"converted" poems
O tower of light, sad beauty
that magnified necklaces and statues in the sea,
calcareous eye, insignia of the vast waters, cry
of the mourning petrel, tooth of the sea, wife
of the Oceanian wind, O separate rose
from the long stem of the trampled bush
that the depths, converted into archipelago,
O natural star, green diadem,
alone in your lonesome dynasty,
still unattainable, elusive, desolate
like one drop, like one grape, like the sea.
12.8k
By now,the seed varieties of the world,
may have been attacked beyond recovery
by wars of pretense and relapses.
We are still learning
how to handle it properly.
We tend to say.
Some will talk and plan over dinner parties,
over TV or Radio. Most will leave
it behind like another corpse
of lessons thrown to the gutter,
like a dead *** on another Sunset Boulevard.
Iraq's seed banks
we blew up in the 2000s.
In various places in Asia
and the Middle East, places of life and cultured
varieties gone in an instant.
Echoing our imprisoned
ignorance and drives for more instant goods and services.
Indian farmers have committed mass suicides after
their god Hanuman was used by a chemical giant
to sell poison seeds and renewed
bondages of indebtedness.
One question a stranger asked a group of writers on tour
was not what their poetry or books were about,
nor why they wrote it, but how writing may and
may not be helping as we make decisions and solve problems now?
Once agricultural lands turn into new promises
of commercial buildings. Cities of inaccessible towers and
abandoned malls in America, Spain, China, and Russia
feeds us back our own echo.
Like converted uses of lands, our humanity
is converted into inanimate collections and status
symbols of some players or parties. As we face
our continuing struggle between
our oppressor-selves and our genuine roots.
Despite the perversions,
inside vicious habits of waste
where we glorify promises of war and efficiencies,
we continue to be entrusted with the ongoing lessons:
Rarely do surviving generations through famine, war and diseases,
throw away means to live, or destroy any kind of seed.
Every day we wake to the ruins and remains of
Our living poetry, word spaces, hours, exchanges,
gains and losses, stopping and going. This time,
not just for fires of anguish or unnecessary losses,
but for each other's midnight lamps.#
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 12:42 AM UTC
A steady minded person might tell you that everything can be measured, calculated and converted into a language of black and white, solutions worked out with sharpened pencils.
How do I measure my heart breaking?
Tell me,at what rate did my heartstrings snap when he told me he was leaving?
How long until all of my broken bones turn into dust?
Calculate at what speed the tears rolled down my checks.
How many doctors will it take to sew my heart back together?
Was it when he crumpled me up like a wasted idea etched onto a piece of notebook paper that everything started to bleed?
What part of my brain did his gentle hands touch that woke my monsters from their slumber?
How many days until this aching in my swollen chest turns into a gentle throb?
When will I be okay again?
Takes this pain and your sharpened pencils and rip the numbers from the dead hands of his name. Do away with the emotion like he did away with me.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 9:54 PM UTC
Shopping outfashioned hunting and gathering,
Processed beats fresh,
Groceries replaced fruit trees,
Malls superceded forests,
Churches outnumbered temples,
Countries dissolved to territories,
Places devolved to areas,
Paths broke down into highways,
Commodity converted to currency,
Laborers submit to machinery,
Masters engage in humbug,
Apprentices reduced to students,
Knowledge downgraded to education,
And education is deducted to a show of grades,
While schools are the stages,
And the corporate world is the bigger runway,
With work slumped to employment,
Wisdom demoted to profession,
Where in jobs are the only future,
Careers are the only success,
Clicking and pressing buttons are skills,
Computers are correspondent to brains,
Information refers to news reports,
Intelligence means up-to-dateness,
Browsing is preferable to reading,
Studying is in demand more than learning,
Viewing things flashed on screens yields awareness,
Transportation is to traveling,
As buying is to the three basic needs,
And needs embody worldly possessions,
Worldly possessions define happiness,
Happiness is due to selfishness,
Selfishness is traced to the lack of love,
The lack of love draws from the lack of faith,
Because faith stands for religion,
And religion stands for membership,
Where politicians are the gods,
Celebrities are the preachers,
And the preachers are the enemies,
While networking is equal to friendship,
And connection equates to communication,
Experiences require photos,
Memories necessitate uploading,
Souvenirs can be downloaded,
Smartphones are substitute to pets,
Gadgets are toys,
Holding controllers is playing,
Watching TV is exploring the great outdoors,
Internet is recreation,
And technology is a way of life;
While humans are scientists,
Nature is a guinea pig,
And the earth is a laboratory,
Where prices are misidentified for worth,
Processes are miscalculated as progress,
Impoverishment is confused with improvement,
And getting more is mistaken as getting better;
And then we wonder why
Homes have become houses,
Family members have become boarders,
Nations are separate species
Composed of tired and hungry citizens,
Children are monsters
Who are biochemically rascals,
Teenagers are zombies
Whose adventures lead to delinquency,
Adults are robots
Who just clang when touched,
And life is not so simple
As how it is said to be.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 5:40 AM UTC
Saying my "goodnight"s to God my prayer inadvertently strays
As my mind starts to wander in a million different ways.
I reflect on where we started thousands of years in the past,
When our first parents made a poor choice with consequences that would a long time last.
Imagine:
Not having to pray to God thru Christ his son
But rather speaking to him as a friend one-on-one.
As you walk in your garden with no property bounds
You delight in the peace with the animals & the variety of sounds.
But alas that deadly bite they took
And the hope of everlasting life forsook.
Their once perfect bodies now began to decay
And onto their offspring this curse did relay.
So the wheels in my head now spin
To my inheritance of sin
And my determination to overcome
The inherent sin to which most succumb.
Though the enemies try to fight
To bring me down with all their might
I know there is a stronger power
A refuge & strong tower
Into which I'm able to run
When my own strength is done
Because although we're born from them
God's word like a precious gem
Promises that to us he will incline
Because between our sin & perfection is a fine line.
He made us in HIS image out of love
Exercising His power from the heights above
Instantly displaying His justice when His purpose was diverted
In His infinite wisdom knowing His true lovers could not be converted.
Promising to us he would restore
Conditions of the Earth as they were before
Paying with the life of his Son the ultimate price
So that all exercising faith could once & always live in Paradise..
© 2012
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 12:57 AM UTC
Through years of my prime
I walked with a heart
crazy about love.
I wanted my heart to bloom
and shelter a shadow of love.
when the heart was soaked in passion
and was wet,
I wanted to wrench it dry
on love itself.
I wanted to paint a picture,
in indelible print, across
the canvass of my heart.
I stand today
in front of the Taj Mahal.
I watch the marble smiling
as the sunlight gives it a touch.
I feel gusts of wind
gone mad
as they come across
the heights of love here.
I listen to the music, waking in
the dream-eyed visitors' quiet hearts.
I am tipsy after my
own feelings
themselves have become wine.
I forget myself, world and all.
I don't know
whether I'm thinking of Shah Jahan,
Mumtaj or myself.
I'm quite disillusioned, stupefied,
enveloped under an expanding heart.
Shah Jahan who proved
an emperor to be shorter than a lover,
who turned a grave into a temple
who gave his beloved a place of God
and converted love into a prayer.
there exists one difference between
us two.
he was all in all, and if
I'd ever grown prosperous like he was,
I'd not have waited for my beloved's death
before I erected a Taj Mahal.
(Translated from Nepali by Manu Manjil)
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
did not know her when she was miniskirts and high heels,
before she converted to the one true religion of
poetry & yoga
some stray dog thots raveling in a pack
cross the not-even-6am brain that alternates tween
new day Adam apple crumb crisp and
distracting lascivious Eve ones
I,
would have loved you same back then,
no different than now
I,
write in different styles
under so many pseudonyms,
but it is the same man
I,
who crawls into bed nightly with
great expectations and a list of salutations
to wake you up and commence writing how
I,
love your poetic yoga-toned long legs
snaking between mine
while I imagine them in miniskirts and high heels
which is a long way round of saying
You,
alone, my darling forever young one,
are my
one true religion...
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
We just drove through a small town
It was fascinating
Fascinatingly morbid
Morbidly surreal
There were probably 10+ plots that were haphazardly converted into graveyards
'Ratchet' as my generation would think but not say because that would be 'disrespectful to the dead'
In each of the graveyard were hundreds of graves
And it was strange
Strange how such 'ratchet, disrespected and haphazard' graveYARDS
Contained such Beautiful and ornate gravestones
As if to say that nothing could lessen the glory of their death
They would leave behind an impression of beauty
Even in death
(Even though they never chose their gravestones. But don't say that because it would be 'disrespectful to the dead' in their blissful abyss)
It makes one think
That in a town of less than 1000
There was easily more than 2000 gravestones
It shows how life goes on
How, even in a small town, we are insignificant
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
Breathe in,
breathe out,
there,
you have just successfully converted oxygen into carbon dioxide,
you have been productive,
you have done enough today to give the trees a job,
like a tired mother,
they go around un-doing everything you've worked so hard on,
In,
out,
muscles relaxing,
tension releasing,
carbon dioxide expelled,
diluted by the oxygen,
in,
out,
lungs burning,
legs aching,
quick,
sharp,
inoutinoutinout,
hands on hips,
bent at the waist,
a long red ribbon laying broken at your feet,
inoutin out in out in out,
calming,
slowing until it is normal again,
in,
o-,
your breathe catches,
heart beating faster,
eyes locked,
a great love epic in the making,
the carbon dioxide sitting in your lungs waiting for you to remember to release it,
screaming lungs silenced by a pounding heart,
insides so loud,
outsides completely silent.
OUT,
in,
out,
lungs comforted,
heart calmed by the brain,
continue walking,
normal,
in,
out,
the trees following behind you,
fixing all the air you have ruined,
and giving it back to you, once again.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
***Put on your yamaka, it's time for Hanukkah
So much fun-akkah to celebrate Hanukkah,
Hanukkah is the Festival of Lights,
Instead of one day of presents, we have eight crazy nights.
But when you're the only kid in town without a Christmas tree, Heres a list of
people who are Jewish, just like you and me:
David Lee Roth lights the menorah,
So do James Caan, Kirk Douglas, and the late Dinah Shore-ah
Guess who eats together at the Carnegie Deli,
Bowzer from Sha-na-na, and Arthur Fonzerrelli.
Paul Newman's half Jewish; Goldie Hawn's half too,
Put them together--what a fine lookin’ Jew! [Esus]
You dont need Deck the Halls or Jingle Bell Rock
Cause you can spin a dreidel with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock--both Jewish!
[Esus]
Put on your yamaka, its time for Hanukkah,
The owner of the Seattle Super Sonic-ah celebrates Hanukkah.
O.J. Simpson-- not a Jew!
But guess who is...Hall of Famer—Rod Carew--(he converted!)
We got Ann Landers and her sister Dear Abby,
Harrison Ford's a quarter Jewish--not too shabby!
Some people think that Ebeneezer Scrooge is,
Well, hes not, but guess who is: All three stooges. [Esus]
So many Jews are in show biz--
Tom Cruise isn't, [tacit] but I heard his agent is. [Esus]
Tell your friend Veronica, its time to celebrate Hanukkah
I hope I get a harmonica, on this lovely, lovely Hanukkah.
So drink your gin-a-tonic-ah, and smoke your mara-juanic-ah,
If you really, really wanna-kah, Have a happy, happy, happy, happy
Hanukkah……. HAPPY HANUKKAH!***
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
Surrounded by a bunch of fake friends, claiming
"We don't talk like we used to anymore,"
Passing blame like cigarettes,
And stifling the urge to choke:
Strong men. Even the sponge of our lungs is hardened
Stainless steel because no broken promises
Are gonna mar the way we breathe,
**** panic attacks; just contain it 'til we implode
Volcanoes collapsing in on themselves,
Chests crumbling, collapsing, converted into ash
Blood turned lava, thick like the way we all used to be
(Thick as thieves, thick as thieves)
And hot as the temper that erupts in me
Every time you fog my head with morphine,
Numb the pain your lies have caused me
Have me lie back and swallow down pills
Am I supposed to just take what you've given me
And ignore what you've taken from me?
Thick as thieves, thick as thieves:
Why'd you steal from me?
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
A rich man's son inherits want
with no desire to work hands bare
Gives the job to another man
to look out from his easy chair
A poor man's son inherits grace
born of toil and sweat of his brow
He adjudged of hard earned merit
pushes on what body will allow
The rich man's son inherits greed
with what malice it may entail
Thinking others beneath his station
for lack of character he does ail
The poor man's son inherits kindness
which with all others level stands
Then asks the outcast bless his door
to share the fruit of his two hands
Heir to what is the rich man's son
tender flesh that fears the cold
To the poor never gives his time
nor dare he wear a garment old
Inheriting, it seems to me
what no good man would wish to be
Heir to what is the poor man's son
strong muscles and pounding heart
Chipped of a marble character
beloved by all he touched in part
Inheriting, it seems to me
what all good men would wish to be
Tate
This is one of three poems I have converted to a new all video format well worth the look at what I feel is the future of our art.
Original all video version
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/1355765/
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
Innocence Molested
Innocence has been molested, thrown in dust bin
Just without any sin and just without any crime
The only sin of little girl was to get education to win
The laurels in days to come to serve in her prime
Morality has gone to dogs and dogs are but stray
Their masters are trying hard to save them for brutality
Shameless creatures are hidden in their ***** way
But this time they will not be safe for but heir hostility
Zainab was ***** and killed in the age of just seven
While her parents were on holy journey to Makkah
So sweet a girl being a martyr she embraced heaven
Her chastity purity were converted by rascals to saga
Criminals must be hanged till death for their ***** sin
Little girl be given justice with exemplary punishment
No more little girls be molested ,thrown but in dust bin
Corrupt elements be annihilated as declared and meant
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2018 Golden Glow
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 4:53 AM UTC
Hey you,
Is it fun bullying me?
I wanna enjoy it too.
Why do you keep bullying me?
Is it because I'm way more better than you?
Hey you,
Have you ever thought what the bullied one goes through?
You can't even imagine what it is like to be being bullied
Because you're so lost in bullying others and enjoy it.
You're making that guy's self esteem and self confidence die within
Someday that bullied one will lose every hope and **** himself
Will you be enjoying even then?
Can you survive with the burden of his death?
Can you ever forgive yourself?
Or will you be regretting the rest of your life?
So man here's my advise
Stop bullying the weaker ones
Because days are not always the same
Someday someone stronger one may come
And then you'd be converted from a bully to a bullied one.
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 3:26 AM UTC
~
Creatively I died inside a butterfly’s wing
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
Elevation
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Twisted, converted
Underneath a pyramid
Midriff monsoon
Against the red noon of the Moon’s
Lunar tunes
Nightmares growing from daydreams
Like weeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Broken seeds
The eyes of the Owl see
As wisdom he reads
Turn green with greed
No longer wise as pride
Glides and rides
Across the deceit of his landslide
Crashing like a crystal avalanche
Crushing lives and habitats
See one choice can lead back to the beginning
Of the first inning of a sliver lining
That has become dull
Losing its shine and luster
Like a haunted hall
In a old mansion cobwebbed with fluster
Skeletons and ghost threaded in walls
Shredded inside papery calls
Peeling from the owners fall
I’ve died inside the butterfly’s wing
The wing carved on a wedding ring
Its circle symbolizes my cycle
A tilted infinity inside the curve of clarity
Of my fall
That became a papery call
While threaded in a skeleton wall
Cobwebbed with fluster
Like a haunted hall
That has lost its shine and luster
Which became dull
Like the first inning of the silver lining
This choice has led back to the beginning
Crushing lives and habitats
Like a crystal avalanche
Crashing across the deceit of this landslide
Which glides and rides
No longer wise as pride
Turns green with greed
As wisdom he reads
The eyes of the Owl see
Broken seeds
Reflecting the soul as darkness gleams
Like nightmare and weeds
Growing from daydreams
Lunar tunes of the Moon
Glowing against red noon midriff monsoon
Underneath a pyramid
Twisted, converted
Planted deep in a spiders imagination
Elevation
Buried in the womb of a bird’s song
Sing…
For I’ve creatively died inside the ink of a butterfly’s wing
Dripping from an alien’s pen-well
Melting like clear gel
Faded and blurred
Secretly grew in between each verb
Hid myself in sentences
Like parables in genesis
With glee…
I impregnated the meaning inside me
Then birthed surrealism
In a chaotic schism
Between the fifth and second chord
Of a poetic discord
~
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, ‘fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract and look another way.
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
Unlooked on diest, unless thou get a son.
3.1k
One can easily become disillusioned in a world senselessly
Filled with confusion and upheaval – evil at every corner,
and it appears as though good has become unsustainable
Bleak as tomorrow’s tidings may, I stay on bended knees
Looking upward with unanswered questions - let wisdom
Rain down like libations, to quench thirst wrought off miles
upon life’s rugged road, and before the end has come I want
To have left behind a legacy of achievement, taking whatever
Motivation I can get to buildup up conviction, until cynicism
is converted into action - my spirit soaring like an eagle propels
My ambition to loftier heights thought unimagined – so I wait
Patiently for a windfall gain, made from choices to facilitate change
For I’m indomitable, from a lineage of kings rising above the worlds
condition, like a sprightly star among the constellations…
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
i always end up like this
no matter what type of event i'm at
sitting, alone, in the back
but this time, there
on the church basketball court
converted into a dancefloor
just as roughly as i also was converted
into a church dance attendee
in dark grey corduroys
and a crimson dress shirt
(missing a collar button)
not to mention a shave
(far too thorough, as i always am)
and a haircut by my uncles hand-
it was there,
that i was choking back tears,
tears caused by glancing up momentarily,
javing five or more beautiful girls
meet my eyes, and smile invitingly
(telling me to stand)
but still being unable to drag myself out of that chair
and walk over to them.
an inability caused by her,
the one i still love(d)
wherever she happens to be.
but, this inability to move
is not her fault.
we're over
and i'm a free man,
so i make my mind up,
wipe my eyes,
and stand;
rising to look at the faces
of the two who are telling me
to walk, to tap, to ask, to dance
and
without a word
i walk into that crowd
leaving them behind.
but
she's still here.
and, keeping that in mind
i enjoy myself
but every face
every conversation
dissolves,
as my footsteps do-
as the music does-
at the end of each song
©Brandon Webb
2012
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 9:21 PM UTC
A tale,
Of two pals,
Ego possessed the former,
Self-respect imbibed the latter.
The former faced problems, complained;
The latter solved problems, smiled.
One, choosy and demanding;
Other, suitable and acceptable.
Fortunately,
Acquiring jobs,
In a corporation,
Standing at the threshold
Of promising careers,
Days rolled on
And the day arrived
For promotion.
Self-respect surpassed,
Ego lagged behind.
Thoughts converted into self-realization,
Truth revealed.
Ego satisfied merely the senses
"I want this" and "I want that"
Self-respect implied acceptance
"I respect this and I accept that."
To further proceed,
To reach the summit,
'I' and 'my' be discarded,
'We' and 'ours' be adopted.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
I am terribly sorry that I ran into you. I can see that you are a bit puzzled because you think that you know me. Perhaps we have met a time or two or maybe every holiday last year, but I don’t blame you for forgetting. You see, I have changed…quite a bit and I can tell that you are very confused. It’s not the way you are looking at me or the way that I am looking at you, or the way that you are looking at me looking at you or the way that I am looking at you looking at me. Wait, why are you looking at me? Oh yeah, you are probably wondering whether or not to ask me if I am that sweet little innocent queer barista at the nearby coffee shop down the street or the ****** up **** that your daughter so disgustingly fell in love with during her crazy high school phase. Yeah… that may or may not have been me. You know, you might want to tell your daughter to call me because she left some things at my house and I have been trying to get them back to her for years now.
Oh uh…Who am I you ask? It seems that you still aren’t following me. I mean my identity means nothing to you…or at least it shouldn’t, but I will try to enlighten in the best way that I can. You see, my identity has always been the person that you see before you. It’s just that for most of his life, he was trapped under the softly sweet smelling perfumes and make up that tortured him for a good solid 15 years. His identity masked from everyone around him. The man you see before you is indeed the imaginary boyfriend that your daughter claimed to have all those years of middle school because she refused to bring him home for fear that her parents would call her a lesbian. He may or may not also be the **** that you refused to acknowledge every night at dinner on every freaking holiday he was at your house every year during high school; Your daughter’s Lesbian friend that was conjoined to her hip 24/7. Little did you know, I was the boy she wanted to marry, the one and only person she ever felt loved her. He hid in plain sight for several years. Yet you never noticed. That is, until the night you caught us.
You see, I am not the Lesbian that converted your daughter. Or even the **** that ruined her life. I am the boy who has always been by her side through everything. The man who promised to forever remain by her side, through whatever life tossed her way. I fell in love with her on the first day of 6th grade and I haven’t stopped loving her since. She will forever be the love of my life and….Wait why are you crying? I have some news that might cheer you up. You know that sweet boy that your daughter has been seeing, who she has refuses to bring to dinner? Yeah…you may or may not be looking at him. Let me introduce myself, I’m Aimes.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
Before man came to blow it right
The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
In any rough place where it caught.
Man came to tell it what was wrong:
It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard—the aim was song.
And listen—how it ought to go!
He took a little in his mouth,
And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
And then by measure blew it forth.
By measure. It was word and note,
The wind the wind had meant to be—
A little through the lips and throat.
The aim was song—the wind could see.
2.8k
Sorry to trouble you,
but there’s something I ought to tell you now that you’re here.
If you came here looking for an interesting poem to read,
I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.
Why?
Because this is not a poem.
This is not a narrative detailing a certain someone doing something in a certain time and place.
This is not a series of lyrics longing to be converted into music.
This is not a picture made up of a thousand words – or thousands for that matter.
This is not a fancy epic or tragedy or comedy bound by the treacherous laws of stanzas.
This is not an ode to a pre-existing memory – or several memories for that matter.
This is not a set of verses born free from the daunting laws of stanzas.
This is not even a collage of pre-existing poems mixed and matched to the heart’s content.
Simply put – this is anything but a poem.
Even if it was,
I doubt that it would be the kind of poem you would want to read.
You would most likely find better poetry somewhere else.
Here, there is no narrative, no subject matter and no context.
Therefore, if this was a poem,
it would be about absolutely nothing and have no meaning whatsoever to anyone.
That’s why I’m telling you that this is not a poem.
That’s why I’m advising you to look for a real poem elsewhere.
But, no matter what I say,
you wouldn’t listen to me anyway, would you?
I made it clear from the beginning that this is not a poem,
but you read it through to the end regardless.
Why is that?
Why would you take the time to read something about absolutely nothing?
Were you curious?
Did you just happen to stumble upon this while minding your own business and decide to take a peek out of curiosity?
Or were you bored?
Were you feeling desperate to find something completely different from the poetry you would normally read?
Either way,
this was never meant to be a poem waiting to be read.
And yet, in spite of that,
you read it anyway.
For that, I feel that the least I can do in return is say this:
Thank you.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
A breath, yours
soft, hot, chilling
the ear, mine
curved - an art on skin
the meeting of both
explodes, a confetti of feelings
a beat becomes a throb
throbbing madness
of that breath that still flows
a begging of hearts
a pleading of souls
begging the emptiness of body
an urging of minds
that breath that still flows
into begging hearts
fills the pleading souls
walls crumble
on soft ground they meet the heart
received, converted into trust
by the breath that still flows
excitement abides
eyes meet and hold
gazes into abysses of longing
a tide covers the belonging
the connection of two hearts at sea
joined by that breath that still flows
into that skin, that art
is but the wind with memory
spun, ebbed, blown, twisted by time
made into dreams fused with reality
the tail of one, the head of the other
its that breath that still flows
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 12:34 PM UTC
O my God
the ride down here
to this base camp
in those converted
army trucks
wasnt that something?
Miriam says
my face felt frozen
and my hair
looked as if
Id been in front
of a massive
hair-dryer
for hours
I sip my coke
and watch her
sitting at the bar stool
thinking
her jaw sure must
have unfroze
since shed not
stopped speaking
for a good five minutes
and guess who
Im sharing
a tent with?
she informs
I dont know
I say
that hippy girl
you know the one
whose boyfriend
looks like Jesus
o yes
I know the one
yes so whats
she like
to share with?
o you dont
want to know
she says
then dont tell me
o but I must
so she does
and as she rabbits on
I study her hair
a mass of curls
tight and red
which reminded me
of a guy
I worked for once
who said
I took a red head
out last night
no hair
just a red head
and I laughed
because he was
my employer
but it was a kind
of put on laugh
and o
she says
and thats not all
when she undresses
at night in the tent
I am brought back
to the present
and am all ears
hanging on to
her every word
about the dame
**********
like a penitent
awaiting
a priests blessing.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC