"depository" poems
Climb into bed and...
Hearth embers of body heat circulate,
Tourists on self-guided walking tours,
Exploring the cabalistic eighteen chai holies of the
Human body, temple depository of spark divine.
Heat sparkles cross over the isthmus of Touching Toes,
Continental negotiators, swapping free heat for icicles,
2 X 10 interstitial connections, now land masses filled,
Global warming credit trading par excellence
Fingers, jew wandering, exiled to freedom,
Intertwined within soft-edged, graying sea grasses,
Coverlet over pounding chest,
Hands illegally mining tousled head hair,
Nestling, nesting, without proper permits
Lick away the rumbling hoarseness
Coating a neighboring sleepy throat,
Gate crasher bringing surround-sound comfort,
Seeking to seal and still the groans,
Escaping prisoners of the ills of the wearied mind
Your favorite parts inspiring, demanding
Song, word, drawing or simple quenching,
Tonic of revival, an affirmation of self,
Existence proofs met through need
I write this for me, for her, for you.
Suckers for iron pyrite, most will skip this polemic,
What you don't know about me could be a
Hit show on prime time cable TV.
Like a cute commercial that makes you smile,
For a product you'll never buy,
I write this for me, for her, for anonymous you,
I am the voyager, you the ******
Middle of the night envisioner,
Re-writer of The Gift of the Magi,^
If I die today, I leave this as my last
Will and Testament,
Just another love poem
You'll never read.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Texas 1959, And today Out of Time
Oswald... The CIA Admits As Role Prime
To Play Lee Harvey... Until the Time
He could be used... And hid behind
The Asassination of Castro He Failed
Still Playing Him along... to their Avail
The Victim of the Ruse.....
Never Realised his Use..... in the End
They Plied him with *****
Hookers and Promises.....
Trips to Cuba and Secret Meetings
A Snipers Rifle with Desperate Leanings
Keeping him fed with Lies
The CIA Cast the Die
Feeling Let down by JFK that Day
Over the "Bay of Pigs"
His Truce they regarded For
A weakness that Moscow
Would Subvert Somehow
For the President Folded
Then Came that Fatal Texas Day
In 1963, Lee Harvey at the Depository
Smiling Waving JFK in a.....
White Lincoln Town Car Parade
The Shot Rang out where he sat
Blood splattered on Jackie's Pillbox Hat
Jack Ruby ready was Very Fast
To make sure the Truth Didn't Last
The CIA Made Numerous Omisions
Of Evidence to the Investigation Commision
Keeping it all Hid away, Till the CIA Historian
Opened the file of Lies, from the day.....
The President Died....................................
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 11:31 PM UTC
An old curiosity shop
a lost world depository
dark dusty as pharaoh's tomb
worming squirming carefully through
where 'Breakages Must Be Paid For'.
Stopped clocks claiming time is up
sofas trailing their entrails
peeved pictures offered for their frames
and bureaux bursting with bumf.
Rummaging through dank passages
searching inner chamber book stocks
classic novels at six old pence
thumbed pages bought for improvement.
Nelson Collins Clear Type Press
Dent and Everyman in distress
Dumas Dickens and Conan Doyle
countless cultural references.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
Seven New Poems for Seven Days #2: Hover^
My Children:
Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer
Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.
Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.
Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.
It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."
Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.
Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.
Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.
For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.
Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.
*Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.*
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
~
Who can circumnavigate Avalon's depository and the palpable swoop down toward earthier terrain?
Yet, here I am.
Where is your gravity taking me, Kahn?
This building is an invitation, and I am humbled in this sense of arrival. The books are stored away from the light. So a man with a book goes to the light, the serenity of light.
And therein lies the hidden meaning.
But you won't let it become just a building; you want it to remain much a ruin; it's all somehow sinister in its celebration.
Occasional distraction is as important in reading as concentration.
And I'm reading between the lines in a corner carrel, looking out at academic crop circles; I grapple with each texture: it's this combination of imposing austerity and weathered familiarity that you seize upon to make your current landscape hospitable.
This building is an instrument, creates a sound in my head akin to music; and this music remains a glowing source of solitude, all driven by a desire to be hidden but sought after—a celebration of all things lost and unnamed.
Here I find closure by opening a book.
~
Mar 29, 2024
Mar 29, 2024 at 10:52 AM UTC
As thoughts come on this day
in the quiet of my blind
comes a lonesome whistle
in the distance of my mind.
Days became years,
when we walked like children
past single bomb shelter
knee tucked isles,
chests in the fiery furnace
thunder in the winter room.
We are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark today,
we will never forget and
in silence a mind wanders.
Among cheering crowds
are snapping pendants,
JFK littered sidewalks and
brown buildings on Elm street
that watch with haunting eyes.
White kid gloves carefully turn
pages at a book depository
while she reaches for bits and
pieces of his mind
A- line dresses mural *******
the anguish of morning pearls.
Stripes and Stars sing denial
the world is debutante numb
rain sounds on the sill
like woodpeckers on tin,
she cries out and over again,
all the king's courses,
all the king's gin can not put
an egg back together again.
They are still innocent,
No whistle,
no siren to mark the day,
and we shall never forget
the days became years...
when we walked with the
silence of innocence.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
I left my heart in a dumpster.
My life in a gutter.
I shutter when i whisper,
We once loved one another.
As cold naked in the alley,
Under street post lamps.
Dark and damp, dark and damp.
I lay heaving cramps.
Everything is ugly its all grey,
As dust storm in the dead sea,
Every blink,
sand will fling,
to my eyes in my dreams.
The dust cant cover up your trashed out corpse.
Holes in your neck and feet,
I listen to your voice.
Save me. Save.
Longing and craving.
Save me. Save.
Death for today.
This desert of the city behind the pizza parlor.
I haven’t left this spot since it happened.
In between this depository for waste and my own waste of space.
Phantoms **** themselves, picked on by rats and freegans, and murderous ruffians of soul.
Everything here in this xeric hole.
Kills. Just kills.
No. Save me. Save.
I couldn’t my darling now your lost to this ****
And with you alone my body shall die.
I shall lay with it here under this deadlampost moonlight.
We lay exhumed, tissues being destroyed by fungi,
destroyed and hungry, dead and corpsing,
mute, yet singing.
exalted, grieving.
love couldnt save us, yet the powers that be,
neglected our bodies,
lead our essence to become one with the streets.
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
together, more than a century
it occurs to his fresh coffee'd brain,
as he,
sliding in behind, half-assedly,
as in half in/half off the bed,
but the rest, the best, nestled, ensconced,
in a serpentine curvature connected
smiling too loudly,
titter~muffled giggle
at the passing by, a funny bone notion,
that combined, conjoined,
together, more than a century,
well, and well more, than that,
a depository of collections, nuances,
cross filed, so that our recollected told tales,
have been all heard before and will again
be retold with a swelling newness
to newborn readers,
checking out the classics
the roar of my suppressed soundings,
clearly too louding,
sleepy hoarse asks
the inevitable "what's the chuckle,"
so accustomed she be to my,
unexpected laughs expectorated,
menagerie of multiplicity of muckled
roars and guffaws, tee hee's,
she will n'ere be satisfied
with a non-answer,,
with a wiley evasion to
her invasion of my innermost
"occurs to me we are a very historical
(never employing that olden adjective)
library,
two cuddling librarians,
who are compelled
to our shelves,
to add a new book daily"
she laughs and kindly requests,
my immediate departure,
for having caused her by
mine awoking and
her evoking
laugh,
to be kicked out of the
library
for excessive noise making
not the first time,
and not the last,
he laughs,
uproariously,
in the deepest of his innermost,
hidden in the silent stacks of their library,
in a demilitarized zone,
neath two pillows soft by,
lest he be shushed vociferously,
by his once again, softly sleeping,
co-conspirator
librarian
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
inspired by TC Tolbert's poem, ""Dear Melissa"
~~~
joined skin cells shed and shredded,
two bodies, a compositoy,
an experiment in the temporary,
now, lost under lock and key, at a secure depository,
remote, undisclosed location,
kept unheated in a dark cool place
to preserve their combinatory
slow, half-life decaying oratory
the body is never an accident,
even though we mostly are,
accidental tourists, two collision-prone comets,
lark, rambling rambunctious adventurers,
on a half-day tour only,
leaving behind commingling blinking dust vapor trails,
emissions of a tour bus journey rerouted
while under orbit sail
some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words, shelled
~~~
Dear Melissa
TC Tolbert
a curve billed thrasher
is cleaning its beak on the ground—
we are closer now than ever—sitting
in shadow—I never want to scare
anyone—not really—I have a friend
who loves people who come out
suddenly—in the dark—
pleasure
is the same distance as pain from here—
that’s my skin on your sweater—both hands
stripped now—I know I am someone
to you I am entirely—practicing
Spanish on the computer—gesturing to
the neighbor instead of speaking—
to sharpen
the body is never an accident— someone
I know I am not—letters are inseparable
from loss—moving what can be still
moved—one is sweeping the mouth—
what ever isn’t skin—take it off—
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
grass blade sways
beetle legs strain
egg depository folded
fine silk spun /
black dotted
shiny shell
protecting
delicate protuberances
from sun and
hungry passersby /
slight discoloration
weighty mass
embryonic future
scrambled breakfast /
weeks burn
summer slips away
tiny impersonators emerge
ravenous and
carrying fresh mandible /
grass blade
torn asunder
fattened babes
spreading bright wings
seek fresh shoots for dinner /
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
All is violent, all is bright.
Miracles of life dying in hindsight..
Life's many mysteries hidden in plain view
and I am left blind and happily unaware.
If we are all sinners, then we must, too, be saints.
Creek flowing rapidly and I am but a trickle.
Single depository,
making milk
and
depleting life's resources.
We are all friends,
We are all friends.
Enemies of enemies.
Empty promises
and glasses full of regret.
Contracts signed in blood & feces.
All is violent
All is bright.
All is violent.
All is bright.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC
my girlfriend is a situation
like mother
she speaks in episodes of jarring emotion
that i both despise and love
hours of confusion follow us
where our paths kiss
she tickles my bloodstream.
like mother
her dreams are flammable
bound by chains of rule
too vogue
tear the center spread, lover
start an ancient fire of rebellion.
she reeks of ivory towers, winery and sweat
enveloped in her sweet debris
a depository of nervousness
recurring desires when we meet
mother would be proud
while i push away her dreams
to the edge of the world.
nice-time girls abhor me
my situation has doubts
her flickers of love
could they fail to ignite
my warmth
in the chaos outside.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 5:50 AM UTC
Tyranny was among laity
with grit in societal gain
a taste of luxury detained
might blast it perpetually again
and virtually waiting in awe
made nothing of superfluous jaws
while the maker ought crack his boos
into numismatic desire
and a depository of living proof
tonight we could tract the lore.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
The New Year looms,
a blank page
awaiting the first
wondrous words of winter.
The poet sheathes his pen.
The poet sheathes his pen,
an instrument of imperfection,
awaiting the first
incisive inspiration
of the looming New Year.
The New Year looms,
the depository of the past,
awaiting activation.
The poet sheathes his pen,
practicing a passive role.
Practicing a passive role,
the New Year awaits
consecration: December 31st
whitewashed of all its sins.
The poet unsheathes his pen.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
Poetry
that which transcends the self
it's the voice
that speaks of life and humanity
of which each poet is a part-
the self that incorporates
the common human heart-
the 'I' becomes the 'we'
suffering that's singular
assumes the plural
the same thread
that runs through the fabric
of every single life
where each act
of the drama
is played out--alone
but to end
in the blend
that bears the name:
' Our Oneness In Life's Sojourn'--
one person's tears
fall into a mysterious sea
that is the depository
of all tears---the ultimate home
that opens its doors
to every weary traveller
who bears no name
but requires no ID
to enter--
poetry then
is
our own face
in the shared mirror
it's the message
the focal point
the quintessence
of a universal religion.
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 6:46 PM UTC
*the delta (Δ) & the nabla (∇): so formed... it is more than just the star of david... for moses came first, behold: the pyramids of giza and mt. sinai... so unto the second geometry to complete the star: the nabla, a name derived from the instrument - harp. king david was famous for playing a harp and writing the psalms.*
let's see what sort of people we are dealing with...
well, for starters,
i was brought up to hold one, all and every
book as some sort divinity -
or at least a divinity in the geometric
aspect - rectangular:
akin to what tha nazis did to the ********
i did to the star of david -
i turned it:
so what was once the inversion of
hierarchy & therefore power - Δ | ∇ -
what is revealed? reading rug - and an open
book... twist the star, and you'll see it...
so from an early age i was taught to treat
all books as sacred -
western slavs sometimes put flowers into
book, and wait, and wait, until
the flower is flatenned, and dried -
call it what you like, the closest i've
come is a sacred form of mummification -
floral mummification inside a book...
but the english? i've seen it sometimes
on the tube:
they don't have the decency to use
bookmarks -
for goodness' sake!
i sometimes used toilet paper!
what do they do?
they fold the edge of page they're ended up
on...
me? i have a simple bookmark,
given it's lodged between two pages
and i sometimes
can't remember where i ended,
so i have ᚱ written on one side,
and ᛚ on the other:
thank god for the book depository -
every time i order a book from them,
i get a bookmark.
obviously i don't mean all - but i've seen more
folded edges than i have bookmarks -
pedantic, yes: but books require tender hands,
and... would top wear a white shirt
that has ironing creases on it?
so why would you read a book that
doesn't look pristine?
obviously there's a second-hand fetish for books...
who turn out to be a bit like prostitutes...
but you know:
with those kind of books, as with those
types of women: you can't bypass
the madonna-whore complex:
that's one thing i'm 100% for in freud.
protecting the decency of books -
is the foremost act of expressing
a stance for elevated humanity.
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
A word is banal,
An inspiration revelatory.
Poets must channel,
From too meager a depository.
The rhyme is too dull,
The sharpness of inspiration cuts deep.
A poem is null,
That misses the feeling that made you weep.
Why should I bother,
Poets undertake too lofty a goal.
Just write another,
That gets no more than the shrug of a soul.
What matters the font,
When overwhelmed feeling what I must prove.
I write what I want,
Hoping it captures the power to move.
Words are too meager,
To describe what makes my soul animate.
So why so eager?
A poet’s burden is to bear words’ weight.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 12:02 AM UTC
blue of our planet
birthplace depository
we must fathom
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 4:26 PM UTC