"cra" poems
My life was saved the other day
A golden retriever, both dumb and brave.
Country winds howling in their greatest defense
As I waltzed 'tween electric and barbed-wire fence.
He let out a bark, “It's time to turn back!”
Soon followed a powerful THUD and a CRA-A-A-CK.
If not for that old dog running after me,
I would have been stuck under a fallen oak tree.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
Purp-Purple Purp-Purple in my blood, cut it, cut it, cut it
Let it bleed, blee-bleed
Sipping on the lea-le-lean
Smoking that dank
My blood stream-stre-stream
When the codeine hits
It hits real hard
When the codeine hits
It hits real hard, hard-hard
Drop a rancher in, let it-let it splash
Splas-splash
Turn up the system, ***** let the snare drum
Crash cra-crash
Rolling through the hood, chevy dropped low
(Lo-low yeah)
My Chevy real lo-lo-low
I said my leather and wood Chevy dropped low
Johnny's in the basement mixing up the medicine
Mixing up the-mixing up the medicine-med-medicine
**** C's in the backroom letting all the ratchets in
Ratchet-ratchet-ratch-
Letting all the ratchets in
Dumping out cigar trash-tra-trash
Fill it back with the hash-ha-hash
Sip that lean slow
Bringing the good old nineties back
Ba-back
Said bring the good old nineties back
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Stuck, screaming in a traffic jam, the cars
Suddenly veer across the lanes. Desperate-
To get to their destinations. So late,
Their whole lives depend upon a green light.
Fists clenched tight, feeling the cars’ vibrations
Dimly beneath their blind rage. Wanting to
Lash out, like animals kept in cages
Waiting to die. Feels like it’s been ages
And ages… I can’t take this anymore
I scream!! Pulling out my hair, I’ve gone cra-
zy. I put music on to soothe my nerves,
But I’ve gone deaf. **** it, I’ll blow them all
To kingdom come. These are my traffic screams,
Caused by the engines repetitive hum.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 8:57 AM UTC
If I were not a person who dealt in words
the same way others dealt in currency
(or maths
or measures
or facts
or any number of infinitely more practical things)
If I were not a person who breathed in the flow of letters against pages
and thoughts against spaces
I would never love an artist
because no matter the medium of the life
cra
wl
in
g
beneath their skin
No matter if they hear notes in the flip of her hair
(or paint galaxies of the breath against her cheeks
or create worlds hinged on his fallen eyelash
or build monuments to his unguarded laughter
or sway to whatever melody her eyes serenade beyond flickering boredom)
no matter the medium they substitute for the oxygen they inhale
Their hearts
do not exist
—cannot—
outside of the muse they substitute
to pump their passions through their veins
And if I were not a person who dwelt between the strokes of the letters
and devoured the length of meters
I would never love an artist
because their lives are forever forfeit to their muse
sold, clapped in heavy irons
to a desert oasis you cannot reach
because you cannot be his muse, if he has notched you onto his belt
For an artist would never endanger his muse, no matter if he loved her
(or worshipped her
or tortured her
or reveled in her
or whatever multiple definition love has contracted)
If I were not a person who knew the woes of seeing more
than what the world might first offer
But I am.
And I understand.
And I would never love an artist
For I belong to my muse and so does he
and She demands
that no competition come from the love
She allows me
outside Her chamber doors
and an artist's brilliance is competition indeed
And I can only ever love an artist
who
might
forgive
And who might understand
If I told her she is my muse no longer
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 5:46 AM UTC
I was on a plantain branch
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
She put her bangles on a rock
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
Glimpse of gold, shined my eyes
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
I took it and flew back home
Cra cra… Cra cra.. Craa..
A cry of fury trembling hut,
I wonder why she made that fuss.
With a bit of twinge I shout,
“One I took, three with you!”
Still her rage in frenzy mood,
Crowd is fanning flames to grow,
In my nest it shine and rest,
Golden bangles shining lust.
Then I went back looking around,
To watch the jokers in a run,
But my eyes in surprise hunt,
The bustle of hut in deep slumber.
Oh! Again this gold will turn
me a golden queen of crows.
Another bangle on the rock,
I took it and flew back home.
What a foolish bird I’m!
Fallen on their tricky trap.
They found my nest and climbed up tree,
My two bangles went with them.
Jul 23, 2020
Jul 23, 2020 at 5:02 AM UTC
•Copyright 1993-2014 snipet by EPH
E. Patrick Heeney from pg. 1 of 2
CRA-A-ACK MONSTER
WHEN WILL YOU EVER LEARN? CRA-A-ACK MONSTER
DON'T WAIT UNTIL YOU BURN.
You just **** on a can to get your high
and do odd things until you die
first it was snorting, then you tried base;
you knew it was risky when you burnt up your face.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
And here we are
Worlds
apart
Bound by time
And beating hearts
For that single instant
When
we collide
Like stars and comets
In override
We'll f
a
l
l
in love
Cra sh
and
bu r n
Fiery passion
R o i l and churn
Fate and destiny
Woven dreams
Hope and faith
Br e ak in g seams
Now here we are
Two beating hearts
Bound by time
Yet
worlds
apart.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
With every sentence beautifully spoken,
The girl had allowed her heart to be led
By the trail of the boy's beautiful voice.
She craved his timbre, hollow and wholesome
Sweet and soft when it needed to be,
And did what she could to
Get him to speak.
At first it was subtle,
With a "Darling, how
Would you pronounce this word?
Yes, that one, that one indeed" and
A tilt of her head,
Every single word she wanted would be read.
But then it grew, and she no longer
Had the patience to be so inventive.
Her books flew from the shelves,
And shoved their way under his nose
By the guide of her hand.
"Read this passage,"
A blink.
"Please."
"Lucrative."
"Say it slower."
"Lu·cra·tive"
What the girl did not understand
Was that the most beautiful commands
Of language were not
The words written by others
And read by him,
But the words
Written by him and
Spoken by none, as they sat
In a shoe box
Under my bed.
The words I reread and read
Could not compare.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
apart at the seams
apart
at the
yes
me split
ting
stretch of whatever
wet
blobs leave
a st ain
break
ing
cra ck ing
a clay *** in a kiln
pieces of myself
fraz
zled
myself
coarse
to touch
making beetroot
pentagons on thumbs
these rag ged
moments
they cannot be undone
I have not won
they only go
on
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
~
she’s a heart that is breaking,
craquelure in life's painting;
a field full of fissures,
a clouded water cistern;
the age-darkened oils,
on a canvas fading,
where sadness and aching,
in blankets of grieving lie.
she’s discovered from whence
come her friends;
those who tell her it’s
time to bring to an end,
like it’s a cake in the oven
or one’s therapy session...
any longer and they
cannot understand why.
she is grateful for those who
give space for bereavement;
who know grief doesn’t flow
on a timer or season.
but is more like a river
that spills to the sea;
though it often flows free,
there are days it runs dry.
she has learned in her heart
there's no faucet for tears,
there’s no way to escape
her soul that’s been pierced;
from her skin to her marrow,
a-ccumulus sorrow, wears
an inescapable furrow; brings
a seasonal rain to her eye.
her only transgression
this lifelong expression,
as she yearns for the essence
of what she has lost;
to her this unbearable cost.
’tis a debt without gift,
greater pain can’t exist;
yet will bear 'til her final goodbye.
this then a grace,
like an eternal embrace;
as a sky cover parting,
an internal departing,
momentary pathway to heaven;
there may be no cure for craquelure,
no end to her pain he can find,
yet he can gift her his peace of mind.
~
*post script.
cra·que·lure
kraˈklo͝or,ˈkrakˌlo͝or/
noun- a network of fine cracks
in the paint or varnish of a painting.
this is part of a small collection of poems i have written for my wife each anniversary of her loss. for the coming anniversary i began a meditation and reflection on pain and our aversion to it. we have become a world uncomfortable with pain to which we have no answer; pain that a pill or a therapy session cannot fix. unable to know how to stop it, we fall prey to trying to either ignore it or stifle it. yet pain is the beginning of compassion, a vital human emotion that is our answer to suffering.*
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
My toughest tests are over,
and now that things have slowed,
I find myself quickly sliding,
into Christmas vacation mode.
It’s a shame you’re not with us,
everywhere we go,
because we could pretend,
that there was mistletoe.
A chorus, in the food court
asked, “Mary did you know?”
And the mozzarella, on my pizza,
seemed a symbolic snow.
The traffic to the mall was CrA-crazy,
the Uber moving glacially slow,
what we could have done, with that wasted time,
would have been sublime - under some mistletoe.
With my agenda slack, I’m almost packed,
I’ve got a thistle of something stowed.
And one of the things it will be swell to delve,
are the licentious uses of mistletoe.
Dec 16, 2023
Dec 16, 2023 at 9:09 PM UTC
sombra dissolve
n'alma
a loucura introjeta
inteja, disseca
o agridoce halogênico
desce pelo caminho errado
(empurra)
deflora a garganta
que guarda a fossa
angústia de ser
de ver
e sentir
e pensar...
alucina. abandona.
não mais quer.
estanca a sanidade
que nunca tive
nem nunca terei
nem teria se, e se
ta cra ya
arco so iris
pi na cu so lo?
não
qual é a diferença?
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
and the hyenas said what the condor
would have, said,
that the sea lion and the lion
kept the knowledge of the world
uptight - for the latter gave way
to a new measurement of harem
instead of metre - and the latter delved
in brotherly alms - to the kept
loss of prey - as condor, as hyena, as wolf...
a woo! he he ha ha ha ha ha (hyena,
fox of Europe)...
cackled the crow in imitation -
cra cra cra! kenaz ᚱᚨ kenaz ᚱᚨ kenaz ᚱᚨ!
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
*There is no Santa.
Your school called.
Your nose is big.
The police are here.
You failed your driver's test.
You weren't home.
You left the door open.
You're pregnant.
This won't hurt.
You're mother's gone.
I'm leaving you.
Abstinence is best.
We have to re-schedule your appointment.
Loser
Whatever!
You're grounded.
I have none.
Press one for English.
We have to interrupt regular programming for an important...
She's too young for you.
Good-bye.
They also got the bomb.
There's a call for you. (it's 2 a.m.)
You'll move on.
We're out of that... just now.
It's on back order.
Please hold the line while I switch you to...
There's a priest at the door.
The doctor called.
It's the thermocoupler or the bearings or the bushing or...
This is not a test of the Early Warning System.
You've a letter from the CRA.
The trees are turning colour.
It's over.
There is no God.*
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
“Your heart is a beast”
They said
And ripped open your ribcage to pull it out
Antiseptic smiles
scalpels in their hands
a sheet stapled to your chest that just said
”wrong”
“this is for your own good”
They said
While the
flesh peeled and
Bones cra ck e d apart
Fur pulled out til it was all red
And
The howl was stolen from your throat
so you couldn’t even scream
couldn’t bare your own **** fangs
Cause they’d taken those too
Your heart is a dull-toothed beast
Staggering and swaying
Snapping at the wind
Spitting up blood
Leaving a red trail in the earth with its paws
To match the one your organs made
When they all spilled out
“for your own good” they said
And
You are dying
Bleeding out in the dirt
Hemorrhaging on the inside
like some forgotten thing hit on the highway
like some old fiend, having taken its last blow
and curled up to die
while the warrior sheaths his sword and gets a hero’s welcome
but you don’t
you should be dying
but someone scoops up your shattered little heart and the shards of your bones
your organs where you left them on the ground
and takes you home
“it’s okay” they say
As they gently scrub the blood out of your fur
until it’s all white again
“you’ll be alright” they say
as they clean the grime out of your paws
sharpen your nails
Dust off your heart
And nestle it deep in your chest
under patchwork superglued bones
they arrange all your important parts with the care of someone
who knows how easily things break
drain all the blood out of your lungs
and you remember how simple breathing used to be
when you weren’t drowning with every breath
“they were wrong” the tender one says, sharpening your fangs
Petting your head
“But you are not”
And their hands are so warm
That you think you can believe it
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
you stood at the door
1 2 3 4 5
but you had al-rea-dy
6 7 8 9 10 11
left me and you al-one
12 13 14 15 16 17
how can hands cra-dle my
1 2 3 4 5 6
life-less corpse that died long
7 8 9 10 11 12
be-fore I rem-em-ber
13 14 15 16 17 18
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
i sit perched on a windowsill bored like any bird,
it's spring, busy time for the birds
getting mortgages and what not,
trying to stink out the cuckoos to stop
being parasitic and build their own,
in human terms an anti-robbery,
but it's not really boring, beer and the afternoon,
stefan zweig being more of a feminist
than all women i've ever heard talking,
that's the jew talking, loss of ******** eager
for a ******** marilyn manson's the gardener,
the bass man, got to layer over the drums,
bass does that... of course there can be some
insects floating above the bass doing l.e.d.
details, but when a bass guitar overpowers the drums...
that's when **** gets real...
so me and the birds... a three-way cuckoo dialogue,
two males trying to fight with that
funny: i can't walk without the agitated neck
rhyming with my strut... i can't walk without
nodding all the ****** time...
i ditched trying to capture the moment with
onomatopoeias, the dialogue runs like:
yeah ****** yeah?! want to start something?!
***** don't tease me! this is my roof!
na'h ***** the roof and the pussy's mine!
come on! let's box it out!
wait a minute - i'm not going to box it,
i'll peck your eyes out!
had i a chance for horns i'd ram you into
a pit of varied parasites!
****** come on!
so it's a lovely afternoon, stefan zweig,
pays lovelier compliments to nietzsche than
any woman could... she gave birth to one
******* he's a queen ant, giving birth to minions
and what other terrible function of society might
need...
i start saying something out-loud to take a break
from thinking and a crow begins croaking... cra cra cra!
then my cat begins playing with my neighbour's dog,
i protect him and start imitating barking...
then i play an autistic vector game
of trying to spot the point of interest that cats are
prone to suggesting...
it's this feline ping-pong... you look at something,
he looks at something, you measure up on
a mutual point of interest, flick the head
between point (a) and point (b), and hey presto!
feline autistic ping-pong.
woof!
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 11:58 AM UTC
underneath me quiet and relenting
it meant much less than either expected
plastic bag tossed by the wind tracing cra-
zy shapes cyclonic and demented
like two giants shunned into a cave by
fearful villagers with pitchforks and torches
forks to tune the pitch to please the ear holes
torch in hand makes brave the claustrophobic
cables thick as thighs pressed under tension
snap and gives the tiny metal box to gravity
twenty one stories, each full of unfamiliar
faces and families and stories of their own
not much longer 'til the ground will meet us
one last kiss before our light is diminished
a last second change of heart, I pry
open the doors and throw you into the hall
why should we both need to crash together?
you suffer minor injury, I take the fall.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
OH, sometimes we slip
cumulative experiences, missing
keys, but on and along some other's
new patterned-rhytms. just buy some
character; hit in hopes to stop
irking measures. we all end up
minding another. hoveling
the initial, and first-prime
enslaver, to rip free from Natural
objection in reality. static-cra-
ziness to me when joints,
droning ambient, crackle
like bubble wrap. pondering
on for far too long, and was I
even to speak, alongside
your falsified grace.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
in the eyes of whom, exactly?
the state? the state has no control, the money runs the people, the people are motivated by money, the power is ran by the incentive to feed a family, to gain status
right? what right do you speak of exactly?
Rights in the eyes of god? Whose god are you referring to? the god?? there are many gods,
Are you an atheist and still believe you have a right as a human being alone? so then, what is a human being? how do you classify human? are we animals with clothes on?
you say rights, you assume rights? whose rights? what constitutes a right?
you say democracy, rule of the people?? the best way, oh yeah yeah yeah
rights rightsirthrigh rights rights rights rights rights
rights rights rights rights rights rights
ri gh t
rite
rite right? write????? write right right
de mo cra y- people people govern people create people create society create people
what do you mean???? what do your words mean???
A bottle of budwiser is a bottle of budwiser
Remove the stickers and its a bottle of beer
Drink the beer and it is a brown bottle
smash the bottle and it was a fight, anger, a memory
the glass in the morning is waste for the garbage collector
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
the world doesn’t feel the same anymore
these past few years the air has slowly been tinted black
thickening, viscous and sour around our bones
breaking the ones below and leaving some of us to watch helpless
waiting for the air to rise
although somehow
coming from above
bullets shot in the dark didn’t make much sound
until finally youthful
tear stained faces
pulled the bullets up into clear air in their grasps and observed what we’ve become
with a clarity none of us knew
a clarity none of those people know
them with the black tinted air flowing from their mouths
becoming more sour, and more heavy with each breath, each utterance
each denial
they make
youthful faces with words far stronger than bullets
aimed at those who exhale black
the world is different now
we all felt like dissolving in the despair
instead
fortified by it
i join hands with my peers and we climb up above the earth
fight our way up
to the artificial atmosphere
and we throw our fists at the oppressive black film surrounding the earth
we hurl our bodies into it
we scream
we cry
we cra c k it open
one inch at a time
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC
I wonder how much
unlike me
I’d be,
if I was for sure
bat **** cra-zee
I can really
not see me,
honestly
that much to the left
differently.
I would not keep unsaid
probably,
And let be like horses
running free
the things that lay there
in the dark
secretely
the things that scream
inside me
silently.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
You know it’s cra
When the NRA
Finds the need to weigh
In on guns today
And they choose to say
That it’s a-okay
For terrorists
To fill their shopping lists
And we don’t hear
From Wayne Lapierre
Who doesn’t seem to care
Or may be unaware
About the things we fear
Despite the salient facts
And Paris attacks
That’s the way he acts
Second Amendment rights
To put out our lights
Has us in their sights
And clearly highlights
Why we have sleepless nights
Despite the gun debates
We’ll do what it takes
To put on their brakes
It’s insanity
If you’re asking me
It should be clear to see
Why there needs to be
Some sort of prohibition
To tamper their ambition
Why give them permission
To get what they’ve been wishing
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC