"cratered" poems
I see you, monster...
In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes
They hold the blackest of stares
Nebulous swirling pits of demise
Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses
Every so often would curl into a snarl
Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses
Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag
You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets
Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag
Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair
Unkempt and gritty from your last meal
Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care
Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years
Wearing a face only a mother could love
Expressionless but it screams out your fears
Ugly jointed limbs that grew out of sync
Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque
Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks
I hear you, monster...
As you stalk your sleepless nights
Nocturnal ambience be your playground
Lurking in the dark; places with no light
Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent
Can barely notice when you're up and about
As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient
Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly
Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions
With which you paint a portrait so ghastly
I feel you monster...
Deep within the recesses of my heart
Destroying and distorting all that was pure
Testing my will till I should fall apart
You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience
Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations
I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence
I see you, monster...
You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror
I await the day that you would finally dissolve
For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us.
The moon is a loyal companion.
It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human.
Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
Old man they say there's magic
In your friendly face above
They say your smile can turn the tide
And inspire a human love
So I prayed you'd sprinkle moondust
On her sweet lips soft and warm
So when I get to kiss her
The kiss could last till dawn
But your old smile is only
Valleys of the moon
If lovers give you credit
I hate bursting their balloon
For her love would be all mine
If your magic was divine
Your smile is only
Valleys of the moon
Your skills are just a legend
Tied to that old cratered face
If you could cast a spell on her
I would know her warm embrace
But those asteroids that carved your smile
Were just an act of chance
You couldn't help me reach her
You know zero of romance
For your smile is only
Valleys of the moon
If lovers give you credit
I hate bursting their balloon
For her love would be all mine
If your magic was divine
Your smile is only
Valleys of the moon
[Music by Dawn Diamond]
Aug 4, 2010
Aug 4, 2010 at 10:31 AM UTC
You are as pretty as a moon-fart
The moon
so heavy inside
Almost solid
Crashed into the Earth during its formation
Taking bits of the Earth with it
Then the Earth made oceans
And sky
Birthed life from the places inside of itself
So much color and movement
It did not need the sun for beauty
The Earth is even beautiful in the dark
And the moon
The moon watched
Spun full rotation
Keeping its face always looking directly at its skies
The moon cratered like acne
Scarred like someone without an atmosphere
Battered and beat up
But every crash
The moon did not let parts of itself go
There is no room for more moons here
And occasionally
With the calm cold rumble
Moonquake shiver
Shakes dust from its back
The sunlight stolen into white shimmer
Stars way too close to be real
Looks like the ******
Of a firework show
Only every cannon misfired but yours
The whole world was watching
And everyone said
What
was that?
What was that?
You are as pretty as a moon-fart
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
I'm born
Airborne
Forlorn
In war torn
Discord
My ripcord
I pull for liberation
Alienation aviation
Away from a station
Of no relation
Where their elation
Lies in degeneration
The fright fair
Nightmare
In sight there
Is a right scare
But light flares
From an illuminated theater
I dive into art
To fill my meter
I consume
Darkened tomb
Screen in room
Is where I loom
Inspiration blooms
From a sense of doom
My separation reparation
That will lead to veneration
My artistic fervor
Drifted further
Drifter's murmurs
Lifted learners
But gifted murderers
Shifted girders
Of shame and honesty
To my grave of modesty
Where they prey upon me
This plagiarism
Layered schism
Cratered rhythm
Of great decisions
Now I make incisions
With repetition
And the definition
Of words stolen from me
They're all I can see
And I can't get free
Or just let it be
Consumption disruption
At this junction
I can't function
A plagiarist
****** mist
Grips my fist
Makes me wish
I don't exist
I must resist
Before I miss
My chance at bliss
They're ****** me
By aping me
Making me
Shaking trees
Of bumblebees
With rumble pleas
On humble knees
Drinking antifreeze
Nobody cares
What's fair
They bear
And share
Blank stares
Up stairs
Of artistic compromise
Integrity lost in lies
They're not that wise
I hypothesize
My baby
Caught rabies
From Hades
Now ladies
Flock to a thief
Giving me grief
Beyond belief
In my coral reef
Sword in sheath
I drown discreet
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC
How I used to see myself
These eyes that shine through the glass
These eyes that water from the smell of grass
Yeah I’m allergic, to the constant cut lawn
But that’s only one of my flaws that has yet to be drawn
As a line, I can only see so far
Yet I can see farther without the lens, how bizarre
I used to think like I was apart of the trend
What society, media, and the news transcend
I would try to pretend that I wasn’t what was depicted
The type of discrimination made most from fiction
I am just a simple person, just like the rest
Well, not entirely simple, but nonetheless
I need glasses so that I don’t have to squint
It makes my life easier yet nerds represent
Those with four eyes, under the guise of friendship he was betrayed
Cause you’re smart others seek that for comfort
I am another person, I left out simple I am unique, not simple, yet I grew up with pimples
So not only do you wear glasses but covered in acne I was actually bullied in middle school because of this
I was called “acne,” to my face by a girl all day, every day, yes I began to hate my face
I hated the feeling it gave me when I looked at the mirror
No way in hell was proactive making it clearer
I hit puberty harder than I knew with a deep voice, squinty eyes that made me look high, and a cratered face, fat build so I floated like the moon
I really hated my figure until I grew
I grew into the body that my thoughts would never know
I acknowledged myself though And that will remain a fact, I learned I needed to love myself first before I could love another
Why? Because to me these eyes that I used to see
Would one day have someone staring back and if I didn’t love myself, how could I expect the other to love me
I see with these eyes today, looking at myself and see things way incredibly differently
I don’t care how others perceive me, From rumors they’ve heard or from the hate that others serve I can care less.
All I know is what’s in front of me now
These eyes that see more than a few steps in front of me I believe that one day I’ll have more, than a dresser drawer as my art space
Something brighter than my own face
Right now I can’t help but smile I smile cause I feel like I’ve walked a long mile
And honestly, I’ll take each day at a time I see with these glasses sometimes a broken frame
And at that point, I normally tape them up
And smile again
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
She has red roses as asterisks, the star-shaped things
that are just scar shapes on me
and with her, there is
pollen
that she'll drag her fingernails across. She will
sprinkle colors on your chewed up,
cratered lips, saying you
will look beautiful and
feel full again. Well, I'll be the one to kiss you next
with grains of sulfur glued to your cheek
the rotten taste
making it so your mouth glows in the dark. I
know where to kiss and never tell: I
am sure you must notice my cigarette burns when
the lights are out. I have lit myself
like a candle,
and say
I cough from the smoke because no one can know
that I swallow all your poisons for you.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
Raindrops now sprinkle an earlier day’s
suicide, so too, lightning strikes my beer can.
And come the moment where I’d wished the
moon there, I’d yet to find the means to seize
it. It’s an unwelcome catharsis as our cratered
dream, along with the car, the keys, the
carnal, and caprice, are possessed, tucked a
deep blue jean pocket, and just above your
rear, perfection had I ever traced it; now
untouchable, rendered my choice.
Raindrops now sprinkle an earlier day’s
suicide, so too, lightning strikes my beer can.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
I am the cushion that life first rests in,
The crib meticulously created layer by layer,
The soft bed of flowers, glistening like blood,
The protector of all beings, the seat of care
My love is fuelled by the silver calmness
I gently extract from the first lunar night,
When the moon emerges from its dark sabbatical,
Armed with tales it gathered from the other side
Each day, its luminosity deepens, its stories
Turn more vivid, more wrenching, more morose,
I soak it all in- the pain, the suffering, the injustice,
And colour myself, in the darkest shade of rose
My red is no ordinary red, it is the
Culmination of every sister's deep cry,
It is the crimson of anger that can only be felt,
By the cradle entrusted with preservation of life
I am full and brimming, with pangs too strong
And hues of vermilion too dark to contain,
I rock back and forth, my cot full of stories,
Twisting, flailing and writhing in pain
And then I burst out and let freely flow,
The dam I created with laments of loss and love
Painted with conversations lasting until twilight,
With my cratered friend in the skies above
Petal by petal, as I lose my form and disintegrate,
She is connected to each woman's cry that I assimilate,
Flexed at the pelvis, helpless yet so strong, she listens,
And understands the lore I sing about, every twenty-eighth.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
We have fallen in the dreams the ever-living
Breathe on the tarnished mirror of the world,
And then smooth out with ivory hands and sigh.
W.B. YEATS
* * * * * *
My soul looked down from a vague height, with Death,
As unremembering how I rose or why,
And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth,
Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe,
And pitted with great pocks and scabs of plagues.
Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire,
There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled.
It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs
Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed.
By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped
Round myriad warts that might be little hills.
From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept,
And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes.
(And smell came up from those foul openings
As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)
On dithering feet upgathered, more and more,
Brown strings, towards strings of gray, with bristling spines,
All migrants from green fields, intent on mire.
Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns,
Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten.
I saw their bitten backs curve, loop and straighten.
I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten.
Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean,
I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather.
And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan.
And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid
Its bruises in the earth, bur crawled no further,
Showed me its feet, the feet of many men,
And the fresh-severed head of it, my head
2.1k
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Paths of cratered concrete, cracked
By morning frost and midnight freeze,
Wimpy weeds grow through the fissures.
Children fall and skin their knees.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Canvas for a budding Rembrandt,
Using colored chalk as paint,
Drawing flow’rs, and stick-man family,
Curbing not her young restraint.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Adults dare not let loose the leash,
As they exercise their dogs, and ease their own stress,
Must carry bags and tiny shovels,
To clear the concrete of the mess.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Scooters, skateboards, wagons, bikes,
Off the path, then on again
While yielding the right-of-way
To lovers walking hand in hand.
Is there a poem in a sidewalk?
Collecting children at the corner,
A guard, with yellow vest and sign,
Moses parts the sea of traffic,
Cautiously keeps kids in line.
Through front yards, across drive-ways,
Toward bus stops, stores and schools,
Gathering mown grass, autumn leaves, and winter snow.
There are poems in small town sidewalks,
Imagination on the go.
Phil Lindsey 1/11/17
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Mounted in Ulster Mausoleum
you greet me with your rotted smile,
with oaken bones splinted into pose
with cloven feet riveted to the floor.
To the side your cratered eyes
that tunnel down to your cage
that watches of how we feed,
that recognises skin, fur and hair.
that will keep to see,
waves crash on mountain peaks
and we, holding hands in barren fields
and no one finding fossils in the mud.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
There are too many segments in this orange,
I tore away the rind and pulled at the pith with my thumb,
exposed the flesh that fell apart,
but there are too many segments in this orange,
it won't fit back together.
Ill fitting fruit, mutated citrus genes.
You were bigger than yourself.
What freaky secrets your cratered, sunset skin
hid beneath its thick, fragrant glow.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
High above the ultra-white plateau
a vultures wheels in an amino helix
above a dead horse. Branded upon its left flank is the word
“Mulatto”.
In the forest far below
an ilex rattles for the dead.
The river, pregnant with shrapnel
sulks and stagnates, her belly full of lead.
The plains are cratered as the Moon
the purple heather soothes the raw stone wound
and whispers that the fighting will be over
very soon, and all the scars will heal.
Their fires have turned our bones to meal.
The mountain gods are sighing now
and dying now, the endless sky their tomb.
Rainclouds loom, seething with disdain
and seek to quench the hungry yellow grass.
Rain lashes through the mountain pass.
Rainwater sifts into the soil
and we do not forget.
Blood chapel-sacred, black as oil
and we do not forget.
Shrapnel is sown like seeds into the spoil
and we do not forget.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
Yet to be savoured
the hot vessel gifting shape
each layer to float aloof
formed by lift and separation
Finger high a simple layer cooks within
chopped, olive oiled, salt and peppered - but not aloof
above moons torn asunder are rendered invisible
by the bottom fed surge
Peppers roasted then rested aloft
A second fat yellow flow born of Elan Valley found eggs
milk and olive oil to lap, crest and paint over toasted colours
rising to crust shy cratered fractions
Atop rounded shapes of mushroom and tomato resting sliced
drowning under a richer fatter frothy yellow falling flow
Hot voids bubble and rise
cooked through, risen and browning
Behold plated warm autumn colours
banded in daffodil gold
.
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 25, 2010 at 2:44 PM UTC
You are the clouds
That come crossing the
Cool reflected solar rays
Just to kiss cold cratered moon
I watch
Your vaporous outlines
Loose their edges
I soften just like them
With the heart of hope
A Carousel of cloud stallions
Race away faster
Than the impressions of
Love's drug induced elations
I reach out into the darkness
But your ghostly white night light
Slips away like cirrus thoughts
Tonight you are solid in someone else’s arms
But to me you are my
Cloud covered twilight daydream
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
My mother only had one son
But it ain’t enough
I’ve paid all my dues
It ain’t enough
Oh no
Rolling on to ruin
Gluing quarters to the roof
Make a dollar, it’s the rule
Used as a man, seen as a boy
This is all
Am I moving too slowly?
Does anything move?
Roaming over love until noon
Rapid rivers look brand new
Licking scabbed wounds
Overlook my truancy
As if you’ve never known
Looking for nonexistent proof
Looking over cratered moons
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
Dimly the light above
me flickers,
feeble,
like my heart.
Dust sparkles, diamond like
in the fleeting beams
of cold lights.
Antiqued books, with yellowed
pages and worn leather skins,
cratered by clumsy fingers,
line the dark oaken bookshelves.
A fine veil of dust covers their
naked skins.
The walls, they were once
beautiful, exotic vines crept up
their lenghts, punctuated by vivid
blooms.
But now, now they bare
a natural face.
Garments pealed and faded
blooms rest,
fragile and wrinkled,
at her feet.
A dark, gray room
in the final throws of death.
No life survives,
no light...
no pulse...
no thing, nothing save a
single
red
rose.
Summer
Spring
Winter
Fall
evermore she blooms.
Her thick oily petals
are smeared into the glass.
she was there
before I came.
She will be there
when I'm gone.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 10:36 PM UTC
I'd rather be the moon
For she can be gazed upon
without the blinding pain of the suns' corona
She is noxious in the darkness
Autumnal,
cold and grievous
Hanging there heavily,
lush and languorous
Like the womb of the world,
she guides the ebb and flow of life
Selenic and motherly,
She is fertile and ever changing
Her surface is cratered with millennia of wear,
but she still glows beautifully, unaffected,
like a goddess of the night
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
Where the river abandons herself to the creek
and the mudbank is cratered with crabclaws
waits the old man.
He doesn't know his years
but his ears are a sonic gift
catching the tonal variations of tides
seemingly for eons
evolving with the mangrove map
into a flawless tracker
of how far the moon would recline
for ***** to be holed out
and what shoreline the water would touch
before the shrimps starlight driven
make a beeline for the net.
I encountered him once
in the absurdity of a time
when I was high
and he lowly crouching
was making art by the creek.
Who was the poet
I could never tell.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 6:28 AM UTC
Tender flesh, pale & thin;
Cigarette burns pock cratered skin.
Entrails that entail, poison foretaste.
Hidden, not much to be read, that
Of false smiles, on a plaster face.
The cancer within,
Almost at its brim,
Building to the self-consumption
Surely bound to take it's place.
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 11:36 AM UTC
Coming down from my volcanic wave
Sheet music jukebox requiem
Rides down the road
Feverish dreams outlast psychedelic trees
In the owls and squirrels of light
Picking at the vultures of dawn
Violent winds of the subatomic youth
Puncture through the face of Mona Lisa
Take me to the South
Pulsating rocket ship boom
Left scabs on my eyelids
Shifting in the dark to get to the light
Killing mr. Grawkus through crucified madness
Suffer at the hands of large Industry men
Give your money in exchange for life
Dream queen pre-madonna smoothie mix
Shove down the stones from your funneral pyre
Throw off your ***** neon soaked clothes
Dowse yourself in the electronic fumes
Pulsed beat hammers in the tunnels of consciousness
Through the catacombs of breath
Inhale deeply the sonic sun light
Exhale zombie dust glass shards
Dare to call me electric
Throw down this scepter of deceit
Release yourself from the robes of conceit
Never let the sun mock your wiring breath
Lightning whiskers pierce the skull
Left her tied to the tracks
Electronic pumps intravenously
Junk sets into the brain
Sell your soul for an electro fix
Satellites fit themselves into my subconscious
Fried blank and numb, gone mad with electricity
Show off your bruised face to the sunshine
Plastered, baked, and cratered with disgust
Do you see how the light bulb strikes on?
Where are you with your ravaged home?
Peeled back with mechanical angst
She cries aloud to the moon
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 3:51 PM UTC
House of the heart, these vacant arms
Spaces yawning wide and deep as cratered moons
A star-strewn grayscale and rainbow dreamworld
The pounding like waves and hammered cities
Soul drop-off box and doors with sunshine keys
Girls and boys drink feathered eyes and brainmusic
Machine wash cold, tumble-dry bodies
Slinking off in a frenzied tangent, doubled over
To cachinnate at **** men without faces.
May 9, 2010
May 9, 2010 at 5:08 PM UTC
10,000
early morning muses
but sometimes late at night
he brings enough sun
to make 1000 poems look easy
he is the leaven to our loaves and
the tequila to our margaritas
positively
positive he works through
the dark of night
to bring us light
and for the full effect
of his efficacy
drink dark coffee
first
then
sufficiently caffeinated
awakened and ready
to read
put in the work
to discover the words
his encouraging words of life
and maybe you’ll burn to earn
a bonus of how to survive
so very little sleep
for me
personally
its more about
the lines between the lines
than those not spoken at all
or written at all
rather realized
if I were to
focus on others
half as much as he
then maybe my life
would be less miserably
my own
more jokes than yokes
and less wails to no avails
no non-satiated regrets
or cratered frustration
rather
peace in a storm of senility
he writes for us all
with a message of hope
like the god of HP he sees
we are radiating rays
positivity pointed
one and all and
all together at
the same time
toward heaven
he moves freely
amongst our home page
from whence did he come?
from the fourth dimension
he brings forth conjuration
his style is love
his style is hope
his style is empathy
his style is encouragement
his style is truly who he is
he is an early morning beacon
bewildering
he comes from the east
to rise across our browsers
seeking the infection of discovery
in each hissy fit writ
we write
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
When the stars come out to dance,
I dream that you are
with me.
A chill comes over my body,
as my heartbeat quick-
ens and I imagine
your fingertips
brushing my skin,
cratered by imperfections,
all of which you say are
beautiful.
I know this is just a dream
but I still wake up at 3am
with my heart beating
out of my chest.
More in love
than when I fell
asleep.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 10:14 PM UTC