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ryn Sep 2014
Partly darkened and part in light
A time when the stars and sun shared the sky
Bear witness to two behemoths wielding might
Impending clash foreseen to go awry

Two trains of thoughts charging from opposite ends
Each bearing their own solid ideals
Their flags that flew with conflicting brands
Convictions they carry on beaten, weary wheels

Almost an eternity, the time is soon
Seconds lasted before they finally would meet
Feeling of dread like the cloud covered moon
With war cries of whistles, they would greet

No possible way that they could miss
War waged in steeled wills and forged metals
Anticipate the moment, their couplings would kiss
Unleashing a barrage of predestined reprisals

Sheer destruction as they ate into each other
All in tow haphazardly derailed
A clash made of brute strength and power
A result of when decisiveness had failed

All was motionless save for the light of day
The two lay dead; spent currencies in coal
Fire and smoke had emerged from the fray
Signifying that the two have met their goal

Their cargo now freed, engaging in petty skirmish
Lunging and wrestling as they fought for dominance
Determination to overwhelm; never to languish
Jousting fists fueled by pent-up vengeance

Almost at end this long drawn battle
Much like a storm to be patiently ridden out
When the last of the debris should settle
Then would be lifted the dusty veil of doubt

The sun has now risen revealing the aftermath
Shedding light on the devastation incurred
Dark thoughts possess the most potent of wraths
But nothing could beat the muscle of the written word

Looking back I've realised the harm I've caused
Found great solace in the dark words I've governed
Life still hurls; it can never be paused
Just dust yourself off for you're better off enlightened
I'm back! (Well at least until the next train arrives... :))
Thank you everyone for your support throughout...

See "Doom Train"
See "Light Train"
Derek Yohn Oct 2013
i sing a song of the cooing dove
that orbits in blue skies above;
biding time and waiting,
seeking wings of love.

i sing a song of waters still,
teeming underneath;
of predators that seek out fish
until they've had their fill.

i sing a song of swaying grass
on African savannahs;
that weather through nature's cruel
and bend as the winds pass.

i sing a song of songs to sing,
aloud, accompanied;
for one appreciates alone,
but two enjoy a thing.
Diane Jan 2014
From whence this identity comes
Malts, hops, father’s approval  
What he holds in his arms
Is of no surprise
‘Just missing’ each other
Not likely coincidental
Star couplings, mishap earthlings
Persons never to be known
Crossed streets to  
Strange neighborhoods
Lawn games… how odd
In quiet hours on the highway
Gripping, understood, elusive and all wrong
Remembering, but more forgotten
Ring passed over luminescent waters
Love, not enigmatically magical
Autumn hues in baby fine hair
Righting the nightmares
Nothing mattered more than this.
Mark Blickley Feb 2017
Before the Dawn Of  Agriculture men like ME where slapped into the shadow of ****** shame but now who needs muscles or chiseled chins, great size or strength, a lover’s passion or a manly countenance ‘cause  for ten thousandyears now I  can persecute any female for infidelity towards ME  and hold paternity privilege over MY biological  children  because we exceptional farmers invented marriage to  destroy human sexuality  by enslaving women with MY property for *** so I no longer need to share or compete or settle for an alpha males’ sloppy seconds within foraging groups  that are forced to share what they carry  with them instead of our  enforced legal couplings that takes the innocent, primal pleasure and mystery out of *** by connectingshtooping  to birth thanks to dirt MY dirt MY very own thousand acres of seeded soil littered with pens full of  MY trapped sheep, cattle, goats and pigs which means I can pork any female  I fancy and  destroy any man who thwarts MY desire as simply as the bulls I castrate  into submission to easily herd  into MY  slaughterhouses that feed all the inferior people no longerdependent on their hunting and gathering skills but on ME to stay alive so not only am I not considered a sociopath by hoarding food but am praised at harvest time like a ******* Babe Ruth hero because I have legally claimed and legally ***** those precious few life giving inches of topsoil with rotating crops and extended grasslands that exhausts and shrinks the earth, MY earth MY reign of  forcing agricultural workers  to bend over in the fields, stupidly exposing hairless backs to sun poisoning  instead of their protective hunters’ heads of hair  harvesting MY food that shrinks the  testicles of everyone who is forced to feed on the  cheap calories of MY  industrialized plants and animals that lowers fertility, but who needs big ***** anymore when you don’t have to **** larger animals  in order to survive or attract females with your superior physical attributes proving I am the social parasite Sultan of Swat who grows fat on the food  I’ve  seized by stealingPaleo land in the name of government protected ownership.
Jonathan Witte Nov 2016
My father a medic in Vietnam
for many years refused to wear
his wedding ring because he said
of countless times he had to handle

the aftermath of soldiers jumping
out of helicopters at the exact
moment their wedding rings caught
on protruding bolts or couplings,

leaving their fingers and rings
aboard Hueys while they fell
caterwauling in air below crimson
contrails dissolving in rotor wash

only to land, godforsaken,
in flooded rice paddies,
shocked and shaken, disjointed
but alive, forever joined in holy
matrimony to far-flung wives.
With its sinuous green edge and its delicately
decorative white venation this dewy cress laid
on a fine crystal platter would fit well next to that
chunk of cement facade ensconced in a vitrine
at the Art Institute’s new Louis Sullivan exhibition
There’s little cause to wonder why these particular
atoms once afloat on inchoate seas and awash
in the hummed mumbles of humble vibrations
chose to decohere into this one captivating pattern
from among an infinite variety of mattered schemes
even limiting their choicest range to those paired
colors A tree frog for example its narrow lime toes
suctioned on a broad leaf and its watchful pearl
eyes misconfigured with a blind spot too soon
exploited by a beak spouted peril Or the gallant rider
in uniform myrtle and mounted atop an albino steed
who at a mirthless gallop through routed troops
delivers this message Mother I am so far away
from everything They’re oddly jarred couplings but
with any choice whether slapdash had or carefully
considered what’s our guarantee it will live up to
the iron of romantically clad expectations I have
heard It’s always the salad that gets you in the end
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
The news spread over the countryside
As a clatter from iron rails,
The ominous sound of clacketty-clack
From their intersecting trails,
The plodding Goods of the 0-4-0
To the proud Express from Cheam,
It muttered as it was going past,
‘They’re going to get rid of Steam!’

The sudden shock brought an answering hoot
From the stack of the proud Express,
That whispered by on its 4-6-2
But shuddered to draw its breath.
‘And what will they pull their Pullmans with?’
As it passed through an April shower,
A 4-6-0 on another track:
‘They’re moving to diesel power!’

The steam from the Earl of Erin laid
A trail through the valley floor,
Its coals glowed red from the firebox grid
As the fireman shovelled more,
A Day Excursion that quietly sat
To wait for the train to pass,
Had whispered, ‘Sorry to see you go,
You’re King of the Master Class.’

The smoke that billowed from out the stack
Had turned from white to black,
The footplate shuddered, the furnace roared
As it raced along the track,
‘They say they’re moving to diesel power
And they’re getting rid of steam,’
The Earl of Erin had hurtled by
As a Tank Engine had screamed!

The driver, checking the frantic pace
Was trying to slow it down,
But nothing worked, not even the brakes,
‘We’re headed for Hampton Town!
We shouldn’t be doing sixty-five
We’re twenty over the top,
He slammed the door of the firebox shut
And the fireman’s shovel dropped.

The tender’s couplings opened up
And the Pullmans fell away,
The Earl of Erin had surged ahead
With a new found power that day,
It passed a struggling 0-4-0
As it headed toward the sea,
Gave one long blast on its whistle then
To say, ‘I’m finally free!’

The fireman jumped at the water tower,
The glass was going down,
The driver jumped when it hurtled through
The Halt at Hampton Town,
The Earl of Erin went racing on
When the sea came into view,
But locked the brakes at the water’s edge
Just as the boiler blew.

The Earl of Erin’s a rusted wreck
That still sits there on the line,
And children crawl on its footplate there
And dream of another time,
A time of dragons, a time of trains
A time they can only dream,
The age of romance, gone at last,
It died with the age of steam!

David Lewis Paget
Onoma Dec 2016
Wallpaper pocked with garish roses, gnawed imperceptible by the objects they're tasked to enclose.
Nicotine yellows waste away upon them with unsightly permutations.
An artificial fruit basket blurbs the same comment of unmoving, life likeness.
The couch indents itself  with fled bodies, the windowsill allows odd couplings of half-dead plants.
The window freefalls the sky's latest canyon, varying preceptors of light
lacerate its transparency.
Birds push in a compass fails sort of way just outside... their colors and sizes are lights knocked out of some giant mind.
Back inside, the den serializes the spines of shelved books, and the strident terror of family/friend photographs.
Tirelessly pulling out their best-kept faces, while peppered with dust motes.
A splintered vase rests upon the coffetable, just off center, flower-less with a wisp of water inside it.
A turned off television positioned with an idiot's care...stares like a darkened billboard.
Every space holds a naked honesty, beyond veneers.
Stephen E Yocum May 2014
She was fetching at Nineteen,
with her dark eyes of mystery.
Her composed, secretive demeanor.
She exuded the promise of exotic sexuality,
all without much real experience.

I was Twenty Two, older in
many ways than she.
I took her to her first Night Club,
Deep into those Disco Days.
No one carded anyone back then.

She was like a Deer on a road,
caught in the Headlamps of
a oncoming car.
Dazzled in a world she did not know.
A player on a artificial stage.
Several times that night
I saw it happen.
Her eyes meeting and locking on
to some cheesy Saturday Night
Fever Guy clad in garish Polyester,
Soaked in dance sweat,
a club Dennison of no real merit.
Her eyes said it all in a lingering glance.
It told her story and set the tone for the
rest of her life and a list of failed couplings.  

It took ten long years and a child born
for me to fully comprehend what those
looks that night really meant.
To then finely extricate my son and I from her.
And sadly too I learned, that some people
will never know or understand what Love means.
Or perhaps deserve it in return.
This is for my son, none of our mistakes or human
failings as parents were ever your fault.

It is 36 years since our final parting. She remains
bitter to this day. I hold no malice towards her.
I have only empathy for her loss and failures.
Her empty self imposed aloneness and being
no more than a stranger to our son. And our
Grandchildren of whom she knows nothing.
Derek Yohn Sep 2014
On the news I saw a Medal of Honor ceremony,
people I've never met getting awards for wars
that I never fought...

and yet I am still awed, tears in my eyes,
glad they carried themselves bravely forward.

I wonder about America's prisoners of war,
missing and forgotten in foreign lands.
When did they let go of their lives,
those people they loved dear?

Those they loved are prisoners too,
trapped in the cycle, waiting.

I've only ever been a prisoner of the wrong loves,
broken couplings of average Americans,
where I felt the stifling of raw tension,
the piling up of cigarette ashes , the blank
walls of shallow rhetoric which I reject.

I smear my warm ***** on the walls
of that oppression, as any
self-respecting prisoner would,
at the end of the war,
wishing they were home.
Mike Adam May 2016
anyhow
that was the day I gave up everything

one thousand hotel mirrors
well travelled.

train Milan, cheek-kissed Maria.

cognac. A man. Unconsumed.

Guylove dance, marketplace Castries.
Lord Jackson, Victor
Calypso kinging.

Anyhow
that was the day I gave up dancing

Jack lighthouse, broken glass,
spilled Guinness never forgiven.
Named my son for him.

Anyhow
that was the day I gave up talking

crew cut Poughkeepsie, émigré fashion
boarding cockle boat, Dunkirking
Queen Mary.
Nero sunsetting on piddling empire
wallmap fading red to wilted pink

scouring the bottom of titanic bucket,
glorious lido summer, dear Liza,
got a hole in it(torn piece of rubber
mnemonic for a mother)

anyhow
that was the day I gave up ***

now come the restoration of the king.

London shall rise again,
borne on tide of flying,
infinite darkness,
osmosis of light.

whisper saint Paulus,
de-clocked, unthroning,
myriad swimmers swarm
canal cut channel,
(furry animals cluster, cuddle
in unlikely couplings).

quavering timbers
blowing and swaying,
queen lay dying, long live the king.

anyhow
that was the day I gave up my mind
See Lonely Larry lost in his
******* fantasies
knowing he'll never
not be utterly alone.
Using whoever he can to
forget who he is,
actively ignoring the scars he leaves on them.

There's Twisted Tina, she's hard to miss
her only friends, flies and spiders
she lures them in so sweetly
then perversely plucks their legs and wings
then squeals with delight
watching them suffer.

Hiding beyond,  Wicked Wray
who paces with her vile sashay
refusing to acknowledge
the lives she stole away
pointing fingers, calling names
but it's only her reflections in the mirror
she has to blame.

I see Androgenous Alice
hard to tell if it's she or he
doesn't really matter because
she or he will use whatever
she or he has or doesn't have
to take what she or he wants.

Senseless Sara, watch her run
far and away
with her unibrow furrowed
chasing the demon rabbits
unleashed by her careless couplings
not even worth a word of truth.

The list goes on and on....
Swaggering Stevie
Malevolent Mandy
Cat with the Claws
So many more
banging their heads in the padded room
lost in thier sickness and disgrace.
Ilya Krivonosov Mar 2019
Symmetry of bearing crosses
And couplings, coupling, couplings, coupler, couplers.
Fastening of compression springs
And backlash, backlash, backlash, backlash, backlash.

Pitch and diameter of the intended thread
And chips, chips, chips, chips, chips.
Wire thin spikes
And for fastening ears, ears, ears.

Write poetry, at least write text.
At least write the letters mixed up.
Write at least Previous and Next.
At least write a video on a flash drive.

At least write "alpha in half."
Let everyone understand that alpha is a corner.
Put a banal smiley face on Instagram.
Get to work with Yandex or Googol.
Vernon Waring Jan 2016
From the outset, the marriage had
been a troubling one...a springtime
honeymoon in London with frigid
winds and dark April skies only
added to the gloom.

Their rocky union consisted of
alcohol-fueled marital warfare
...arguments endlessly erupting,
the 'silent treatment' dividing
them, bitter trial separations...
but somehow something always pulled
them back together until that one awful
morning when he found her lifeless body
next to him in bed, the victim of a stroke.

Weeks later he made a shocking discovery
...her hidden journals shoved inside a
trunk in a dark corner of their cluttered
attic - diaries filled with deception,
a litany of love affairs, heartless
couplings, page after page of secret
passions featuring a  cast of paramours
catering to her every intimate whim.

And then he pondered his own romantic
intrigues slipping in and out of his
own life all those years they shared.
But he was certain she had no idea what
he'd been up to - she'd been entirely
clueless. She never mentioned them in her
private journals. She'd never accused him
of anything like that. She never knew
he'd ever been unfaithful. It was
simply not possible...
or was it?
TheConcretePoet Sep 2019
At school cafeteria tables

-social gatherings

-marital couplings.

one's skin color

-ethnicity

-tribal belonging.

we;

regretfully segregate ourselves
out of pure
habit and
comfortability.

audacity and irony
overflows in well versed,
pre rehearsed
denials of
racism.

so i ask;

if we aren't,

why do we not
individually be the breaker of tribal or racial chains?

diversity had long ago peaked my humans are humans interest.

i see no color nor
tribal lines that offend me.

i only see someone that is just like me outwardly and 'hopefully'
just as beautiful inside.
Giuseppe Stokes Aug 2017
Long has passed since through fate we came to meet
Beneath the heavens, the stars, and the planets.
And now soon the ends of our times does fleet
Requiem wherein our couplings unbalanced.
Piercing blade that tore my features apart
darts pin ***** marks across my memories
whilst storing shadows of our shared accost
of ancient games, loving acts, treasuries
revealed, yet not taken wholly true
for whomst amongst us claims omnipotence?
Impotently I strain to stay anew
with you, and disregard the consequence.
Alas, nawt we gain in our steadfast embrace
Yet still I yearn to steady your stoic case.
"Vernarthiano and well-wisher name leads me to you in temporary fissure and tolondro, abjuring virginity in my maiden legion delivered in barbarism, and in blood betrothed for those who more in the finesse prolactin emulsion is renewed as a teenager, opening spaces to bring depressions of inheritance, for whom or those who found hieratic parents and children here in the disputed ****** that nests their nature.

Escaping from the beast and the libido of the criminal patron of the dynasty, which continues to flow senile gold through the scattered veins of beasts that hunt spoil, falling in love with the young and their commiseration. I swiftly attracted the henchmen who bleed before the door of the corporal and fateful destiny, opening in Hellenicidal impostor blood of the Holy Land, and in contradiction by Maccabees with immobilized blindfolded eyes, intimating the extreme virginity of a quasi Sibyl maiden, grasped in the tweezers. Of Seleuco, expired in the dark chamber of Wonthelimar, and in ardent desires that sever brains in the darkness of the cavern of Chauvet bilocated in the roadstead of Skalá. Vernarth I have come to you as a double birth, moaning descendants of the helots, phrases that found no excuses that salutely leave compassionate, like Antiochus who exhorted me to go to your solemn Investiture of the Himation. Ad mostem festinamum Eurydice said that she sang to me romantic atolls from the balcony of nowhere, unrequited I was consumed with the love that flowed through the vena cava of the sufferer in Apollo. Ezpatkul looked at the koelum or demiurge sky in his epiphany, summoning your Gerakis to station themselves near Petrobus, entrenching me tightly in the clutches of the Ibic Rings to be referred to your luminary by the seat of Leros.

My parents by the name of Demetrio and Fila brought me to Roshus on the Perian coast of Macedonia, where I was given as a gift at the regent's wedding. I am Stratony of Macedonia, the daughter of Strategy of Syria, my mother. It is I when writing this epistle, which in turn had a prosperous one, but in posterity when my consent was distanced from the same tenor, my mother was solicitously delegated to Seleucus and then to my father Antiochus. Then I shunned Demetrius II, due to his extra union with Phtia, Daughter of Olympia II of Epirus. It was enough that a link in this Seleucid genealogy was lost in the open from a sick dynasty and successions, so that they appear on the henbane embankment, and go back from Lambdas and Epsilons of consanguineous matings, betting principalities and fratricidal blood, cursing themselves in campaigns since the same that is sheltered in mutes and feelings in Judah by Olympian torments, and immortal Gods shrouding fleeting perishable itineraries of life to the tempting mayor of the puppets, and of the mortal reigns without disposition rattling in Samothrace libido, of hundreds superior, and all the enlightened contents of a captive genealogical of semi-gods trying to equalize.


Beloved Vernarthiano on Venus, anxieties made me fly to the sound of the souls of Trouvere, committing crimes in my larnax, for tears that have spread one spring afternoon, which I only saw in contained affections, being able to walk through Roshus with my mother, in the discharge of essences saturated that truncate release in the Epsilon hopper. Subtending lines and diameters towards the ends of the curved arch or broken lines, being able to refer to the circumferential buttress between the sides of the angle of my asthmatic regret…! When I removed my hand from this obituary, I saw that The Hague reigned at its lowest point, which made the ink pinch that made me a princess out of her lines, and characters that were molded in such proactive and literal numbers. Beautiful and charitable is the beautiful donna that is born flowered for nuptials of the angelic white indigo "Deus Meus Captivus", in your purpose I could be Stratonice regent of wandering honoring through the palatial corridors of my mother evading intentional and reasons of victory to our good honor, and of the audited and emphasized names of "Victorious Armies" in their real meaning in our patronymic, after the victory of Ipsos. As Argeadas, the king yielded to the prince, what his subjects receive from replicated dynasties, in retreats and shallow swells of temperament, linking liras between liras of Corinth and patronizing condescension in the dominions of Persia.

Much more than an umpteenth outrage in the bands of tolerance and knowledge, I was able to discount the years to come. Passed through our unconfessed lineage, reaching our sarcophagi in the good news by raising the frame, and lifting my mother in your tragedy by three that are tripled, knowing that they allude to Saint John the Apostle, over the loafers who drool in scabs stepdaughters of party mouths, and monarchical slaps that have united us behind the scenes, and in the interlocking followed by re continued guarantees of worship, pro-Seleuchism or Antiochism vanished in buried Diadoco briefs, adjacent to the ibid in mega nuptials or Olympic descendants, and in the relatives of the Orphism-transgenerational surrogate! Vernarth give me a taste of the well, I require a new territorial ally in your quilts to new heads branded in his autumnal Hegemon.

In the attempt to take out a dagger and put it in the night watchman, I was already amazed at the reading of the fluttering of the Gerakis, who threw the tantrum of other Gerakis with the souls of Trouvere, kidnapping half of my letter that had cut for you Vernarth with chlorinated tears of solid, towards the swallowing of the airones that intimated in bastardized allegories, containing intoxication and unsheathed unison echoes of the bronze settled in the thundering law, making the Gerakis and the Trouveres fall together in some Mycenaean jars of wine. Anger provided beds of each one for manly acts in the Patmian Olympic allegory, denying the reactions of those who become the purveyor of the riches of tragedy, in immaterial environments that discuss not having it if they only run aground in logical narratives of Demosthenes' contented spoiled bozo. Smooth sites wound me with poisonous openings on the campaign pistils and on the Áspis Koilé shields, being worth confusing against the hives of the queen mother and her drone, tolerating and yielding to her heir, with foolish demeanor in caring for him and inheriting him a procreated barbarian reign.

Now we are barbarian slaves and heirs, in unresolved conflicts of parents deprived of a loving life, by progeny that ennoble crusades that stone patrimonial alliances for consanguineous alliances that should never have prospered in the bitter toast of Stratonice worried in her borne sarcophagus, avunculated in true pro lactic godmother of the son of a nascent Zeus. We are all divided as a lineage; there is nowhere to gather more dismembered successors of Macedonian polytheists, after central efforts to reign without a crown. The same of the love that reigns without meaning, imparted from the decadent effort that worsens to resurrect the aristocracy that lies of grubs,  and the sacrosanct helminth in our Alexander the Great, preceding intercessions of the Royal Marriageable Dynasties before your most illustrious, in the new kingdom of the Lord that does not he sees himself enthroned in the black trepidations of our ill-managed partitions, by humors that flow from the couplings and bandages of who is said to be the abbot of a Vernarthian preliminary.

Vernarth, culminated in the auspices of the complete conjecture and its subsequent grievances to request your office, in subsequent claims that induce to draw the irascible thunderbolts of those who only want to make us wake up from their apostasy, alone and insubstantial, covering muddy stores of grace, which establish walled up reigns in all honor and charm of hearing the true voice of the Mashiach, with all its solemn title being able to help all those freed from the Caucasus scene, and in the edicts that nullify memories as human beings of their castrated history.

Before your letter is read, I add Stratonice as my name is, and I am aware of his reading by uttering: “The signal field has been prophesied, it has condensed the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore it must carry every corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of residual and static energetic mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. By now all will be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "
Epistle of Stratonice
Evan Stephens Dec 2022
The olive dusk tents overheard,
pleated, wavering, starless,

ghostly, embossed with moon,
scratched with street light.

Cars hunt across a new ice blanket,
casting tambourine shakes

onto the pavement as they brake
in cherry arrays. Tonight I watch

my neighbors in their curious coves,
each jaundiced room a flat Argus eye,

as they bed down, break off
the lamp network, pull blinds down

over myriad invisible couplings.
I have hesitations in the dark.

I see the neon-breasted giants
towering towards midnight

in this aching pavilion.
Like prisoners we send messages

with our mirrors.
At the Christmas market,

an etched man sells fake Egyptian
canoptic jars. "Viscera," he says,

"it holds your heart after you die."
The jar looks like it was carved

last week by a bored child.
Even if our hearts shrunk

to apricot pits, abandoned,
betrayed, disappointed, this jar

couldn't hold even one.
Still, I consider it for a moment.

But the olive tent is waving to me:
no sale, no sale, no sale.
Yenson Nov 2019
If I did not know the hollows of some minds
feathered in decorative vacuous trimmings
or
the narrowness within that runs like
lovingly tendered English garden paths
or
the shallowness ****** that rivals handsomely
the depth of a penny-farthing not even two
or
the stupefying superficiality of conjured lives
lacking rhythms and hues in sensibilities
or
the daggers drawn envy of little minds inadequacies
that pines writhes and slithers only to hide when faced
with proven talents and telling might
or
the shameless harriers adorned in the selves-loathing mange
of the fraidy-cats who in feral packs ****** ale-houses
and throw stones at the houses on the hills
or even
If I did not know the frustrated offsprings of broken couplings
and broken lives ablaze with angst and unloved in disappointments
lacking positive role-models in absentee maleness
or even
the social houses ferals itching for attention while bug-eyed on
substances brought next door from stolen gains
or even
the dregs and drabs with hopeless tomorrows from yesterdays
spent in pool rooms and the local bookies who played truants
in past learning dis-glories
or even that most are soap dodgers in obligatory tattered Levis
and pilfered trainers who cursed the groomed as poofs and posers
So if I did not know all this and more
I will understand the vernacular of lost minds and illiterates
and their outputs would engage my consciousness and thoughts
Alas as it is hate is not a language I speak
Envy and Jealousy are not avenues I live in or even visit
They rather sadly fear me
They say they are at war
just because I do not
do as them
Yes!
Fear make one do crazy things
Inspired by a story I was told by a friend who said some guys were attacked because of their post-codes. Its a crazy world
Onoma Apr 2018
in a forest of colossal pillars,
rashed red by the couplings
of heaven and earth.
a romantic forseeks his hiding
in a play of immaculate spaces.
quiver to the quill of his ***,
secret turn to the axis of his eye.
beauty its pluck and gouge--
rollicking proportions cut
quicker than light through glass.
the pop, crush and night of
grapes concentrated for his
drunkenness alone.
assaying tongue cup to opulent
cup, face slack and lax in uprise--
proud of its sudden pantheon!
fast awake as his own exhibit.
to curl up,
to go brown and crisp with drying edges,
hearing the ears, the ears hissing of space.
sitting,
falling, bone on bone resting into their couplings, their pile, their doll form.
hanging, by threads and rubber, my guts, my heart, gurgling with eyes wide, pressed to the floor.
sinking, into the chair, compressing, my flesh kneaded, an ***** of folded clothes, seamless fabric edges.
fading eyesight, in my thoughts which are empty as parked cars,
leaning halfway over the shadowy cool ponds of the evening,
smelling wet, heavy, musky, bouquet, night air,
a watching forest.
alone, free and forsaken, light as dandelion seed,
scratching at my dreams with shrieks of protest, we sail.
icy stems snapping, autumn to winter, charcoal liver.
waiting peacefully amongst the tiniest renters,
the other crawlers of the quiet house.
idle unit. murmuring water cooler.
The plane of death is cool grey slate. Well dressed, impassable, implacable.
This is the valley that sinks, wet warm and green,
humming, buzzing and ******.
wary and jutting, retracting before his spit touches the water,
playing with his mucus, a boy soon to meet his father.
His father cried, like jesus, with eyes rolled back like a shark,
in the hospital paliative care unit, unshaven, deflating.
Sylvia Plath's inky fingers,
hushing my lips, keeping the secret, where there is no secret.
trade the moon for a penny, because the penny is real.
implacable is his love for the park, his spring over the stream,
over the cracks in the pavement, where the weeds grow,
in beautiful greens, with the sound of crickets,
playing their combs.



cbrander
CJ Sutherland Sep 16
Close as two sisters can be
Sister Sue and Mary Lou you’ll see
They grew together then went their way
Bound by emotion. A hug is all they say.

Sister, Sue, and Mary Lou
Twins, lives in twined they grew
They held each other, love and Tears
Streamed through their eyes mixed fears

Every day they spoke on the telephone
Keeping in touch, never felt alone
They mostly got along hardly fought
To find husbands is what they thought

Sister, Sue, and Mary Lou
Were each other’s glue
Boyfriends came and went
Their emotions slowly spent

Even though they lived apart
Relationships shaped The same heart
Couplings unsustainable they’ll broke
Praying perfect companion heaven spoke

A tragic way for sister Sue, and Mary Lou
Destined to be just them too
The closest Bond of love, they knew
They wanted more then sad depressed blue

Time marched by sister, Sue, and Mary Lou
Realized love was not meant to be
If one in love, not the other, Three off-kilter
Through rose colored glasses Jaded filter

It was to be for all to see An emptiness
Brewing in them a deep sadness
This insuperable story of twins,
Who achieved A great deal,

Because they never gave up
They never gave in, they Believed

An epic poem

Inspired songs
1) The wind beneath my wings
By Bette Midler

2) One is the loneliest number
By Three Dog Night

This poem was intended for the webster’s word of the day Challenge in July. The criteria is to complete a poem within that day. Clearly that was not the case . Still, I left the word and definition as an afterthought.
The idea of Websters word of the day challenge for me is to learn new words. after all the knowledge is for my edification.
I encourage everybody to try it. It’s not as easy as it looks. Message me for more information or BLT
BLT Webster’s Word of the Day challenge
Insuperable 7-3-24
Something described as insuperable is impossible to gain control of, solve, or overcoming

Poem written 5-13-24 in draft mode until now
6-3-24 we worked until published
9-16-24
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
ayin yodh nun, lamed shin, dalet vav dalet:
the eye of david, what also be known as:
  the curse of solomon.

we have passed the gate of ridiule,
we no longer speak
of the star of david,
but the "shiva" eye of king david.

hide your vowel, hebrye,
while you still can!
           hide them!
    
hex upon the eye with five
coordinate mourn,
the sixth, in travesty,
thus toward the four
      "syllables" conform
and leave the last,
minding frame,
the fifth coordinate,
allow life to be:
                      sustained.

what are these but the couplings
of islam in solomon's as the father of islam,
take then your waking hour,
and see into it, as best you might,
for king david's star within the hex...
was but the eager eye, waiting
to be opened...

i have no jew in my blood,
but i certainly have a jew
chronicle,
    imbued with & in my bones...
that i might witness
the "star" of david,
turn itself into an *eye
...
  and witness a god,
peering upon this world,
while i might add:
  i looked for his signature,
rather than his being...
and i noticed it, the signature,
and was left reminded:
           of man who sought
the being, and ignored the sigature,
who came back into this world:
empty handed.
Onoma Dec 2023
coughing fits of dust are kicked up

by a giant--wearing great sunken cities

at the swells of his bare feet.

oceanic puddles splashing over every stride.

he reaches down to secure Noah's Arc

between his right thumb & pointer finger, as

if it came out of a ******* Jack box.

all the couplings of his animalia reinforcing

his totemic Tower of Babel.

with ant colonies of men working on molten

scaffolds of gold.

the building blocks of his washover being--

cast him out, of where?

with ineffable dramaturgies.

whose performances were witnessed by him

in such a way--that he became an unseeable

morsel placed in his own mouth.

with the taste of no kind of food, to consume

the height he was no longer aware of.
Ryan O'Leary Apr 2020
It is not until someone dies
                          and leaves a substantial will
that we experience what once
                            and twice removed actually
means, distant is another term
                             that enters the fray. Family
ties, direct relationships, kin
                               common ancestry, lineage
and more recently, DNA. All
                         turn up at the Solicitors office.
Before the envelope is opened
                           the common denominator is
presumed hereditary, whereas
                         after, this perception changes
when capital becomes vulture
                          prey of the diseased. Avarice
growls in bitterness as wanton
                     women espoused via copulated
couplings, assert entitlement by
                          way of equitable proportions
based on democratic dividends
                        as a prerequisite bi product of
association despite never even
                    spending time with the old man!

— The End —