"depositing" poems
The river flows over empty promises
depositing sediment
in the form of confusion and stagnation
leaving a bad taste in one's mouth.
I hang on your every word.
Grainy is the trail
of crumbs left for inspection:
affectation over articulation;
all the better to hear you.
Skim a stone across the surface
leaving ripples of insecurities
and questions past.
The message is clear.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
1128
These are the Nights that Beetles love—
From Eminence remote
Drives ponderous perpendicular
His figure intimate
The terror of the Children
The merriment of men
Depositing his Thunder
He hoists abroad again—
A Bomb upon the Ceiling
Is an improving thing—
It keeps the nerves progressive
Conjecture flourishing—
Too dear the Summer evening
Without discreet alarm—
Supplied by Entomology
With its remaining charm—
3.7k
Whoa! I lost it!
Did you see where it went?
Is it on the table, maybe in the tent?
It's not like it's RNA
Or simple stomach acid
It's not easily subdued, by using an antacid
Dropping cells everyday
In every way and place
Depositing myself, in the human race
Fear not that you may be collected
And your DNA then filed
Used for experiments, unsanctioned and so vile
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
She kissed your cheek and smiled widely,
the corners of her mouth almost touching her
impeccably tattooed eyebrows.
She was not what you had pictured
from the back and forth email conversations
on quotes and designs and sizes.
She asked you to take a seat as she went to
smoke a cigarette outside the shop with a coworker;
Anna was her name...with two jack russel terriers -
one of them is like a honey badger apparently.
It's funny how the mind remembers certain things...
the way the smoke on her tongue smelled as she leaned in
adding ink to her needle,
or the song she kept humming while you
bit your tongue and stared at the decorated ceiling.
But the pain of the needle depositing the
ink
into your skin was welcome...
It was nothing compared to the internal turmoil you were
experiencing the past seven days.
It almost felt good...
Not adrenaline good, but like good that you were capable of
feeling
something besides sadness and anger.
In the Barcelona airport two days earlier, you made your appointment.
One on your hip, one on your foot
100 pound deposit. No problem.
You needed something to occupy your
mind
from the pain it endured over your "holiday."
So much for a holiday...
Surprise! Your friend is a backstabbing *****
who "secretly" hates you and tried to
ditch you repeatedly.
The needle grazes your hipbone and you wince.
"You okay?" Tota coos in her Italian accent.
You nod, but you know you're not really okay...
You never were...probably never will be OKAY.
Your mind wanders...wishing you were home
and not in London, three thousand miles away from
the only people who seem to care.
"Done!" Tota exclaims.
You examine her work, smiling.
The first time you have smiled in days.
"Get ready...this one is gona hurt!" she says, half excited.
You don't care...nothing can hurt more than your heart...
Too bad that can't be tattooed...
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
It's the week of Giving
Thanks, and I'm thinking
Of the magical place of
My Dreams, the
Dream-state I existed
In my childhood.
Google maps is SCI-
Finite, and does this place
Justice like a squid
Quoting Revelation 1:
9 - the Island of Palmos.
But at least the squid
Was half-right -
Middle Park Lagoon
Had an island.
It wasn't just the little farm
Pond full of alligator snappers,
And indelible fish (carp, anagram:
Crap)
It was the surrounding woods,
The Leopard Frogs I could not
(And really didn't want to)
Catch. It wasn't the shoe-
Stealing muck-mud, the
Barely-4-foot deep water.
It wasn't Duck Creek flowing
Next door, flooding often,
Its waters spilling into the
Waters of the Lagoon, depositing
And withdrawing wildlife
At will.
It was my escape-pod in the
Mysterious Spaceship Earth
That was 1968-1984, for my Dad
Ed Scheck, was Supt. of Parks
And Rec in Bettendorf, Iowa.
He oversaw all the parks, the
Pre-Waterslide-Pool, the Bike
Trails connecting Davenport
To its bro/sis city.
My Dad had to work a lot
And me in the park was like
Me visiting Dad.
The Lagoon frozen when we
Had Iowa winter, and a very
Popular place to skate. I think
I loved the Lagoon more frozen
Than liquid. At night, I would
Cut through the houses on
Fair Meadows Drive, listening to
KSTT-AM blasting on the speaker
Attached to the light pole.
It was the scariest part of my day,
That little freezing trip from
Lagoon to Home.
And about the best.
In 1979, at sixteen, I applied
For employment with the
Parks Department, and that
Meant summers working at
Palmer Hills Golf Course.
