until the world came to a stand still
This is all the same old rhyme..

Stuck without time moving with the Earth, "Forward."
You begin to stack up the Memories in Books of Journals
of your teenaged years
Cutting you open
With cold blades of "Future Fears."
You are young...Yet older.
Years whisk by you quite quickly..
Until stagnation and Lazy Wastes
of your Colander fill up all of the year's spaces...
Sickly..
Old and not young enough to be part of those "peppy and in Crowds"
However, your not old enough to be among the respected old timers...
Alone in the center - tears of regret fall down your cheeks...
Until Your Higher power's Voice
Get's sick of lending you tissues..
From his voice...….
"Keep on Going and Become" - his Booming and distinct voice speaks.
carbonrain Dec 2018
a while back.
a colander full of popcorn.
a blue light in my corner of the house.
a dying man more cheerful than I am.
a sofa or a bed, never both full.
everyone wants to be alone.
no distractions, only work to do.
forgotten hot dogs in the crisper - better put them back.
memories of phantom pizza from the last time we were happy - I've reheated these leftovers over and over - the plate burns my fingertips - maybe I won't have an identity - maybe I can start over - maybe i can do it right next time, how I was supposed to do it right this time, the last time, and the time before that.
the refrigerator door seals my fate.
plants of the same seed grow farther apart, reaching for their own sun in the sky.
LiquidMetalFox Aug 2017
like a child running thru a flock of geese enjoying the rush or that same child flying with arms wide open down the aisle of the local grocery store saying, "hi" to every unique face. Not thinking about what someone thinks, not bogged down by troubles that the world has brought upon themselves but looking thru a pair of curious eyes where the world is beautiful, where every person is interesting. Creating fun out of a shoe box, the colander that mom drained the water from noodles for the spaghetti last night, and a wooden spoon slaying a dragon that happens the family dog asleep/ the carefree laughter of butterfly kisses from mom in public. Not caring if someone laughs at them, because she doesn't see them only their mother's smile. It's the presence of innocence to make you believe in people again......
That's what freedom looks like; in case you were wondering
Ryan O'Leary Apr 2022
(when truth is strained)=============================O
   what lies remain as
     sieved sediment
      for the palates
       of uncultured
         taste buds
          unwilling
           sample
            a new
             tang
              \  /
                V
              



      Poem by the
    Proper Gander

             (˚>

— The End —