"cores" poems
If memories take time
Then I'm giving them away,
'Cause all I want's the closeness
Of thoughts from yesterday
If you turn your back to a tree
It falls, and you don't see
Is it different when you return to reality?
It remains that the tree is wood
The cores and rings and fibers still good
But I'm sure that doesn't matter
Because it changed the way it stood
I do my best to be unchanging
To coax you when you fell.
For friendship,I'd even let
You chop me down, as well
But you've sunken into shallow soils
Called these termites all your friends
And though it's your integrity rotting,
My memories have spoiled.
So think about that once again
When I've grown tired, and tough
Because height can give you limelight
But it's the roots that give you love
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
If you overesteem great men,
people become powerless.
If you overvalue possessions,
people begin to steal.
The Master leads
by emptying people's minds
and filling their cores,
by weakening their ambition
and toughening their resolve.
He helps people lose everything
they know, everything they desire,
and creates confusion
in those who think that they know.
Practice not-doing,
and everything will fall into place.
_______
"Lao Tzu is believed to have been a Chinese philosopher (a person who seeks to answer questions about humans and their place in the universe) and the accepted author of the Tao te ching, the main text of Taoist thought. He is considered the father of Chinese Taoism (a philosophy that advocates living a simple life).
Read more: Lao Tzu Biography - life, name, death, school, book, old, information, born, time http://www.notablebiographies.com/Ki-Lo/Lao-Tzu.html
Oct 7, 2010
Oct 7, 2010 at 9:50 AM UTC
The devils foot soldier;
That's what you turned to be.
The one I thought that I could trust;
Confuses my memory.
You water the flower to feed the roots;
Thus only to pluck the petals.
It reminds me of how strong you are;
Strong like crimson metal.
But that metal rusts, and the flower dies after you've shed them limb by limb.
Stripping them down to their naked cores;
And exposing their deadly sins.
We're all like flowers, but don't water the roots if you'll only pluck our petals.
It'll show the ugly truth inside;
Like rusted crimson metal.
Alysia Marie 2015 ©
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
In Benidorm there are melons,
Whole donkey-carts full
Of innumerable melons,
Ovals and *****
Bright green and thumpable
Laced over with stripes
Of turtle-dark green.
Chooose an egg-shape, a world-shape,
Bowl one homeward to taste
In the whitehot noon :
Cream-smooth honeydews,
Pink-pulped whoppers,
Bump-rinded cantaloupes
With orange cores.
Each wedge wears a studding
Of blanched seeds or black seeds
To strew like confetti
Under the feet of
This market of melon-eating
Fiesta-goers.
5.7k
Center of all centers, core of cores,
almond self-enclosed, and growing sweet--
all this universe, to the furthest stars
all beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.
Now you feel how nothing clings to you;
your vast shell reaches into endless space,
and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow.
Illuminated in your infinite peace,
a billion stars go spinning through the night,
blazing high above your head.
But in you is the presence that
will be, when all the stars are dead.
4.8k
I am sitting at a desk,
back straight, head forward, eyes open. Blink.
Economics melts into white noise as
supply curves become demand curves become supply curves, elasticity.
Water weeps through the crevasses of the windows and ceiling,
mocking my ever fragile existence.
Ankle deep in yesterday's cold forgotten words unsaid,
the lesson advances.
Demand curves become supply curves become demand curves, consumer surplus.
A single drop christens my desk and terror fills my long hollow eyes
as the ceiling mutates into a congregation of puddles.
Rain that felt of hydrochloric acid
dissolved the very flesh I tried to escape.
God is not so sweet when it comes to sinners,
confining me to the barriers of an insignificant wooden desk.
The class remains like mannequins,
indifference radiating from their plastic cores.
Supply curves become demand curves become supply curves, externalities.
The only witness to this nightmare,
my last breathe finally deserts me.
I tense as the numbing waves climb up my spine,
injecting lethargy in each individual vertebra.
Malicious tentacles wrap around my throat and water floods my collapsing black lungs.
White noise consumes the entire classroom as I float in and out of paralysis,
only to open my eyes. Blink.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
Emerging from the darkness,
Your face is encircled with stars of Orion.
Fog surrounding your silhouette.
Overwhelming force field separating
My aura from yours.
Walk a fine street of plated gold,
Deploring plastic cores,
and camera stores.
Flying fast,
Screaming at the past.
Back down from the galaxy.
I scream with ecstasy;
"I am Shakespearean!
I am Freudian!"
You are Napolean,
King Henry and Led Zeppelin!"
Crash, smash, crack myself open.
Electromagnetic magnetism.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
there was a sparkle in her eyes
I saw it
I saw it
no one else paid her any attention
and only I noticed the apple cores of her hands
unfulfilled
starving
hysterical
barren
barred
so she resorted to magic
the crazy stuff of existence
like the wheat she stashed in her sandbag heart
and when it found her not
despair shook the earth
around her sorrowful body
permeating disillusion
confusion
immersion in nothingness nothingness nothing
lonely lonely
and bottle caps launched from her fingernails
from the spiraling stems of madness that rampaged through her bulging pulse
with piercing shards of nothingness nothingness nothing
splitting her glowing veins
and sweetening her ever-kind
clueless
knowledgeable
brain brain brain
and where was the world?
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:26 PM UTC
It’s possible to speak too much to remember what your words mean.
And so is the two-fold danger faced by writers.
Danger is to pace a hole in the floor.
Danger is to stand until you can’t move anymore
like when shallow waves **** your feet into the sand.
So I try not to stand when I write.
I keep a narrow tack
without too many big words
which pedants use to dig great holes in the ground
–moats to keep others out–
or make you think they think big.
But anyone who reads knows about Icarus
and anyone with aims must beware:
to shoot directly upwards is to strike your own head
when like fate the arrow
returns to source.
You’re only as good as your mind,
your characters only as strong as you are.
—at least, this is true in so far as you know.
True in so far as they speak.
For to test them you must torque them
and twist at their cores,
and make opposing forces meet–
but only
as hard as you can.
This makes writing a hill slick with oil.
Insecure. Potential energy.
Potential failure
seated
in all of that grime
that cakes your toes like grease that coats
the teeth of great industrial gears.
So I try not to stand when I write.
But whether the better take comes when you plunge
and you slide and dissolve like so much ice,
I must say I don’t know,
the thought
seems nice.
But the same
It seems like those who let go
Are the ones
with the least to say.
I can't decide
either which way.
All I know about writing is
most sentences are punctuated wrongly.
The period is certain,
but writing is undecided.
It is the figuring-out, a quest-bound troop
that moves with all its own fanfare.
Question marks curl up—
invisible smoke on a summer coal fire:
heat twisting the air like irons in stoke
giving sign of the transformations there withheld.
For fire mediates matter,
so writing stands ever-between.
But I’ve spoken too much and I don’t know what these words mean.
And so I fold like there’s danger in writing,
while danger is imagined like borders on a continent.
Danger is thinking
I'm dangerous enough to keep silent.
Like shallow waves,
given way to sand.
So avoid letting voids form
where the mind dismisses confrontation to more capable smiths.
Writing is –at best– an attempt.
Even with shallow structures
in rhythmic din,
the silent breaks by force of pen,
and all because of the simple fact
that quiet refuses to bend.
All I can hope is my writing upholds these unknowns
while I try not to stand.
But you ask about writing?
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
The ones who should be forgotten are those who let you shift away from their memories like tectonic plates in the earth
are those whom never placed you in their hearts, not even a single place even though the chambers are boundless and love is known to drop fast.
Face it, you weren't rooted in their cores
and when you floated into space, their gravitational pull wasn't strong enough...
because they didn't even try to pull you back.
It didn't matter how funny you were. How original your thoughts could have been.
They didn't know you were so out of your element because they didn't know your element.
They lost sight of your ghost thinking it was all of you.
You're lost forever now and like a body lost at sea, they will never cross the bay.
They wouldn't even think about making a time machine
your existence was bound to be forgotten anyway
The only thing natural about your friendship was the disaster
You were the scarce soil that was only good that one time, the empty battlefield where blood shed was covered by the wrong victories.
-Sindi
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 12:34 AM UTC
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder
I say that’s ********
Distance makes the heart suffer
Distance took my heart and plucked its petals
one
by
one
It holds me tight
Too tight, until my breath gets short and my legs go numb
Distance built a nest in my mind out of fragmented memories
I will never let go of
Memories that are now so distant I can no longer cherish their brilliance
or remember their fragrance
This distance is a cry that cannot be silenced
It is the side of the bed where you should be lying
It is the dial tone when you hang up the phone
It is the dreaded groan of waking up alone
Distance is disappointment
The hollow echo of loneliness
My vacant arms
Distance is sorrow
We have no choice but to be bold
Distance is the strength found where hope was lost
Distance decorates the wings of the butterflies that
f l u t t e r
in my stomach when the distance disappears
As the miles between us fall apart, distance falls quiet
A moment of reunion
A moment outside of time
Building bravery in our cores
Steadying us for battle once more
Mounting our horses, drawing our swords
We are bold.
Distance keeps our memories close to home
It is the struggle that taught us how to be brave when we are alone
Distance is the challenge
To determine how much we can handle
Distance pushes our love to its limit
Distance is brilliance in the tragedy of our goodbyes
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
Let’s take everything we have,
and build a bridge up to the moon.
From parked cars to table tops,
apple cores and spoons.
The broken toys under our beds
can be the very base.
Our weathered dreams from child hood,
will hold it all in place.
We’ll race for broken window panes,
and empty trash can bins.
For boxes once used as forts,
and endless bobby pins.
Shampoo bottles tossed aside
will make such lovely rungs.
Bubbles dripping out their sides
smell of summer and bubblegum.
We must hurry before they all catch on,
and yell for us to stop.
They’re fearing broken bones,
that we won’t survive the drop.
But still we climb like furry ones,
monkeys in disguise.
Jumping up from bar to bar,
higher in the sky.
Quick! Reach for the balloons
we let go of much too soon.
Tie them to sides of our new
pathway to the moon.
Make it look like a carnival!
Make everyone come and see!
Our dreams have gone far past their reach.
We’re actually doing this, you and me.
And in this day we’ll accomplish more than they ever have.
Because today we took our dreams, and ran with them hand in hand.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
Every night I go down my secret staircase I have in my bedroom
No one knows about it expect me of cores
When the clock strikes midnight
I open the green door behind my bed
And start to quietly walk down my secret staircase
I magically turn into a beautiful lady when I touch the final step
The room is beautiful
It has many pathways to a new journey
In one room I fought a bear
In the other I danced with my princess
Even in the last room to the right I slayed a dragon!
Each room is amazing and great each experience
A new start and ending to every adventure
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
My country is my cradle, gently rocking,
gently spinning dreams of further isles,
prosperous waters and rivers of gold.
Dystopian land of watercolour sunsets
the fiery sea illuminates foreign pathways
and we know in our cold cores we must go.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Passing through thick and thin, only
To be brought back to a far-off cry.
Don’t worry, this shall pass with time.
It flies fast with life’s distractions nearby.
Taking flight on tattered wings—
How sweet, the angels sing in harmony.
Their songs we will never know, so pure.
Untarnished in their world untouched.
Disconnected, wires and airwaves on fire.
A teardrop now unknown to cold souls,
It is easy to succumb to the robotic routine,
Life’s expectations drill us to our cores, unseen.
The touch of a hand is becoming
A cumbersome and time-consuming task,
A soft kiss no longer holds much meaning
In this plastic, pornographic societal wet dream,
We live in.
One day, will true love be a myth as
Onlookers sit and view a big screen
Unable to comprehend what it means?
To hold someone close, hearts beating deep.
Curtains close, black-sky-lined entertainment,
As they drive home to all the world’s last diamonds,
Embedded stones and gold of the earth,
Resources completely depleted.
Synthetic. Material. Superficial. Pasted. Plastered.
Artificial. Numb. Cold. Materialistic. Empty.
Words whisper throughout the day,
As if a shield and armor bringing about
A spiritual message through a voyage
Speaking to a place that feels so real,
Untouched like a firefly let go from
A glass jar meant to climb high to heaven.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 12:36 AM UTC
Poets are lonesome cactus vendors
In whose palms grow hurtful ascenders
From having to peel colored wonders
To those who dread thorny fruits - the dwellers -
With too many cores inside.
© LazharBouazzi
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC
craving intellect rain of thoughts
surroundings filled with serenity
recalling life introspectively
respective to the cores and layers of earth
positive energy and abstract propane reflection
vibrations of a hero
self-consciousness reaches selflessness
victory at the palm of his hands
grace as the structure of his body
windows of his soul as bright as the healing moon
he listens.. to the creator that never slumbers
freedom released the light worker in him
peace and blessings were a product of his faith
remincsement of the reluctant wisdom power
self-motivation inspired in his final hour
mind is as grey as the trees' shades
confort inn beginning of purity's blades
life begins. . .
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
Eyes switching gazes from right to left pupil. Stories held in thin air for a moment in the space between retinas. Words acting as weapons of mass destruction, hanging in the air becoming stale with every inch as each syllable rises into the atmosphere. Forever echoing in the ears of the listener, penetrating thoughts, clouding the brain, like toxic waste. Encouraging words must be found, they must be said. Dreams, inspiration. Into the minds of the growing, the moving, the future. holding the destiny of this world in small, and innocent hands, and wide eyes. Those eyes are the windows to the next generation and the key to the next miracle the universe begs for. Opening windows, and locking front doors, let’s pretend for a second that time is stoppable, moments aren’t lost, and people live forever.
Results aren’t final unless you ask them to be. Things happen we aren’t sure of, flashbacks your days dream. Having doubts that fill our minds wading through the nerves through the brain stem to the core of the cores of the armor. I can talk to my 13 year old self, and tell him that I understand, and that we’re still the same person, I’m just the shell. I can tell him everything I want. But he’s already lived.
In the mirror, switching gazes from iris to pupil. Lungs collapse as the phrases land on the younger heart of mine. Phrases consisting of the negatives, the outcomes, the results, the roots, the stories, the endings, the beginnings, the alterations, the alternations, the provocations, the imagination. Phrases meant to tear down, not rebuild. The destiny of the world held in small hands, clutched by small fingers, as the quotations waft through rooms. The rooms where they escaped ***** angry, and ignorant mouths. The miracle stares at the reflection, not knowing the necessity of the universe. Closing windows, opening doors, wishing the hands on the clocks of life can stop.
Encouraging words must be found, they must be said.
Let’s write history with the minds of the growing, the moving,
the future.
Nurture.
vi.xxi.xi
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:24 AM UTC
~
*ˇWhisper within my ear upon Thy comingˇ
At white clouds, clasp, my beloved king !
The throat singer is heard, drummin'—
To mountan's peek poetic rings .
~
Gently love, my limbs ablaze --
- to thee - to heaven's heir ;
Pun cores of springs amaze ,
All dancing, all like vestals fair .
~
Pure soul is thine at times
Of no tommorows —
To shine thy sleepless rhymes
Within Grand Spirit's Colors .*
~
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
sometimes i wish we could all realize how **** insignificant we are.
we have ancient star-matter in our bones, our veins, but
you will never be your zodiac, ruling the sky— cancer, pisces –
i'll never be antares, or even the very sun we revolve around
but still, aren't we marvelous;
with our star-bones, and their burning marrow cores,
with these nebula-veins, spanning the space of
the universe of our bodies.
aren't we marvelous, with our eyes full of galaxies
that nasa would **** to see through their telescopes.
do me a favour, you starchild,
leave a supernova of a legacy
that will burn bright for all to see
for eons to come.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
If I didn't have cores to do,
I'd stay in bed all day with you.
We'd cuddle, kiss & watch movies all day.
If I didn't have ten thousand things to do,
I'd stay in bed with you.
But,
I do, so I can't.
That's why I enjoy coming home to you at night,
8 to 10 hours of cuddling with you tonight, baby.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC
True, the sugar tops
sweeten everyone's mouth.
Hold onto the salt though
let's not lose out.
Pinches of sea salt
dancing smash hit
deep down the sea floor
ace extracting ice cores,
boom, the clouds form high,
show the upside is sky!
Jubilant cumulus pop
only crystal clear vibes
let the wind see through
that sings the rhymes.
Oops, it's not always a blue sky
wispy white clouds turn dark.
The storm soars the larks fly low
busy men down the trees
seek refugee for a mo.
Sticking my head under a roof
pondering me find a room.
Is this 'smash hit high sail
of the clouds rising from deep core,
all is gone in a blink of a storm'.
Not far in the sky
nor deep down the sea.
I see a raindrop on a shining
flower before me.
Something more to tell
very closely!
Jun 6, 2022
Jun 6, 2022 at 7:34 PM UTC