And, winters, supervising
Middle Park Lagoon.
I got to skate out on the
Ice, the ice that would turn
To the watery body I loved
Most of all, and miss, to
This day.
From 1968 (5) to 1984.
The math doesn't add up;
Magic has no columns that
Add up at the bottom, because
Magic is bottomless.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
Is the occultist aware she’s daring,
That she carries the shadiest orifice?
No.
She just defecates and scars remain.
Akin to the likes of an unmarketable comedian:
passion on one side, narcissism on the other.
‘Twas unforeseen.
Enemies working together,
Exchanging callous banknotes.
No one had foreseen this.
Eventually, she’ll *******
from depositing and withdrawing.
But no one knows.
No one can ever know.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
*A lotus on sands shifting
of the continuum of seas,
rippling gently mysterious
in silent ears,an orange sun
lighting softly lids closed.
a river of breath constant
flows unaware,reverberating
a hum divine, filling and
flowing out the body still
bearing me and mine all
cleansing cathartic the dirt
worldly,collecting dues holy
from the silence cosmic and
the one sacred sound eternal,
depositing some being newer
in a place closer to the only
existence of a singular lotus Pure.*
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
the neighbor's hens ventured into my backyard
and they've deposited the odd calling card
the path out the back has lime hillocks on it
which have proved not to be such a hit
the neighbor and I had a Mrs Harris and a Mrs Higgs
we discussed the hens not so polite depositing within my digs
she said the hen house door had fallen off its hinge
that is why the hens did so impolitely impinge
her hubby the local long arm of the law
later this afternoon shall repair the unattached door
the venturing wont escape custody
they'll be locked up for their impropriety
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 9:48 AM UTC
the feathers went up in the breeze,
between the tree's skeletal structure,
as though poured from a jug,
the tree laying on it's side
like it had conditioner in it's hair
and stayed there until the the feathers had fully passed by,
although a few got stuck in it's ear.
Treacle is dripping from the ceiling,
but it's not dripping it's hanging in sticky tentacles
like sweet stalagmites not letting go of either the floor
or the ceiling
making my hands stick together
and then my arms to my jumper feels really tacky
and covers my hair and drips down my face tickling it
sticking my eyebrows so when I open them wide
they don't feel like they ought to feel
I go to stretch them out with my hands
but that makes them more sticky and stalagmites
form between my eyelashes as I try to open them
and the treacle touches my eyeballs.
The feathers brushed against
the desert's floor,
scooping up small amounts of sand
with each pass
and depositing the grains through
their fingers whilst they stroked the wind,
as it carried them
across the desert floor.
wet young pine cones
and how did they melt in to that resin
that smelt so piney
and stuck to my hands
I could smell it for days on them
It stuck with dirt but still smelt of pine cone resin
My fingers slightly stuck to everything they touched
It was annoying
It wouldn't stop being sticky
I take a handful of sand and feathers
and eye's closed
drop them slowly on my head like a gentle sand timer,
and detect each touch of the sand
and cascade of feathers down my face
and then wake up in a pool of treacle
and the feathers all stick to me
as I try and wrestle my way out
they keep sticking to my body
until I can fly away.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 8:15 PM UTC
A far off rumble, like a premonition,
Disturbs the quiet urban biosphere.
Soon, flashing, scattered thunderstorms appear,
Depositing an icy ammunition.
A domed volcano wakes from long remission,
Explodes, contaminates the atmosphere.
The sun retreats behind a ****** smear
And all the world submits to dark perdition.
For weeks the crumpled vegetation limps
Along and feeds on fallen carcasses.
The battered monuments to progress fall
And Wall Street übermensch, now useless gimps,
Assemble near their ruined businesses
And ponder why their profits tend to stall.
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
Our lands collided, a volcano formed
our love built up until it erupted
messy and destructive our love burnt on
depositing our emotions on the desolate lands
our emotions nurtured the seeds
the seeds you had planted as we danced
dancing our dance of two we left our trail
our trail of memories, happiness and pain
As time went on the eruptions ceased
our love had ran its course
the forest grew and grew
but you were no longer there
lonely and frustrated I burnt it all down
you were meant to be there with me
in our forest, but you're not here
you're with him, a guy who loves with anger
while i loved you unconditionally
our love was eternal
The forest grew back...
you're still not here
I've explored every crevasse in our forest
there's no signs of you no more
but I still see you in our trees
in every river that flows
I still miss you
because after all this time i finally learnt
that any forest that's burnt down
will only grow back stronger
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
fronds of palms
bougainvillia drapes steel frames
taken root in silt
river depositing
minerals for strength.
fifteen years after
lost love & other chapters
tangled branches present
to a cloudless blue
all melts
across copper water
licks at mangroves
camoflauging a walkway
swept away by a record flood
new planks anchored
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
down the lane the summer homes all yawn,
open & airing out,
depositing mothballs, musty deck chairs/on the lawn
strolling i see all last year's forgotten furniture
waiting
on the roadside, dust covered.
here a couch groans out to me:
*"such a life!
reeking of mildew,
springs worn from children jumping on the weekends
--and the old man couldn't stop them.
too busy slamming drinks on the porch!"*
i very nearly weep,
"poor tired old thing!"
for it is a hard ride to be a couch.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC
The clam doth fritter my mind
So close that shell, tightly bind
Protect the flesh, soft body hidden
Predators, everyone forbidden
Rigid shell scalloped in unison
Form the bond to close within
The frilly layer undulating rhythm
Soft body concealed and hinged
So perfect beneath hardened chalk
Worming tongue
Gaping mouth
Wordless talk
Oh to rest inside your precious womb
Forever bask in your rosy gloom
Hold my body with your silken lip
Precision pulse throb through your grip
Mixing Love, Patience, Hope for the world
Depositing on your pink precious pearl
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 11:01 PM UTC
When it's all going smooth, you're talking millions weekly
JC is on his way, to pick up bundles of illicit US drug money
Trouble is getting it back to Mexico and depositing in the banking secretly
There are members of the cartel, that have anywhere up to $300 million, pure honey.
Just sitting idle in their houses and they can't spend or use of it, not even a bit
Once you've gone into partnership with the cartels
You're only handling their money or changing it
You can't leave, they'll find you, kidnap your family and Fedex them back as parcels
They tell you "you have to do this"
If not, they will **** you and they don't ever miss.
Here is the money. What do I with it then?
I get 5 ID's and I'm going to the currency exchange to change the dollars again
You always have to give $200 to the cashier, which we put in here
She logs into the system and records the transactions, that appear
Just as though they were made by tourists
Then we pass them onto our cartel bosses, who are very near us.
The cash is now laundered and its origin erased
They can deposit their money, which is now clean into Pesos, that can't be traced
But this cash started its journey 3,000 miles away
One of the biggest narco distribution hubs in America, I'd say
The windy cities railway, port and interstate highway systems, are the best
Making it the ideal location, distributing Dope and Cash from across the Midwest.
Approximately 70% of the US population lives within a day's drive of Chicago
The Southside is where a lot of the business gets done, just like in Eldorado
Every deal is a drop in the bucket, that contributes to a mighty river of cash
Chicago has over 70 gangs, with up to 150,000 members, who are all smoking hash
Making it the largest and badest gang capital of the America’
Handling the retail, an army of local gangbangers we call the Drug Gangsta's.
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 6:03 PM UTC
Dipped under the current
smoothed pebbles mud-slide
down the creak's entryway
into the lake.
Depositing into the soil
only to be tussled about by our waves.
We swim vigorously
reaching for stability
breathing deeply,
accepting black dirt
filling our mouth
and claiming our lungs.
Striking against my body
was a warrior in pain.
As if healing only meant
pushing others
far away.
Floating down the stream
of confounding affection,
tree branches, and silt
barricade the movement
of my recollection,
of the pebble to the lake,
how far we've swum without
claiming our state.
Looking the other way,
we allowed it.
Further and further out,
knowing we could only swim so far,
we kept our hearts under t
h
e
surface.
And our thoughts stranded at bay.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC
Serious mechanisms burst indelibly
Shooting forth their product, packed tight
Shrink wrapping my internal appetite
Silencing the spoken word, sealed lips
Leaving no reminders of their last
Interaction; capital letters parading
Outnumbering the lower case ranks
Fighting off commas and full stops
Obliterated, deploying the erase mace
Wandering and withering til inky
Smudges pushed through wasting
Its background, depositing friction
To take ownership of the break through
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 6:00 PM UTC
Now there's too much to handle, so I'll let my mind meander,
Taking a moment to rack my brain for the kind of wisdom
That only years of failure can achieve, the kind I'm too cowardly
To allow myself to discover. Growth and peace do not come easy
In a world that slowly poisons the mind with a false sense of urgency.
I've let myself imagine what I would do with power
To rival the great gods of ancient times- simpler times,
But the gods seldom used their abilities toward benevolent ends.
Would I ruin others lives to fulfill my selfish endeavors?
Such questions echo in my head, tantamount to denying denial.
Walking under the trees reminds me of the possibility of deep sleep.
Listening to the forest whisper secrets through their branches,
Privy to all their knowledge and comforted by their strength,
I envy their solidarity and salute to their resilience, contrasting
My surrender to insomnia, depositing sand under my eyes like graves.
Feeling small makes me recall the days when I was the apple
Of my father's eye, innocently promising to never disappoint him. Now,
A disappointment-tainted smile greets me, both the Snake and the fruit.
Clinging to an empty shell of memories equally treasured and torturing,
I'm made aware that we also let down the people who never held much hope.
For a short time I thought that love grew from letting a person
Take everything I could give. Having out grown such dangerously
Low self esteem, I'm left still wondering how others are able
To sustain long term companionships of shared trust and intimacy.
I admire them from my window, for so long lonesome until recently.
I stubbornly believe that ***** and books take the cake when
Escaping from bottled up feelings too complicated to express
In coherent stanzas with the hope that one day someone will understand.
Until then, I'll dance dazed to music turned all the way up
In an attempt to blare out the ugliness of the past always pressing in.
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 8:16 PM UTC
Houseplant,
why are you depressed?
Most people- er, plants-
don't get Seasonal Affective Disorder
in Spring.
Houseplant,
I've watched your tumultuous stretch
and subsequent shrink
but I don't think
you truly want to decay.
I've watched teardrops roll
from your heavy leaves,
depositing life to the tile floor
in the part of the kitchen
best suited for afternoon light.
I'm begging you,
Houseplant,
there aren't many religions that
give an afterlife to plants.
This is your best shot, houseplant.
I promise I won't let the cat
push you off the counter again,
not like last time when the soil
spread out on the floor,
a puddle of
rock right there,
with earthworms that chewed through it all
and seeds that rooted in the
somewhat blobbish flower tiles
my ex-boyfriend insisted on.
Really, houseplant,
I'm the one with the pink slip,
and I can't survive on
light, you know,
not like you,
and I need more than rain
to stay rooted.
You don't need a roof over you,
Houseplant,
in fact,
you just need the earth,
I need a lot more than you,
Houseplant,
but if you can't keep it together,
how can I?
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
I closed my eyes
and felt the ground vibrate
as the Huskavarna roared to life
and chewed through log after log
devouring fibers
and depositing sawdust
the smell filled my nose
and a smile passed my lips
fresh fir in the morning
the crash of timber in the distance
the hush that fell upon the forest during lunch –
muted thumping trancelike and rhythmic
each round hit with a maul
and then bashed with the sledge
tossing split rounds
into stacks on the truck bed
perfect dance performed by the woodcutter –
the rumbling tires against the gravel road
sent me to slumber
the crunching mixed with the gentle rocking
fighting until the very last
trying desperately to hear
the low murmur
of my father and uncle Steve
telling tall tales
of 600 yard coyote kills
with just one blast
from the old 2-23 Remington
and the 40 lb. salmon
still swimming with a 20 dollar jig –
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
Don't. Do not talk. Resist.
The anger you are afraid to show.
Afraid of being mistaken as weak, impatient.
Don't.
Don't bother to approach.
Don't bother to speak.
For you might hurt the one who cares to ask you of your state.
Let the silence speak for itself.
Let it scream through your fixed jaw.
Let it burst through the eyes that refuse to meet another's.
Let the one who hurt you,
See what they did.
Simply made you harder, tougher.
Depositing another layer of concealment.
Don't. Do not listen.
For when they ask you,
You don't relive the horror,
The horror lives you.
It melts the sadness
Which threatens to pour out of your eyes.
It ignites the anger
That fights with your tongue to scream
And blurs the vision with tears.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
By the river I meandered .
Ducks quacked their racket.
Accompanied in harmony by female child.
The sound in tune with nature's perfect bloom.
Moorhen drifted over water.
Dipped his head then he was gone.
Dogs ran in unison together.
Different breeds as one.
Having so much fun.
Dogs spread their bark all over the park.
As bark flakes off from the trees.
The willows crudely wept their tears.
And the Poplars only trembled more.
Got to the spot of our dragon fly.
Nobody's here.
All that's here are memories.
River's still not got much of a flow.
Her water's flowing mud and silt.
Fishers still stand on the Sunday bank.
Depositing nothing but lines.
And here am I stood on the spot.
Where this poem first began.
Where for a brief moment.
I was your woman
For another brief moment.
You were my man.
In eloquent silence I stand.
Watching the world go by.
Conversing with the naked trees.
Bare and exposed like me.
There's a chill here in this place.
It's felt in my words as they kiss my face.
Sat on the fence as I muse.
As me, myself, and I amuse.
The litter of displaced leaves on the ground.
Memories lost.
Memories found.
Too chilly to rest by the stream.
With a heart so chilled indeed.
And now the pub calls and I'm going for dinner.
Eaten now.
I stopped and bade our spot goodbye.
Homeward bound with a tear in my eye,
Watching two ducks having a row.
Perhaps those ducks were you and I!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
carefully I cradled the garden seeds
depositing them in the incubating
warmth of the earth's black womb
then buried my heavy heart there for a season
I thought of my cousin Roger who had just
relinquished the magical breath that animates
all living beings in this universe
it didn't matter that he had abused his body and
was an emotional wreck most of his brief life
more like a brother, fond memories of innocent play,
mischievous fun and a generous, loving persona
poked through fresh and green
like tender infant shoots
these were the perennials, the lasting bouquets
that could never be laid to rest
the fluffy double orange hoop skirts of the hibiscus
dancing in the corner
and the African daisies laughing purple faces
make me smile
I could feel my cousin's Spirit whispering in
the gentle Florida breeze
"hey, cuz, life goes on.......forever!"
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 10:49 AM UTC
When it's all going smooth, you're talking millions weekly
JC is on his way, to pick up bundles of illicit US drug money
Trouble is getting it back to Mexico and depositing it into a bank, secretly
There are members of the cartel, that have anywhere up to $300 million, pure honey.
Just sitting idle in their houses and they can't spend or use of it, not even a bit
Once you've gone into partnership with the cartels
You're only handling their money or changing it
You can't leave, they'll find you, kidnap your family and Fedex them back as parcels
They tell you "You have to do this"
If not, they will **** you and they don't ever miss.
Here is the money. What do I with it then?
I get 5 ID's and I'm going to the currency exchange, to change the dollars again
You always have to give $200 to the cashier, which we put in here
She logs into the system and records the transactions, that appear
Just as though they were made by tourists
Then we pass them onto our cartel bosses, who are very near us.
The cash is now laundered and its origin erased
They can deposit their money, which is now clean, into Pesos that can't be traced
But this cash started its journey 3,000 miles away
One of the biggest narco distribution hubs in America, I'd say
The windy cities railway, port and interstate highway systems, are the best
Making it the ideal location, distributing dope and cash from across the Midwest.
Approximately 70% of the US population, lives within a day's drive of Chicago
The Southside is where a lot of the business gets done, just like in El Dorado
Every deal is a drop in the bucket, that contributes to a mighty river of cash
Chicago has over 70 gangs, with up to 150,000 members, who are all smoking hash
Making it the largest and badest gang capital of America
Handling the retail, an army of local gangbangers, we call the Drug Gangsta’s.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 6:44 PM UTC
she’s only got one arm, but that doesn’t stop her
from playing the piano Tuesdays;
clever girl, she’s got a rig,
three extra pedals to hammer out lower chords,
right hand for the melody.
she thinks often, how convenient for her,
it was her right arm she’d kept,
else she’d have to reach across to play the treble
and that’d make it hardly worth it.
of course, there are some things
what she can’t play perfect, that 's always
frustrating, frustrating,
but it’s the sort of think you put up with
when you are one-armed
and play piano on Tuesdays.
today, as it happens, is Thursday,
a day when she usually (but does not always) dust the piano.
this Thursday she dusts,
though there is not a lot of dust
because she woke up yesterday thinking it was Thursday
and you know how it goes. still,
she runs her dusting wand across the top of the instrument,
over the keys and raises little clouds, to her satisfaction:
if the dust is in the air, then it’s not on the hammers, the cables,
no, only her fingers, five on the ivory.
depositing the duster in its appropriate space—
she is all about space
and all about appropriateness,
there is (she thinks) some of each
for everyone, even if they’re not symmetrical—
she sweeps her hand against its weight
then gasps.
against the familiar grain, cut across
the slickness of its heart-dark lacquer, she feels what was not there yesterday,
a fissure,
in the wood,
a crack.
disbelieving, she puts her eye to it, runs her second finger over, over,
a split down the middle
of the damper cover, wide as a split vein
and a millimeter deeper.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC