"dirtied" poems
will suddenly trees leap from winter and will
the stabbing music of your white youth
wounded by my arms’ bothness
(say a twilight lifting the fragile skill
of new leaves’ voices,and sharp lips of spring
simply joining with the wonderless
city’s sublime cheap distinct mouth)
do the exact human comely thing?
(or will the fleshless moments go and go
across this dirtied pane where softly preys
the grey and perpendicular Always—
or possibly there drift a pulseless blur
of paleness;
the unswift mouths of snow
insignificantly whisper….
10.6k
My little-lost friend
is that you I see
at times
sleeping on a park bench,
shopping carts
and effects anchored.
Homeless.
With your eyes holding shame,
brown and sad.
I can't help.
But see.
I see you inching,
inching along on the earth,
pitch black and poor,
weathered, severed
and dirtied.
Lost in time.
Mouth open.
Where open hands may be closed.
I do pass by you every morning,
thinking,
thinking of you.
As you drum your thumbs
to your own music,
in your own darkened world.
Where the albatross rest on your drooping shoulders,
as you piggyback what olive branches there are.
I can't help.
But think.
As you sit shrugging
in those same brown pants
and redshirt,
holding weeks of grime
and stench.
No doubt,
holding passerby's
casting eyes, thoughts
and conversation.
Sometimes,
I can't watch.
But hope.
Yes, hope and pray.
As you go looking into the pockets
of thrash,
digging for change,
literally,
hopefully,
three ways to paradise,
please,
yes, sir, please.
And maybe.
Just maybe.
You will find better
and parkgoers can use the bench again.
That would be a nice olive branch,
to give back,
my friend.
Logan Robertson
8/1/2018
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
Oizys, son
From behind the leaves, I saw you, trembling
In your presence, your power strengthening
In the empty, midnight parking lot
While the street lights hummed
And moths danced around your illuminated frame
You turned slowly, onyx eyes of shame
And dirtied bare feet, male hair long and white
The street lights flickered when you blinked and cried bitterly
And I saw, for my first time, the eyes of Misery
Achyls, daughter
You were in an empty field
No premonitions did you wield
An ancient silo in the distance
Leaning over a chasm black lamb
Dark skinned, dressed in black robes
With tribal painted face
Digging earthen fingers into its black lace
When you looked up, I saw your cloudy eyes
Churning of a storm, cataract yet wise
Your lamb had absent vapored eyeballs
The Mist of Death made my skin crawl
Hypnos, son
Secluded in a cave by the sea
A silent, empty place to be
While gray waves crash into jetties
The clouds gather in the distance
Poppies at the mouth changing time in an instance
I go in your palace and rub my cold skin
For pulsing blue glows from deeper within
You, a lanky youth, with thick brown hair and heavy eyes
Sit there with a paper mask
Illuminated by the penetrating glow
In the center, surrounded by whale bones
Humming a song I remember fondly
You trapped me in your Dreams, singing lullabies softly
Eris, daughter
Violates a bedroom with utmost hate
There are paintings of kings and statues of satyrs
Pillows of silk and animals on the walls
Usurping the gold clawed palace
Silent but kicking and throwing with malice
With black skin covered in a chalky white substance
I peek through the crack in the mansion’s door
Lips formed in a silent shout, you notice my presence
Naked and bruised and plagued with no voice
Suddenly stops and lays against a ****** wall
Through your electric black hair
And fiery red stare
I witness a Child of Spite
Woman of Strife
Nyx, mother
I am a crawling shadow of trees
And wicked heart of night
I am the wax on the cold leaves
And the glow of the moon’s light
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
Snow fell today and cleansed the ground, in a shroud of white.
As quickly as the snow came it disappeared.
As quickly as the ground was made clean
it was dirtied by the living.
Dirt, fumes and car tracks sullied the linen white earth.
Nothing stayed today,
not the snow,
not the footprints,
not the cold wind blown faces of children.
Nothing good can stay.
But, for an hour the ground and day became pristine.
A cold, weak sun shone on the glittering snow
Like the first winter snowdrops promising a spring,
weak winter sun promised better days.
Snowdrops the striking bloom of the winter months,
lifted up their delicate heads in a blanket of blue white drops.
So, snow fell like spilt milk, and snow melted away.
But, the snowdrops ‘milk flower of the snow’ stayed.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 9:09 PM UTC
*The Warm Yellow In This Freezing Sunrise,
Reminds Me Of The Marigold We Picked,
And The Greyish Brown Of The Dirtied Snow,
Reminds Me Of The Woodticks You Picked Off Me,
The Lights Of These Passing Cars,
Remind Me Of Your Bona Fide Smile,
And The Crows In The Trees Remind Me Of,
The Crisp Mornings On Your Terrain,
And Now I Realize There Is No Word Loud Enough,
No Song Too Masculine Yet Gentle To Wish You Goodbye,
And There Is No Poem Beautiful Enough,
To Lead You Properly To Your New World*
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
You quickly approach
A puddle of mud
Small enough to step over
But you thought it'd be fun
To splish and splash
And make a mess
But it's dirtied your face
And ruined your dress
You stomp out of the puddle
It has ruined your day
You look back in anger
And head on your way
But what is to blame here,
The action or trouble?
The mud or the splashes?
The person or puddle?
Don't walk into mud
Then complain of the mess
If you want to stay clean
Just watch where you step
Not all, but many outcomes
Are up to us
So be careful that your actions
Will lead to what you want
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
New job, new boy, new year,
this is what it's about.
New life, new start, new begining,
I'm begining to mend my heart.
I'm leaving it all behind,
that life is in the dust.
I'm trying to mend my heart,
for that, this is a must.
The friends, the love, the life,
it's all becoming new.
The happiness, smiles, the grace,
I'm finding in someone who.
Gives a **** about me,
my hurt and struggles and fears.
Let's me know I'm beautiful,
and tries to dry my tears.
I'm mending all the wrong,
I'm making it all right.
I'm looking out for me now,
I'm officially ending this fight.
I don't care where it started,
but now I believe is the end.
Time to look at all the tattered,
broken and dirtied loose ends.
I'm starting a new job,
getting away from him.
Started a new school year,
doing well in my classes again.
**This is time for resolution,
this is the time for new.
I'm focusing on me this year,
this is a year without you.**
Sep 12, 2010
Sep 12, 2010 at 1:20 PM UTC
*This is a poem for Rachel Corrie. I am not religious, and a far cry from spiritual, but I refuse to imagine Rachel Corrie insentient and six feet under, slowly amalgamating with the soil encasing her. Before her death, Rachel Corrie said “I still really want to dance around to Pat Benatar and have boyfriends and make comics for my co-workers. But I also want this to stop.” In the words of contemporary Palestinian poet Suheir Hammad “God has a better imagination than all of us combined” in either God's words or my own, I will not imagine in/on the same ground in/on which I maybe soon will be and more words from Suheir “What do I tell young people about non-violence when they can see for themselves how even orange bright and megaphone loud and cameras and US citizenship will not stop your ****** what do I tell young people/anyone even myself about “non-violence” when every single thing I've seen presenting itself/perhaps even masquerading as “non-violence” has been in my face and /rude/harsh/unavoidable and most of all, violent? I do not believe in God and humanity is pushing it's luck, but I believe in Rachel Corrie. This is for Rachel;*
I should study a she-wolf's prose
she wanted to write about death
but life would frequently
weasel and wheedle it's way in
there’s an overhanging image
a smaller
yet
infinitely larger
organism
continuously broached
by each word
I only want to study
a caterpillar’s motion
backward/forward /onward
across arms/legs
of this deer/dear
[her] surname/
[my] given name/
separated by [semi/totally] circular VOWels
***** blond hair
dirtied by dust /
rubble /
rhyme /reason/
whatever/ in compliance
with a rep/RESENT/ative democracy
several shades lighter
literally
figuratively
whiter
than she
need no permission
pat benatar
would/should croon
to your moves
every
boy and girl friend
i will/may/have/had
should be yours
entomo/insecto/[social] phobias
I never would’ve said so
I never
would’ve/
could’ve
told the caterpillar
to go
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 8:41 PM UTC
stranded at sea, and i am
surrounded by a lonely blue
with thoughts as my only companions
and guilt for my fallen crew
i bear colors of war against pale blue
sangria red and dirtied white
torn fabric and stained innocence
from choosing myself as the sacrifice
there was a golden age when
i was once hailed as a hero
but those days have ended now
delusions shattered by war's arrow
all i am now is a captain without a crew
a pirate with sinking treasures and ship
slivers of the person i once was
i have taken one too many hits
all i have is this broken, grey compass
the needle spins wildly, unpredictable, like the sea
i have finally lost sight of true north, or
perhaps it is time the world has finally lost me
change sweeps me through the sea
rinse, scrub, dry so, and repeat
gone the stains of another life
reborn again as a simple someone, just me
crimson blood washes into the sea
and a makeshift white flag flutters under the sky
this tattered shirt is all that is left of my fight
i am just another sailor, lost at sea tonight
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 11:04 PM UTC
My neighbor labored to build a fence
All walls of stone and wooden planks
To separate the world from them
Building row after row
In haste as if their life depended on
Finding where other do or do not belong
Tall and sturdy slightly dirtied
The fence stood
To me t’was no good
It blocked the trees, it stop the leaves,
And blooming branches
In their veiled vanity
They blocked their view of humanity
So with words a blazing
With verses of poetry
That had built up inside of me
I sang songs of wisdom
To teach them
To tear down the fences
And see all the beauty
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
I know you’re trying to forget
The lonely words we spilled
With no discussion of repercussions;
Phrases that clung to our skin
And dirtied our souls.
I don’t know if I regret it,
But the memory lingers.
You told me that you would kiss
My lips, my neck, my hips
And that you longed for the touch
Of my gentle fingertips.
We overwhelmed ourselves;
A ****** of desire with no way out.
We were the Apocalypse.
We retreated to our own lives,
Our own beds, our own friends.
I asked how you felt, where we stood now;
And you left me to wonder
Alone.
No matter how many showers I take,
I can’t cleanse myself
Of the hold you gained on me
With your gilded words late that night.
I know you’re trying to forget.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
lavender resonates in the air
of the bedroom, we never shared
the sheets are clean, never dirtied
for our love was never spilled there
only tears from tired eyes
tears from silent goodbye's
after love was dead and gone
and i was alone at dawn
so, desperate to put my eyes to rest
i ripped the lavender from my chest
the lavender that grew
from every whispered i love you
i doused my pillows and sheets
with every last bit hopeful for sleep
it's sleep i never got
rather just melancholic rot
and now the smell of lavender makes me sick
as it reminds me of you
and the days and nights that ended too soon
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 8:05 AM UTC
This could take a lifetime but they've taken it away, and where our plan was laid upon the lengthening of the day of man does not apply,
it's a why so,why not no and never mind the time will go and go we will until our toil is stilled.
***** hands on dirtied lands and can we clean where we have been and if we can, what then the plan or do we carry on until the goodness of the soil is gone and if we do what do we do with all the waste we leave behind?
If we are blind then let us see.
The last boat sails at five to three and I intend to sail with all the best,
I leave the rest to you.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
To everyone else who used it to seal a present,
It was nothing more than
A color to choose
A length to measure
A string to knot
It was something that held together a treasure
But to her, a ribbon was so much more
The triangular slit
She herself had cut at the edge
Of the soft pink ribbon,
Ended in corners,
The way her smile did
Everytime she'd
Loop and pull
Loop and pull
The bows she'd craft
Were more to her
Than just bunny ears and tails.
They were trinkets of triumph
Hints of hope
Possessions of passion
They reminded her of spring
Not the season
But spring
Of the trampoline
In her first gymnastics competition.
The ribbon hugged her ponytail
Delicate and dainty
The ribbon lay around her neck holding
Gold
Silver
Bronze
Ribbon nonetheless
They reminded her of balloons
Not the hot air type.
Balloons at carnivals
That floated
Miles away
Heights astray
If there was not ribbon
To secure it tight
On her fragile wrist
They reminded her of father.
Not that he wore ribbons or anything.
But that he left her with one
Wrapped around
A freshly picked
Bundle of flowers
Bundle of happiness
Bundle of unspoken words of affirmation
But flowers die
And so did father
When they did,
She was left with nothing but the ribbon
Loose and dirtied.
But the pinkness
Unlike flowers and father,
Barely faded away
And for the first time in a long time,
She saw life
In something that didn't have any.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 1:59 PM UTC
Floating through the depths of a soulless wonderland.
Memories fast fading from my mind.
I try to catch them in my hands but they rush through my fingers like sand.
Searching behind clouds and under dreams for something I can never find.
I weave new memories with strands of admitted love.
With dirtied hands I feel my way out of the darkness, with unexpected twists and bends.
Tipping back my head to look at the light dripping in from above.
I continue to maneuver out of the uninterrupted nightmares until forever ends.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
There lies a desert void of life
There lies a desert void of water and void of food
There lies a desert void of all good things
In this desert lies death
In this desert lies air more dry than dead bones
And in this desert lies pain more than can be imagined
For I wander throughout said desert
Seemingly with my lonesome
With no one to turn
And with nowhere to go
So I sit on a rock and wait
Then a promise of water comes to me from Above
But when the driest of days come over the horizon
And the hottest of times comes to my face
I almost give up, leaving the promise
And then I feel like I have moved on from that promise
But I cannot leave what came from Above
Oh me of little faith!
So I wander seemingly alone in this desert
For days upon days, weeks upon weeks
For months upon months, even years upon years
Longing for even a drop of water to satisfy my thirsty soul
But here in the dry desert the water is unfound
For all of the water has evaporated into the dry desert air
But on the horizon I see what I’ve longed for
I see what looks to be a spring
Bringing water to the dry desert ground
To satisfy the thirst of this dead dry country
And as I approach this great gorge of water
I am killed with the realization that no water lies here
For I have been tricked
By the images in my head
And the physical needs of my body
I have been deceived
The green and lush never truly existed in this dead dry desert
Only this mysterious mirage in my misunderstood mind
So still I search across these dry dead lands
For the water that might bring life back to my tired soul
But time and time again
The mirages ****** my hope for satisfaction
But soon enough I know I will find the promise
And reach the flowing waters to satisfy my soul
One day, I find myself a well
A well that may be full of water
Water that may wet my thirsty tongue
But when I look into that deep well
I see a crack in its basic foundation
And no clean water lies in this broken cistern
So I drop my bucket into that deep broken well
Hoping for a mere drink of water
But in the bucket comes muddied, dirtied water
And when I pour that water into my thirsty mouth
My thirst is not satisfied, it is only magnified
And I am more thirsty than I have been ever before
So I take another drink
But this broken cistern holds water that cannot satisfy
Water that may merely increase my thirst
That will only bring forth the day of my death
For my mouth is as dry as this desert sand
And I will die here in this dry desert of death
I am like dead dry bones in the valley of death
With no flesh or breath to give me life
But then when I find the water that gives life
Flesh will come about my bones
And He will breathe breath into my lungs
Then for the first time, I will have true life
I wander on never finding the water I require
But then I stand and look heavenward
And I hear my weary voice cry out “My bones are dried up!
All hope is lost, and I am cut off!”
So I stand in the dry dying desert
Alone with nothing and no one to hope in
Then His glorious voice responds; “I will raise you from your graves
I will put My Spirit in you, for I am the Lord your God
I am with you to the end of the ages
For My Son, your God reigns with me
And our Name is Immanuel
For I am with you."
And I fall to my knees
For there lies a cistern unbroken
I look deep into this well and see a promise unforsaken
For the well is filled with sweet satisfying water
And I drink never to thirst again
For He is the Living Water, and I am satisfied in Him
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
"Hello there," said I to the stranger beside,
"I'm Cari, and this is my boyfriend."
The stranger looked past, with some side-eye and sass,
And said, "You must be overjoyed, then."
I tilted my head to the side then and said,
"I am, we've decided to marry!"
The stranger just frowned and then said, his voice down,
"I was being sarcastic, he's scary."
I frowned then, in turn, and my boyfriend, face stern,
Said, "C'mon, babe," in dirtied apparel.
With his crossbow in hand he led me through the land,
Snuffing zombies and bandits-- oh, Daryl.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
Tepid summer nights and
holes in the soles of your feet.
Holes in your wrists, no?
Soft fluttering of dusted eyelashes and
the pale pink of morning sun as you turn your cheek.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, no?
***** fingertips on dirtied skin and
toothy smiles, moth-eaten pillowcases, stale whispers.
'Pour susurrer des mots doux', non?
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
Photographs of naked bodies
Positioned across a bed
Seducing one other
By the gleam in our eyes
Dressed with the desirable color of red
Our lips dripping with pure lust
Forever but a mere inch away
Eternally unreachable
As pretend is what we like to play
Trace the outline of my body
Feel the softness of my skin
Dine upon the devils wishes
Give in to this lustful sin
Embrace the coldness of the night
Be intoxicated by our heat
Eyes glazed over from this dream
Slowly lose your willingness to fight
Taste the sweetness upon your tongue
Allow us to quench your thirst
But once you taste heaven gates
You will eternally be cursed
Drunken off the beating sound
Of our hearts within perfect synch
Pleasure induced by feeling Pain
Holding on tighter to that chain
Bruises and bite marks
Littering the skin
Relinquish your demons
Fall captive to that sinners grin
Harsh whispers in the dark
Lips pressed against your neck
***Tempt me with such sins
my darling***
My dear the night has only begun
Decipher what you truly want
As it seems our game of play is done
Both lost within an ecstatic dream
It appears that neither of us have won
Dirtied souls are all that are left
Without meaning or for reason
What have we done?
an echoing question
The devil replies with a taunting voice
My darling you have become undone
With a sly grin he walks away
Eroding into the dark of night
While the tainted souls
Together with their hands holding tight
A game that they were destined to lose
***We have danced with the devil tonight
And it appears he has won.***
~
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
I bleed to produce seed
for my flower bed of creed
yet the flowers I need
didn’t grow, instead unwanted weeds
flourish as it dirtied my deeds
upon deeds of neglect, I heed.
Nov 14, 2023
Nov 14, 2023 at 3:52 AM UTC
Blueberry bushes touch in the dark
And their branches sway in the slight
And ever so brisk breeze.
The color of 1 am paints the ground
And stars speckle the sky,
Unlit by the lights of the others.
A home is created on the hill
Where a couple lies contemplating
The steps of their new future
Built by calloused hands and dirtied nails.
The soil falls away, leaving a space
Where they float together
Alone with themselves,
No longer running from the clock.
(r.e.)
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
I remember those pretty marbles
Cousin Ted gave me to keep
Off to Europe ... he went to travel...
Agreed.. thought I ‘d do him good deed...
Counted each one just before I went to bed
Counted them again everytime I was out of bed
These precious marbles would remind me of Ted
He was gone... missed him...thought I’d rather be dead...
Ten colorful marbles in my pocket
In the left pocket of my pink purple polkadot skirt
Lost my balance I fell into a pool of dirt...
I went blind my glasses was covered with dirt
Ruined my shirt... dirtied my newest skirt...
I’ve lost my marbles... Oh ****
...... that was even hurt...
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 4:37 AM UTC
"Little lass with the pink parasol,
standing by the sea
where your face was forgotten
and your dress dirtied,
what can you tell me of the wind?
Have you noticed its paws
tugging at your parasol
and how it dances 'round your tip-toes
and freezes your eyelids
with icicle pins?
How it shields your drinking sight
from sunlight
by raising a blind of your hair?
Or
have you instead chosen to count the peaks on the waves?
How each pinch in the watery fabric
pistons up and down
in the oceanic mattress
with the nature sporadic
of a mad stellar twinkling.
What treasures belch age and air bubbles
under the surface
of a fingertip's breadth?
Of such sweet gems and precious metal
surely are the gifts of its deepest depths daring.
It has been counting the times you've dipped your nose under,
under fear of the fathom's fingers
finding your face to be pretty,
and withdrawing.
You'll catch cold, lass.
Standing by the sea so often; always.
At the least you will go mad
at the infinite sound of roaring laps
against the shore
and the gales born of sea and sky
scrubbing memories of stillness from your mind.
Little lass with the pink parasol,
what do you hope to find
standing here by thesea?"
I asked her.
She was silent.
And I heard every word her own,
though uttered tangibly
by winds of local overcast atmospheres.
In the wet soil 'neath my tarred heels
did a coolness rise,
finding my lungs dry and welcoming.
The horizon joined grey and blue
and she was eyeing the vanishing point.
My eyes joined hers in trek
and I found infinity.
Nothing was visible along the skyline.
Meaning anything was beyond it.
Nothing was visible beneath the tide.
Meaning anything was under it.
The wind suggested transparency
but a secretless wind is merely still air.
She said nothing
and I understood;
the sea seems larger
when you are close enough to be kissed by the waves
because you forget that the whole world is behind you.
I am right now
standing by the sea.
The little lass with the pink parasol.
She is here, too.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Lightning always strikes at least twice, in case you heard it wrong
And I've sewn patches everywhere, from lightning that has stayed too long but
I don't feel a thing
Wandering through these dirtied up places
If you only knew
Walking past these black and white faces
Thought that I saw a glimpse of blue but lost it in the crowd
So I am left alone again with patches sewn all over and now
I don't feel a thing
Wandering through these dirtied up places
Not much I can do
Walking past these black and white faces
Maybe we could grab a drink or two and talk about the world
Maybe you're the color blue that I've been searching for
I won't feel a thing
If I stay in these dirtied up places
Can you see it too?
Walking past these black and white faces
Colorless faces
Meaningless faces
Black and white faces
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
Your hands have seen the inside
of a carborator. You took apart a
hard drive and called it procreation.
They've been blackened by grease and
bloodied in your desperate attempts
to clear the clouds out of your head.
Seattle is our ocean, water all around
to drown away bad memories and forget
the sunshine of our conception.
Rain can cover up scars, hurt, and spilled
ideas, take them far away to different oceans.
But never our own foreign lake, somewhere
close to Mount St. Helens, or so we thought.
Could our hands ever touch such a pure,
uncorrupted pool as holy as the depths
of your eyes? Would it wipe clean the
slate, dirtied over years of poor decisions?
Your cloudy eyes tell me different.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC