"concludes" poems
a haw and saw.
a thorn.
fruit: it is ecstasy
never bit and
undeniable.
you slurp—a cat licking
its paws
ruby and clear.
moth and cloud
drape over fruit,
make up sparkling nectar.
love is sickening.
you spend five dollars on
a rose at a bar for
a girl you will never see
again.
she will take the flower and
throw it in the trash
outside with the hundreds of
other roses.
no matter.
they have fruit, and fruit
concludes. it is life
cut with claws.
their beauty, seemingly to
be always in the clusters above.
**** you, rose. **** your dew.*
they seem to say. that’s when
the light hits and microbial
bleeds to miss ruby.
JAZZ!
at night retrains
beauty, makes it edible.
the rose, changing the color
of its dew—black pearl in
this drape of mystery-shaped
night.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
I bought myself a kite to fly
I tossed it up and ran around
I tried to pull it through the sky
But found it just dragged on the ground.
It landed in the mud, it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragic tale of the kite I numbered one.
My second kite was different.
It caught a mighty gale
I flew it well, then let it go
And in the end I failed.
It joined released balloons and leaves, whatever else is there
In the ***** lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.
I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.
The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.
I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
Dear ************
This is the hateful letter. This is the one in which I tell you how much of a ******** you are and how I am so much better off without you, so thanks for leaving me. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. This is where I tell you that you’re an idiot if you ever thought I depended on you for my self-worth, because I don’t need you for validation, and I never have. I was trucking along just fine before you came along, and will continue to do so without you, so you can go **** yourself.
This is the part where I call you a ******* for saying all those things you said. If you weren’t trying to hurt me, you must be an idiot to think that it was a good idea to say what you did. I’ll tell you that it ****** me off to realize that you obviously didn’t know me as well as I thought you did. It ****** me off that our communication was clearly not functioning like it should have been.
And I’ll tell you how ******* livid it makes me that you just sat there and thought and thought and ******* thought about this while I was still writing ******* poems for you. I am angry at how oblivious I was, which I also blame on you. I blame you for being so introspective and quiet, for needing to think important issues through in your head, only with yourself, before you can voice them, and I am angry because you thought and thought and ******* thought and made a decision that was logical from the inside of your head and you were confused by my reaction because, surprise! Owen’s-head-logic is not the same as Katie-is-being-broken-up-with-logic. And that’s where your speech faltered, where I stopped saying the lines that you wrote for me in your script, and that’s when all of those stupid words came tumbling out of your stupid head and things continued to not go as planned and it all eventually cumulated in this: zero contact. I know it’s not what you wanted but you’re a ******* If you were smarter about it, we may still have been talking, but you said all of the exact wrong things. So I am angry at you for hurting me with your idiotic words, but I am also angry at you for pushing me away. I may have liked to still be talking to you, but all of the **** that came out of your mouth just ruined whatever chance we could have had, so way to go. You are a ruiner - and so concludes the part where everything is always your fault.
This is the part where I understand where you’re coming from, I would have broken up with me too if I were you, I know it’s hard for you to put your words together sometimes, I know your (brutal) honesty only comes from a place of love, I know you love me, I know you miss being my friend…and so on.
That last section makes me sadder than I am willing to be at this point, so I think I’ll stick with anger for the time being and you can **** my nonexistent **** ************
Your Ex-Girlfriend.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:33 PM UTC
Sun slits in through slats
of kitchen window blinds
and she is alone.
The art major is cooking
spaghetti,
pretending her thrifted T-shirt
bearing a cotton copy
of Campbell's Soup Cans
is not stained with tears and blood.
Oh, but that's hysterics and
hyperbole;
art has a tendency of making its worshippers
melodramatic...no?
The blood is only tomato sauce
and the tears...
well, what are tears but
water and salt?
After all, dramatizing the
mundane is just one awkward shade
of artistic temperament.
Visualizing life through
a heavy silk screen.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is redder and
redder as she cooks.
Just as
her paintings bleed more blood
as she dangles a brush over them -
the teary-eyed watercolours.
The art major has decided
that drawing out extremities
of colour
might transform
her own life into
a pop of a Warhol painting.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
She thinks, tries to
think
in technicolour.
Today's thought-pencilled thesis
concludes (like a brush stroke of uncertain finality) that
love is the red of tomato soup cans.
Anger is the boil, passion is
the gulp,
danger, caution, warning,
the hot breaths, fleeting warmths,
the burn and sweet and tang.
She looks down at the
scarlet of
Warhol's soup cans,
blooming in worn out cotton
on her chest.
It might as well be blood, she
thinks.
It is,
it is,
it is.
Blood red love -
tomato soup cans.
Sun sets in slits
through kitchen window blinds
and she is still alone.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is ready.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
(Rock Lake, Canada)
In this country there is neither measure nor balance
To redress the dominance of rocks and woods,
The passage, say, of these man-shaming clouds.
No gesture of yours or mine could catch their attention,
No word make them carry water or fire the kindling
Like local trolls in the spell of a superior being.
Well, one wearies of the Public Gardens: one wants a vacation
Where trees and clouds and animals pay no notice;
Away from the labeled elms, the tame tea-roses.
It took three days driving north to find a cloud
The polite skies over Boston couldn't possibly accommodate.
Here on the last frontier of the big, brash spirit
The horizons are too far off to be chummy as uncles;
The colors assert themselves with a sort of vengeance.
Each day concludes in a huge splurge of vermilions
And night arrives in one gigantic step.
It is comfortable, for a change, to mean so little.
These rocks offer no purchase to herbage or people:
They are conceiving a dynasty of perfect cold.
In a month we'll wonder what plates and forks are for.
I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
The Pilgrims and Indians might never have happened.
Planets pulse in the lake like bright amoebas;
The pines blot our voices up in their lightest sighs.
Around our tent the old simplicities sough
Sleepily as Lethe, trying to get in.
We'll wake blank-brained as water in the dawn.
3.8k
He gives life
At that instant he takes your innocence
Born into sin
He gives hope
And in return takes away your faith in humanity
They say your born free
He gave us the power of choice
But takes our ability to deal with Its consequences
Gives us the love
Allowing he or she to take our breath away
Then give us the strain and tribulations
While taking our patience and tolerance
Yet our trust he demand
He gives us strength and confidence
All while stealing our youth
And leaving a bigger number at the end of every year
What good is wisdom if its carrying the baggage of age
What good is ambition if the goal is leaves you crippled
He gives us challenges that inevitably take our humility
He gives us beauty and talent
And in an instant takes our hair, teeth, and skin
But leaves us with wrinkles and bad posture and the hope to remain relevant
He gives us vanity and punish us the above mentioned
Gives us dream and sleepless nights
Let's us take chances but what is chance in a predestined existence?
Though we create art, music, literature, and monuments
He takes credit for its inspiration and crumbles what isn't in his tribute
Give homage or else
And no true artist is never prime unless there gone and buried
He gives mercy in the form ******
And his miracle usually means escaping his wrath
Guess I'm ******* Hudini in his eyes
He gave us the vastness of the universe to gaze and only gave us a grain of sand to inhabit on his cosmic infinite beach
Gives you a soul and let's you promise it to someone you love then betray that promise repeatedly by demanding its salvation in the end
Give you the end too soon after the beginning fades away
Takes advantage of your ego and feeds it temptation
Gives you indulgence to punish your self with
Then when all life concludes leaves you and your loved ones with what you were the day before your inception and the day after death
Nothing
So what is it you want me to praise you for?
Guess we'll discuss it if you ever catch us.
-XIN-
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
Plan A: there is none as such;
though unflinching ego makes
complex calculations, concludes,
reassures it is best laid for sure.
Plan B, hence has no actual relevance
A mountain river, life is, it rushes
the way the cryptic GPS message directs.
If you ask how it works, try to understand
the intricate organic correlations, involving factors
that even a super computer can't process
but your mind would, somehow easily tell you
in a clear voice, if only you are ready to listen.
Every best laid plan is merely a wish
the more profound is spoken as a prayer
words addressed to the voice inside, that listens and acts
fulfillment then, is an emotional construct
you need the scent of that flower to inspire life.
Who says the cosmic plan is mysterious?
One who walks the karma path right, even when eyes closed
knows how to reach where one is headed to.
The truth this: one leads oneself, so keep the inner eyes open.
Subtle wishes that bring smile on the face of thy neighbor
are much more meaningful than selfish desires
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
We live in a straight world.
You might not think it’s true,
“Gays are coming out everyday
could be them next or her,
maybe you too”
Well I’ll take a minute to prove it to you.
If I told you I’m into girls
I’d see your brain short circuit in real time,
“But you don’t look gay” you’d say.
“Straight passing” is what they call
a girl like me, who still looks feminine
but doesn’t want the D.
This “luxury” of remaining in the closet
is really hurting my game,
Added another straight boy
to my list of those who lost it
when they heard me exclaim,
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m gay”
Let’s not forget the most important issue
“Gays will ruin the sanctity of marriage”
Here, I’ll hand you the tissues.
Man and woman, hand in hand, till death do they part,
and yet more than half of all marriages
end in the perfected art of divorce.
Far be it from me,
to take anyone’s right
to do and say what they want,
while you embrace the hate
and live fighting the inevitable reality
of any queer couple tying the knot.
It might be 2018,
but I still can’t hold a potential partner’s hand
in a public facility
without getting disgusted leers
and a dreadful look at multiple cases
of unprovoked hostility.
So, try to look me in the eyes,
And tell me I’m not right.
But despite it all
I’ll keep my head up high
And let that rainbow flag fly
Because this might be a straight world,
But love is love
is love
is love.
And that concludes this winded verse.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:05 PM UTC
I refuse to continue
silently creeping
through this empty forest
with the only company being my darkest demons.
I look down and see only a pathway,
nothing but a never-ending grey haze
I reach a dilemma
as the pathway concludes.
It dawns on me that I must change direction
into a golden meadow of many opportunities
or a black tunnel of nothingness,
where I would no longer feel a thing.
I remain indecisive
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
***A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)
one poem, written by two authors***
~~~
**Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.
From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.
The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value**
(written by S.D., a woman)
~~~
(written by N.L., a man)
unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected
the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own
every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing
a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship
all these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,
instantaneously compromised
but,
***it is upon the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality
while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:
every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the
princes of principles,
valence and value
that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,
her character
this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky***
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
I am so proud to announce my new cookbook
The Four Seasons
Let's cook, lets sing and shout
have fun with each recipe no doubt
oh I so hungry I have went all out
oh my I hope there is no drought...
I need my herbs thats in my garden
so please I cry let it rain, don't let it harden
oh yes dear Lord give me a pardon
where my veggies can grow but not random .....
To make all our foods
so delicious that they include
the best tastes that concludes
our hearts and stomachs so happy to alludes.....
Debbie Brooks 2014
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
I revisit long-forgotten places
and a past that no longer offers warmth.
I yearn to return to where the spark ignited, to the realm
of genuine emotions and dreams.
I flee from my own essence, reaching for the stars,
as frigid as my heart.
I have become a stranger to all that once was.
The day concludes, giving way to night,
during which my heart
awakens to beat more fervently
in a torrent of memories
and illusions that rise repeatedly.
Only in the morning do
I rediscover my true self within the vacant walls.
And I aspire to become a star –
Just as frigid, to radiate from the heavens
and remain unattainable to all.
My thoughts drift to distant valleys as
I seek the ancient past that eludes me.
I experience a continual demise within myself,
yearning to feel the warmth of beloved hands,
if only in my dreams.
I escape from my own being by reaching for the stars.
There is no affection in castles built in the air,
and my heart remains shattered.
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 8:06 AM UTC
The film starts with narration from Mother Nature herself,
discussing an experiment with Father Time
that went horribly wrong; On the fictional island of Wongo
she has created a tribe where the men are brutish & ugly
& the women exceedingly beautiful.
She then creates another tribe on a nearby island called Goona
where the women are repulsive & the men are strong
and handsome; For years the two tribes lived unaware
of each other's existence, until ape men from across the
ocean attack the village of Goona. The tribe sends the son of their
king to seek help against the invaders.
The son finds the island of Wongo
the day before the village men are to pick their brides &
the women, seeing the handsome prince,
begin questioning their life among the ugly brutes
that dwell in their village. The men growing jealous
of their visitor, plan to **** him. The women of Wongo,
finding out about the plot, risk their lives to protect
the handsome prince, in doing so offending
the crocodile god of the Wongo people
[portrayed by stock footage of a crocodile
and rubber model]. The women are rounded up
by the village men & sent into the wilderness
until the reptile god has drawn blood for the slight;
The women banding together, watch each other's backs
until the ape men arrive at their village &
the women dispatch the invaders to their god,
the women then leave in search of the men
that had abandoned the island of Wongo.
In Goona, the men begin their rite of manhood,
in which they go into the jungle without weapons
for a month. The women of Wongo coming upon
the weaponless men, decide to take advantage
of their helplessness & one by one, claim them in marriage;
The film concludes with all the beautiful men and women married & the ugly men with the ugly women.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC
Attend my lays, ye ever honour’d nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine;
In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
For bright Aurora now demands my song.
Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies,
Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:
The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,
On ev’ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;
Harmonious lays the feather’d race resume,
Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.
Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display
To shield your poet from the burning day:
Calliope awake the sacred lyre,
While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:
The bow’rs, the gales, the variegated skies
In all their pleasures in my ***** rise.
See in the east th’ illustrious king of day!
His rising radiance drives the shades away—
But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,
And scarce begun, concludes th’ abortive song.
2.3k
391
A Visitor in Marl—
Who influences Flowers—
Till they are orderly as Busts—
And Elegant—as Glass—
Who visits in the Night—
And just before the Sun—
Concludes his glistening interview—
Caresses—and is gone—
But whom his fingers touched—
And where his feet have run—
And whatsoever Mouth be kissed—
Is as it had not been—
2.1k
I'm not saying
that this is how it is
But,
In all my years of school
the one thing I've been taught
Again
and
Again
...
is the American Revolutionary war
Which makes sense
since,
it was technically the official formation
of the country I currently live in
But really,
In 10th grade
I'm having deja-vu back
to fourth grade
when we even had a musical
about it
(I was student #2 by the way)
And now
we have the Broadway musical Alexander Hamilton
which,
I am TOTALLY a fan of
Despite
the numerous reoccurring themes
I've had stuck in my face
enough to remember
for the
rest
of
my
lifeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
...
Okaaay,
So, Revolutionary War:
...
...
...
AftertheFrenchandIndianwarBritianwasindebtsotheytriedtaxingthecollonieswhichthecolloniesweretotallyagainst.Miscommunication(allthewayacrossthesea)alongwithotherthingsincludingphrasessuchas"notaxationwithoutrepresentation"werethrownaround.EventuallyitjustblewupintotheactualwarwhichAmericaendedupwinningdespiteBritain'ssuperiorarmyandinthenAmericawasleftwithamessofstatestanddisagreeablefoundingfatherstocometoaconsensusandfiguresomethingout.
Okay, I don't know if you actually
got anything from that
but basically
it was a rushed (sort of) summaryish
of the American Revolutionary war
...
ish.
Well, I mean I've only learned
about it from one side
Anyway, by now I almost know the facts
we learn in school here
as well
as the back of my hand
...
which I don't know very well by the way
why do people even use that?
Anyway, it's not completely old material
that we're learning
because
now,
there's analyzing too
Just today we analyzed the differences
between
Federalists
and Anti-federalists
...
Okay,
you probably don't want the
nitty-gritty details
...
And that concludes my
(Strange)
tirade/(I can't really call it a tirade because it wasn't angry
so maybe narration?)
About history class
...
Hope this quirky
piece of writing
gave you a few smiles!
(Or if not confusion works too.)
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
There is beauty in the End;
Beauty in a conglomerate of
Failed fairy tales we
Once thought would make up
Our life's happy trails.
Virtue hangs purposefully
On quivering lips
and racing heartbeats
that foretells a demise-
There's MEANING in the End.
Wipe your tears.
Dry your eyes.
These are means to every End.
So enjoy that Last Kiss
and mourn not the story that it concludes
But await the one that it begins.
For like I said,
There is Beauty in the End
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
Whales were,
above all else,
deliberate
about the pace
with which they
moved through the world,
conscientious,
perhaps to a fault,
about the economy of movement
required to propel
such incredible mass over such
enormous, empty spans
of open ocean.
Here is a humpback whale
resting, face-down
staring into the cerulean
abyss, alone
but singing, perhaps for
enjoyment, perhaps out of
boredom, or perhaps due to
loneliness and longing.
She twists
and turns a single eye up toward
the surface, her iris catching
sunbeams and contracting,
as she gauges
the gargantuan effort she must exert
in order to gain her next breath.
In this case, she concludes that, yes,
the effort will be worth it.
But what you must know about
whales is that
on rare occasion,
they would cast these concerns
of intentionality and efficiency aside,
and choose to
activate the entirety of their being,
from the sinews to the soul,
and propel themselves,
heedlessly and at top speed
toward, through, and past the surface of the ocean,
as though they were attempting to
fully take flight,
to escape, with finality,
the cold confines of their known existence,
the omnipresent, furrowed gaze of the void below.
But invariably,
and in spite of their best efforts,
the whales would be pulled
back downward,
by forces they could not
fully comprehend,
sure as the tides would fall shortly after
the moon passed overhead.
Yes, the physical impact of colliding
with the surface of the ocean
would be painful for the whales,
but what hurt
so much more than that
was having to return
to the stark, lonely calculus
of whether or not
to keep going.
May 22, 2021
May 22, 2021 at 11:55 AM UTC
Service
the sections
we skim
on
four limbs,
integral
to the insect
cause
and effectively
crippling
the cross culture,
dumb and
auspicious
in the year
of the
opposable
thumb.
Feline
friction
in
the way
you
hug the fuzz
and
tug at
the tension,
a conscious
show of
subterfuge
and
pretentious
pretenses
concludes
in the dismal
aftermath
of a
stamped
and sent
ten cent
envelope
filled with
nothing
but hope.
Sacrilegious
privileges
construct
reality,
obstructing
the
graffiti art
along the
cosmonaut
crosswalk.
The fire,
fought
with wine
in the dark
etched an
imprint
in ash
where
the
cadre had
left its' mark
in the colors
of a
corroded
battery.
Under
spray
paint stars,
hollow,
half
sunken
sights
echo
through
the
illegitimate
children
of a
wind
chime.
Sulfurous
silver
lining
igniting
the ego.
A blue
reaction
in a black
field,
refraction
with a
maximum
yield,
it all glows.
Feline
friction
in
the way
you
hug the fuzz
and
tug at
the tension,
smooth
and rigid,
we fit in
the grooves
and service
the sections
in a
crippled
cross
culture
that
crawls
on all fours,
integral
to an insect
cause.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:27 PM UTC
with each passing day, I understand less and less, for
who could ever claim to know it all, yet, the simplicity
of our base-ic basest instincts makes evil so easily attractive,
that now, I forgive almost nothing, anyone for the cruelty
inherent in on the surfacial skin of our normalcy, so easily,
revealed, and reveled in, wrecks me, and the poetry
sparks are not doused, but wick and ember shriveled
oh the irony, that foolish me should write of the
commandment to love just as the world displays
old levels of hate historically deep… .I am hated,
to many who would know me only as Jew,
and this refresher course in my brain, reminds me,
that love thy neighbor as thyself, can morph into a
generational opposite, that my former degree of comfort,
beliefs, was only skin deep…and Tolstoy was a naïf, a romantic,
a royal, who hoped for the best in each man, and that
cannot ne achieved for hate is so easy digestible, so sweet a treat
for humans, who desire no compass other than simple baseness
to know which direction to take….
————————————————————————————-
”There can be only one permanent revolution—a moral one; the regeneration of the inner man. How is this revolution to take place? Nobody knows how it will take place in humanity, but every man feels it clearly in himself. And yet in our world everybody thinks of changing humanity, and nobody thinks of changing himself."
Tolstoy
”To perform evil deeds a person must discover “a justification for his actions,” so that he can regard stealing, humiliating and killing as good. “Macbeth’s self-justifications were feeble,” and so conscience restrained him. He had no ideology, Solzhenitsyn observes, nothing like “anti-imperialism” or “decolonization” to allay pangs of guilt. Solzhenitsyn concludes: “Ideology—that is what gives evil-doing its long-sought justification and gives the evil-doer the necessary steadfastness and determination . . . so that he won’t hear reproaches and curses but receive praise and honors.”
Solzhenitsyn
Oct 20, 2023
Oct 20, 2023 at 3:08 PM UTC
when love's not served on silver, but sliced on knives' edge
from wounds we learn to draw the gentlest pledge
the violence unseen
it shapes our soul's embrace
transforming scars into verses
a tender grace
nothing concludes with verse or rhyme's decree
yet endings birth poetry from life's debris
blood once spilled held no beauty in its hue
just crimson streams
a truth we misconstrue
yet in the gaze upon our wounds
we endeavor to find solace beyond
in moments that sever
Apr 26, 2023
Apr 26, 2023 at 7:59 PM UTC
The coach capsized and spilled its freight,
a glut of rabid reprobates,
who swarm towards a sea of lights
and fill their cups with harbour nights.
We do not heed the lighthouse glare,
or match the fortune-teller's stare.
We storm the cliffs as if to pillage
the gift shops of this seaside village.
We mill around a restaurant's doors
and nip at hot dogs with our claws.
Stockpiling rock up by the stick,
whilst wearing hats marked 'Kiss Me Quick'.
Because we cannot hear their cries
for whispered arcade lullabies,
the gulls will dance above the tide
and mock sandcastle suicides.
The distant fort once planted proud,
clings to the hillside like a shroud.
Its craggy face a last dissuasion,
against the sea's saline invasion.
Perhaps the Ferris wheel's arc,
can count each dawn against the dark.
A spotlight shone upon each heart,
as we rehearse our weathered parts.
Pastime play or parlor show,
we forget the lines we ought to know
and stumble on with blind devotion,
to pour our years into the ocean.
And yet! We catch the child's smile,
projected on a seafront mile.
His mirth casts doubt upon the claim,
that each new act concludes the same.
The beach begins and ends each dance,
each interval a second chance
to wake the youth we put to sleep
and cast the hourglass into the deep.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
“I’ve become lost in the cross hairs of love and lust.”
His line of thought became stagnant with no one to watch,
spellbound by her snare looking for someone to care,
her words would trimmer proving to much to bare—
“it’s just not the same, in the way that i love you,
something doesn’t remain.”
A sword breeched his heart that day,
vessel went off course filling with black waters of spite,
lines became blurred, compass askew,
naive conceptions of a roadmap wouldn’t do.
“Rain washed away our chalk, it’s not all lost”
this thought’s become seared,
simmering in his mind until the time would come.
I can’t talk of the grilling in our prince’s kingdom,
except that the tyrannical king, made hell his home.
Acidity was palpable, yet still he continued,
never ceasing words kept him through—
“but I do love you” until the fat lady’s tune,
sulking in the nostalgia of her swoons.
He continued to praise her more than the moon
thanks the sun, for illuminating it’s room,
in the sky, and the stars scream out cries,
for the mangled prince lays waiting only for her shine;
however the lyrics must stop, at some point,
the fat ladies pitch will drop,
until the nightingales love song stops.
Scared to be hurt once again,
a vow has been made that no more friends will be lost,
or bring pain, but this came at a cost.
Drowned by sorrow he knew only one way to manage,
cut everyone out because they can do damage.
Reclusive, seclusive, he shut out all,
friends’ unaware, the ball couldn’t have dropped further;
ashamed, self-disdained the thought feels like ******
What of the piper that doesn’t pipe?—As grim as tales come,
stuck between a gloc and a hard bane.
“Baring may be impossible” he said to cold steel,
heavier than expected, ice-like to his lips,
sitting against the wall, with a cumbersome grip.
Last text sent “Take care of everyone for me, you’re now the guardian.”
Panic set in friends, but it was all to late to heed.
Until the end comes, he looks into the cosmos of his mind,
and lastly to her shrine; final thoughts unknown,
except to the wall and rug bellow
but here I’ve presumed— “I will love you forever”
trigger pulled, death concludes.
RIP- Clay
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
A familiar garden.
Irises quietly ponder,
Tulips shyly unfurl,
Daffodils chime with glee.
Each seed buried and broken,
Carving paths and
Gasping for breath.
Sunlight in small doses
And rain in large.
Relentless battles against those who
Grew faster and taller but
Fell much harder.
A moment of flourishing
From a thousand moments of nourishing.
Petals soaking up
The glory of the day and
The tranquility of the night.
And as the season concludes
And the seeds fall once more,
I have faith
That my sacrifice will once more feed
The familiar garden.
May 23, 2022
May 23, 2022 at 1:45 AM UTC
When garnet sunset
dances across a panorama
ribbons of fire aflame
add to the drama
majestic, splendid
as hot molten lava
then too soon concludes
the sun's samba
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC