"copes" poems
“Amanda,” she said, in a bold assertion
“We really are the same
Person.” Limp in the dew and
Wise like a sage, no wound cut
No blood shed, yet,
There was something this
Bandage shut,
Something yawning, gaping
But I don’t know what…
How sad! She’s crying, that Amanda,
Shrugging ‘gainst the colic rain
And almost lost in the copes-y veranda,
Weeping softly on
Those concrete flats, wearing “Red Tom’s
And” both “Dating Matts” while
I saw her fear in that moment, appalling, stalling
With soroitous heart, “and fear of falling!”
Binding them tightly: “That’s US haha!”
How many laughs does a limp spirit draw?
—(a disparaged few or none at all…)
Still, she writes, “I am so glad” (a huff annoyed
From Amanda, distant and sad, that I
Can’t tell why “you” ever “joined.”)
But this is not my place, a passerby,
To pick up trash, inane and lonely,
To cast my judgments and inquire—why?
To heal the unbroken with words unspoken
But scratched on refuse, she may
“[heart] you” but refuse you, too
The spirit of [heart] in Amanda awoken
—(But she refused it, too!)
And then be a token
Some stranger takes home.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 7:52 AM UTC
she sat, back to passers by,
just out of the pouring rain,
wet hair, feet too, both socks soaked,
through and through.
Her short blonde-dyed locks were more like a pointy sponge drying in the wind.
rearranging to find dry things to wear,
blue gauze dress dripping water too,
naked to her underwear, without a care,
she put on her polka dot pajamas,
that were meant for nights you played twister, with her.
But she was so alone. On concrete steel stairs at a mall
central to the city where being a street person is a
measured percentage of the population,
what frustration,
and with distrust she stared anyone down,
talked in an angry voice, to everybody around. But there was no one,
who would stop, three over stuffed bags of belongings
while swearing and tossing her
head, longing to be someplace warm,
away from harm. That got her to this point in time.
Her feet were covered, and maybe warmer,
she packed and repacked all that she had,
and she was mad, like angry,
and on concrete stairs, and on user beware, and on the bottom of the arc
of her life so far,
so far away from the dreams she had as a little girl,
so far away from the hopes that she now only copes,
from one breath to the next breath and smokes a cigarette in between.
Alone, she knows better not to despair, no one would care if she did.
©DWE012014
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
Someday
maybe one day, he says
I'll strum the strings of time
to echo vibrations from someday
till today
Someday
maybe one day, he says
I'll rearrange the stars
to spell "yes, they are!"
because it's truly bizarre
Someday
maybe one day, he says
I'll ask the moon how he copes
with the sun, every time he rises
and she sets
Someday
maybe one day, he says
I'll get the jar of wishes
and plant them in all of
my today's, my everyday's
Someday
maybe one day, he says
I'll lie on your side
and listen to memories of your breaths
and let them carry me into
deep slumber
Someday
maybe one day, he says
this roof will expand
to meet the ends of the earth
to be big enough to fit all our dreams
Someday
maybe one day, he says
I'll erase all dark days
and force the sun to rise
to new better days
Someday
maybe one day, he says
will be
"the day"
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 3:54 AM UTC
Nashville lights, twilight sights
The dancer's dream, the faded stream
perfumed ally, vagrant sally
The words that call, the deadly fall
Embraced indifference, padded surveillance
The silent dreams, The nightly screams.
Whispered messages, diluted references
Fresh bound hopes, depravity copes
indecent alliance, vengeful compliance
dressed for show, momentum's flow
A southern will, the bitter pill
These little flickers that embrace
The dreams of fame's tormented face.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 1:23 PM UTC
The nurses
must think I’m asleep
because my eyes are closed
but my blind eyes
can see nothing
whether open or closed
I lie thinking
about how I danced
with Clive back in 1939
what will happen
to Grace now?
one nurse says
talking nearby
her leg stumps
are healing now
but whether she'll walk again
depends how she copes
another nurse says
no sight either
how does she
make out that?
the first nurse says
she's still pretty though
no scars or ****** damage
and that gentleman
who visited her
wants to take her
out to dinner when
she is more able
I lie still
pretend I am sleeping
wanting to hear more
my leg stumps throb
and my none
existent feet itch
and I want
to scratched them
but lie still
trying to act
a sleeping beauty
waiting for my prince
to come
her house was bombed
but she was pulled
out alive but her maid
was killed
the nurse says
breaking into my act
the feet itching
the stumps throbbing
my eyes wanting
to see again
the nurses move away
outside
hitting windows
a harsh fall of rain.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
You pull
I push
The break is never easy, like taffy cooked too long
Shattering when stretched thin
That's how my inner monologue copes with anorexia
Eating holes straight through
But you could never stand the smell
Driftwood wet-rot thoughts boiling down
Catarizing the wound that always worries
My sluggish heart
Take a deep breath
Swollen and stolen it beats heavy in the starving cavity of my wintery chest
Longing for summer
For the cosmic revolution that will bring it back around to the aching center
The sun.
You.
Life.
Wake me up when night falls
Wake me up with stars burning behind my eyes
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 2:55 PM UTC
Waiting for Oblivion
A force starting to become drown
in oceans of silence around him
A "time clown"
Laughter, inside of his insanity grows from the halls of uncertainty
Cold waters of future's question pour from his soul
Back into the already unpredictable waters of existence
No boat to carry him
Tight inside..his life situated like a goldfish inside a goldfish bowl
Across and all over a bitter salt-drenched Soul It remains..Raining..
Waters flowing..A dark force growing
Lack of relief as help through these tortuous hours
His darkness cannot run from it
What light that is left inside of him....the force aims to discard such
Knowing...Feeling faded from never being heard from his loud cries
Those about who fail to understand why he calls them out
He remains as strong as he can remain
doggy Paddling
Until his head is drug down and his muscles start to fail
to paddle him afloat
He shall keep in this cycle of pain
Which is like a beautiful castle kept unvisited by a deadly
and dark moat
The test is "now" in such quiet and lengthy times
As he copes until the answer to his shouted question arrives
Through these long and untested rimes.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 1:32 AM UTC
I know what a crash dummy feels
While pouring down rain was humming
Bracing myself with nerves of steel
Eyes wide won’t stop trouble coming
Driving cautiously in the storm
So many cars speeding on past
I’m thinking easy, slow, steady
Not fight or flight before a crash
I know how a crash dummy copes
Eyes wide open with teeth revealed
Safety first face forward bravely
Ever expecting he will yield
Disbelief that it’s barreling
Faster and faster, I lean in vain
No place to go but the shoulder
That whizzing missile blurs in the rain
I saw it coming without the squeals
Pathfinder’s barrel fully loaded
No skidding tires or screeching wheels
Slow motion shards of glass imploded
My little red car lurches forward
In a bang she begins to swerve
That SUV slammed into me
Before dropping back at the curve
I feel what a crash dummy feels
Releasing the damage inside
To let go the past and its sorrows
Straight ahead, there’s nowhere to hide
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
So much of life
Is wasted
Nine to Five
Exhaustion cripples
Down time, anxiety
Controls the next
Worry about bills
The looming certainty
And lingering doubt
Up at early
The pattern
Hardly broken
A vacation spent
Away; life's return
Still follows how
The training of
Nine to five
Work and life
But coffee copes
When the restless
Rise
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
Fred
The little baby girl
So full of life
Elizabeth
The child so eager
To take all that life
Can give her
Lizzy
The superstar wanna-be
Creating a dream
Holding on so tightly
Liz
Responsible, caring
She sees the world
With new eyes
And drops her head
Ardilla
She copes, she lives,
Yet she knows
The hope is gone
Angel
In love,
In glorious
Infatuation
Idzy
Growing patient and kind
Planning and learning
Making her own place in life
And carefully keeping
Her dreams at bay
So that he will
Ask her one day
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 1:43 PM UTC
is empty
echo
stacco
on the walls
through the halls
we run
and ride
bikes
hikes
we planned but never did
parents put the lid
on our dreams and thoughts
now the cots
and pots
are set up on the floor
I just want you more
with jelly jello jiggling right to my core
pour
pouring
rain
raining
training yourself
to starve a little more
more
ore
or
oranges stacked
stupidly packed
all the dishes are broken
and here is this ****** token
to replace the love I could never give you
here is your cue
to take all you have and leave
leave
leave
leaving
you are always just leaving
leaves are always just leaving
and thieves are always just coming
cuming
on my nose
pose
hose down you hopes
its only about how she copes
mopes
mops
and brooms
scattered in rooms
overlooking gray grass and blooms
and the wind blows the petals hard
card
signed only with your name
I don’t blame
you or her for preferring
your and hers second chance
dance
dance
dancing
in the empty house echoing.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
He's only 9 years old
so his mother thinks being on the brink of suicide
which she thinks about as much as she blinks
is totally oblivious to her son who is actually more in-sync
Then she knows or cares to know
cuz it would hurt her soo much
to know that every time she left the room to cry
he knew that she was
But we tend to think our kids
are more out of touch
or maybe we just hope
So her son like her copes alone cuz
He's only 9 yrs old
and doesn't know what to say
But psychologically it's damaging
As his emotions get away
From his control without a father
To guide him like he shoulda been
And his mom says his father died
but he knows she lies to protect him
From knowing he's unwanted
And as time goes on
All of this pain has build up putting
A timer that after so long
will set off a bomb
So as her son comes home from school
he heard his mom crying
And it has made him feel like a fool
So as he musters up the courage
he Walks in the bathroom door
To see his mom curled up in a ball
Crying in the corner on the floor
Where he sees the blood dripping
Off her arm where it withdrawls
Infront of her and On her so
He runs to her and falls
in her lap knowing the act that
Was Tryin to be done
So as he cries with her he
Looks in her eyes and says "mom "
I'm sorry for everytime I heard u
Cry, it was dumb not to
come find you and hug You
and tell you I love u
I'm sorry I never said that
and dad Maybe gone
But I'm still here and I'm not leaving
So please don't leave me mom
I know you think I don't know
All the things that I know
But I know a lot I just don't know
How to help stop it so
Its ok and i know dad isn't dead
I know He left cause of me
And I'm sorry that I ruined things
Cuz maybe he wouldn't leave
If I wasn't born, and thats what
left her torn which was enough
To make his mom totally lose it
As she tries to say his dad leaving was
Not his fault but
She couldn't breath let alone talk
She felt alone for so long but this
Time her observant son Left her in shock
And as they sit on the Floor crying,together,
her son says I'm always here if you need me
But plz mom promise
You'll never again try to leave me....
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
Average aesthetics impressed upon
the dreamers asleep with the television on.
They are selling validation,
the slippery crutch of the only comfort craved.
Forget the details,
we are ****** clockwork,
counted on to come,
but never arrive,
where saying no to yes
likens to tallying time
until what you are chewing
wants to be swallowed.
Pearly white definition grinding moments into pulp
for the insatiable,
that never goes hungry.
This is all of it.
****** *** and the rest.
The patriarch in his Sunday best.
The wild generation,
rejecting the paranoia of their parents.
The whole of the god **** world
who copes with a regurgitated existence by selling narcissism.
Ours is a secret we are trying to tell with our lives,
when it’s realized it dies,
causing mystics to spill their insides
over silence, the answer that can never be vocalized.
Lo emotion,
the romance of confusion!
The one thing that can have no institution,
in our modern illusion.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
These past nights I've been waking up from nightmares to the wind howling against my window; it's almost as though it's begging me to let it in so that it can whisper in my ears not to miss you. That's all I know how to do these days, other than search for the man on the moon and ask him how he copes with the loneliness. But even the moon reminds me of you; there's something about the glow that makes me think of your smile. The craters that remind me of the dimples in your cheeks. I wish I could tell you how much I miss you. But I can't make words out of this ache in my chest and I wish you were feeling this too so that I could know that at least my love was strong enough to make you feel something other than regret.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 11:41 PM UTC
Form on that jet-ski
Your messing with my horizon
And I can't avoid wandering how the water copes
Under your vibrations
Pumps and peaks of power
Like a plane
Or a mower
Or a heavy drill
Or any other human smear
On a human view of tranquil
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
I hate kids!
my girlfriend said to me
I love my children very much she says!
i just hate the things they say
they do not listen
allie is 2 and lilly is 3
they dont know what they do
they just do it
they make messes
and make their mother curse
I hate kids! she tells me
I love my children very much she says!
this is the way she copes
the way we all cope
because we all used to be 2 or 3
making messes
im 32 and i still make messes
my messes are easier to clean up
i love as well as i can
children love without regard
we could learn a lot from kids 2 or 3
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 8:52 AM UTC
Nothing similar here,
Nothing of value,
Like lost wind, graciously devouring us all,
I've seen thousands watch,
Place-time make-shaft growths,
Truth is we are all in it,
Like small drops of billowing souls,
SIMPLE:
Put the basket,
Over there,
near the drawer,
Where the penny men scream
And the daffodils cry,
Heaven's mercy proclaims,
That Love has a name,
FOUND:
She's near the ocean border,
Like cream she copes with all her cares,
First come, first serve,
Frivolous desires,
A certain dangling view,
Is following the nighttime glee,
Shadows of breaking yellow closed knit families,
Seething brightly forevermore
CONFIRM:
I know now,
Better days,
Of future events,
Follow close now,
The dragon is dead in sorrow,
The mask is broken,
The Maker of all things,
Both vast and venial,
Is truthfully today's greatest,
Merging of idea and life,
In one symposium of design and desire
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
Hyphenate thy walking ground, your thy hunger of slumbered town's, you fenced in doer!!! You rider of wild waves, homogenous to honeycomb's taste of thine hydrogen of implorations!!! Impotent words turn potent to imply further instruction,
Farther corruption comes,
Easier the raindrops flow!
Idle all your masteries to thine miseries,
Your sorceries likely unknown!!
I'm impoverish beyond belief,
Beyond thy receipts of studded diamond jewelry I have found!!!
Manifest questor,
You fancy and plain dresser's,
Arr thou lucratively winning?
Or art thou just beginning to lounge into modernized gain?
Marauders bones turn to sauder,
As Mardi gras is now the countries front page...
Marvel martyr's so penitent to past and present sin!!!
Pensioner's live in penthouse,
While ourn world copes to its end.....
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
Dad,
I am no longer your little girl
you can no longer protect me
not from the monsters within.
In a black hole you see me falling
In dark corners curling,
In the bottom of oceans sailing;
storms stonewalling.
Dad, you might think I am thralled -
But I tell you!
In my bed
I am appalling, trawling
reaching
for something to grasp
trying to calm myself down
Shoving the memories back.
Fighting the demons.
I see them
sprawling across
me
my dreams
my lungs
my THOUGHTS..
my thoughts
my thoughts...
DAD!!
I am betrayed
by my own mind...
my body
is REBELLING against me...
Despite the mountains
I trained
to carry
above my shoulders...
Some days -
Some days it feels
I am skinned alive...
One breeze of air
is enough to run sirens
alerting a world of
A BILLION neurons
Leaving me
stranded
agonised
looking for shelter,
wishing I can
crawl back
to my mother's womb
sit, curl, and hold my legs -
grasp the umbilical cord
hear her heartbeat
1... 2...
Breath... In... Out...
Dear Dad,
don't you worry.
You raised a strong girl.
patiently she learnt -
how to beautifully braid
her fears and tears.
Your little girl
learnt how to play-
with the monsters nested in the head....
and the monsters under the bed.... into poetic ink
and art on the wall
she transformed them all.
She is a survivor, who copes
That said...
Every now and then
in my own bubble
you'll see me
slipping
in my favourite corner
sitting
unconsciously
graves for my unborn children
digging
not seeing a point for
living.
Deep inside
I will be silently screaming
I am brave
I am brave
But I am
slightly cursed
scarred
wishing I was still
your little girl
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
Throw it under the scope
see how well it copes
Let’s start with some embarrassment
*eyes watching
hands writing*
Hm not quite what were looking for
amp up the embarrassment to shame
and throw in some...misdirection
*eyes rolling
hands clenching*
This one is putting up a good fight
We’ll see if it can handle this
Bring on the judgment
*eyes smiling
hands twitching*
Yes, yes that is much better
How I love to see the self loathing
hiding in their eyes
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
Miss Rea
well she has this thing
about men
well most men
not all men
but most
and it was something
she had from a child
well a young girl
and she hated it
when men were
alone with her
she'd blush and sort
of look kind of scared
as if any moment
they would do
something unseemly
but anyway
there she is
in the office
and in comes Mr Cloro
a nice guy
not much upstairs
but a decent kind of guy
and she looks at him
and he pores himself
a coffee out
of the coffee ***
on the stove
and she gazes
at his hands
and imagines
all sorts of things
he has done
with his hands
and she looks
at the mug he is holding
and thinks of how
his wife(if he has one
she doesn't know)
copes with him
near her
how she copes
having him breathe
near her
and God knows
what else he may do
while at home
and in bed
and the mere thought
of that
makes her go
a bright kind
of red.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
Snow flakes falling down,
Kids screaming in glee,
Families gathering,
Gifts giving,
It's Christmas!
Be happy, Be lovely, Be good!
Santa is gonna be here, Santa is gonna give love!
They say, give love on Christmas day.
They say, it's better to give than to receive.
That's Christmas for everyone.....
But did you ever think about giving gifts or food or a coat for the homeless people? Think about it.
You go out; wearing jacker, gloves, and a beanie.
Then you see a homeless person, an old poor fragile woman, only in her normal clothing.
Think about how she copes with the cold night wind, just to beg for coins and save it for food. For her, or for her family.
Not all Christmas are happy for everyone.
Don't complain if you don't like your food.
Don't complain how you don't like your gift.
Don't complain how your family is annoying, pushing you to wear your Christmas jumpers.
Because there are people who are wishing to be in your place, to feel how Christmas feels like.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
I was asked why I write poetry.
So here are the facts,
and just to recap this sometimes called rap.
This is poetry.
It is in everything we do.
Poetry is your family stress,
your pregnancy test,
and your house cleaning mess;
and poetry is me
because it is in me too.
This is the sense that blind Vince sees in.
It is the movie young Julie wants to be in.
It’s the last minute Jack and Coke for alcoholic Jack
and the last free **** for a broke bloke to smoke.
Poetry is how a grieving widow copes.
Also a good joke told really well
because poetry is a heavenly punch line
and a one-way ticket to find hell.
It is the way the leaves pile up on the ground.
Every intricate intertwining of
never mind me, step on down broken brown.
Poetry is the “how are you this morning”
(a stranger wrote that line)
It is the "how-to-book" to have when times look boring and
“Poetry is the loud fan that sounds out over the snoring”
(an ex-girlfriend wrote that line)
It’s the epitome of a perfect day.
The rock and hard place when things don’t go your way.
It is the time spent learning miracles at public schools
and I learned that “Poetry is all around. Class... Isn’t that cool?”
(my ex-teacher wrote that line)
But if it is all around then why have I found
the need to constantly write it down?
Why do I find that when times get thick
I find writing a really good poem does the trick?
Who can tell me why it is
when a girl falls for that guy
she fills up her notebook college lined
with a poem of his blue eyes?
“But I have green eyes”(a rejected me wrote that line)
Poetry is the captain’s stormed ocean.
Poetry is the pilot’s warm sky.
Poetry is like trying to throw knives
like words.
We exist where they hit
and we need to quit getting absurd trying to hit things.
Poetry is all about the truth,
getting kissed in ink.
You have to tattoo what the words mean to you.
The only thing I wish to do is find a Sharpie
and sharply write the words I’m sorry
because that’s the only thing I know how to say.
Poetry is spending the last 20 minutes looking at the words
"I love you" written across their ceiling
and not wanting to risk speaking them,
making the roof fall down around you.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
She don't come from riches,
but from love.
Better than anything from below or above.
Love is where, is here.
Difficult but without FEAR.
The random, the cure.
You know for sure,
Never a blur.
Together a community that has always stuck, looking out for one another, when down on your luck.
She knows how to be free and filled her cup.
Liquid and smoke....
The meeting of many blokes and folks, the telling of jokes.
She copes because of hope.
The rumbles through the streets, sometime woke you from your sleep.
She got your *** beat..gave you sore *** feet.
Danced and played for keeps.
Got her freak on beneath the sheets.
Waved good-bye and cryed.
Not by choice, but because of the loud voices of to much noise and big boy toys.
From an illiterate father, who made his living, was now being a bother.
Now she's grown six feet tall.
But hit a wall, turned around and there she is to show us all.
No where else has there ever been, not even close say most..
Missing her every once in a while.
It starts to itch.
I get this twitch.
Make a wish, blow her a kiss, oh my god baby you deserve so much more.
Never keeping score.
When I am right here, I am clean.
Feeling like a Queen
All once upon a dream.
Never leaves your side, no matter where you ride or try to hide.
You keep her with you all inside.
SHHHHHH........
Listen.....Did you hear?
Bitches...I grew up on rice street!
(Ladies and gentle men....I grew up on rice street)
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC