"displaces" poems
She chases homeostasis,
with assorted frantic faces.
She is home when her heart races
as she desperate fills the spaces.
Replaces
missing graces
with far places
dreamed in cases;
displaces
taken paces,
just retraces
lost embraces.
Baseless
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
I am lovely, O mortals! Like a dream carved in stone,
And my breast where poets are bruised to the bone
Formed to inspire each in their quintessence
A love as eternal and silent as essence.
I unite Ledaean pallor with a frozen heart,
I scorn movement for it displaces my art,
A riddling sphinx, on a throne in the sky;
Never do I laugh and never do I cry.
Poets, at the feet of my imperial pose,
Which I seem to adopt from statues grandiose,
Will consume their lives in studious indulgence;
For I have, to enthrall those docile paramours
Pure mirrors to enhance all beauties evermore:
My eyes, my large, wide eyes of eternal effulgence!
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
I was six when I first saw kittens drown.
Dan Taggart pitched them, 'the scraggy wee shits',
Into a bucket; a frail metal sound,
Soft paws scraping like mad. But their tiny din
Was soon ****** They were slung on the snout
Of the pump and the water pumped in.
'Sure, isn't it better for them now?' Dan said.
Like wet gloves they bobbed and shone till he sluiced
Them out on the dunghill, glossy and dead.
Suddenly frightened, for days I sadly hung
Round the yard, watching the three sogged remains
Turn mealy and crisp as old summer dung
Until I forgot them. But the fear came back
When Dan trapped big rats, snared rabbits, shot crows
Or, with a sickening tug, pulled old hens' necks.
Still, living displaces false sentiments
And now, when shrill pups are prodded to drown
I just shrug, 'Bloody pups'. It makes sense:
'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town
Where they consider death unnatural
But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.
3.6k
Dear Poet Friends, I hope you like this slice of Early History presented
below in simple verse. Please do read the short notes at the end, before giving your comments. Thanks, - Raj
ARCHIMEDES : THE PIONEERING
STREAKER OF HISTORY!
There lived in the Third Century BC, in the Sicilian
town of Syracuse, then a Greek colony,
A Greek mathematician named Archimedes.
He was tasked by King Hiero of his town,
To find the purity of gold in his crown;
Suspicious of the goldsmith having mixed
some material of inferior kind,
Which the King wanted Archimedes to find!
So, Archimedes lost in thought one day,
Entered the public bath on his way!
And as his body began to get submerged,
He happened to notice perchance,
Water spilling over from the tub!
The answer suddenly flashed across his
mind,
And he jumped up leaving everything
behind,
Wearing only his birthday suit,
Running through the street of Syracuse,
Exclaiming - “Eureka! Eureka!”
(I have found it! I have found it!)
Perhaps to become the first known streaker
of History!
While establishing the Principles of Buoyancy!
@ (see notes)
Archimedes, son of the astronomer Pheidias,
studied at the great Alexandrian city,
Remembered even to this day for his many
pioneering works, -
In Hydrostatics, Mechanics, and Geometry.
With his ingenious mechanical discoveries,
He held the great Roman galleys of Marcellus
at bay,
For more than three years, as Plutarch the
Roman Historian says! + (see notes)
Later one day, while lost in deep thought,
When some intricate problem of geometry
he was trying to resolve,
Refused to hear Marcellus' bidding,
To be slain by the Roman soldiers who had
come to fetch him!
O those Romans, with lesser brains and more
brawn!
And some hundred and thirty years after
his death in 75 BC,
Cicero, then the Roman Governor of Sicily,
Found the tomb of great Archimedes, near the
Agrigentine Gate, over grown with bushes and
thorns;
Where he lay buried in the scented dust of History!
- Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
NOTES:
@ Principle of Buoyancy = any floating object displaces its own
weight of fluid. So weight displaced by a crown of pure gold and
the one already made could be compared to find the truth!
+ Archimedes designed large stone throwers, & crossbows, and
also grappling hooks using large cranes to grab Roman ships and
capsize them!
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
First, you choke on an easy mouthful of air, gasping in over and over but feeling more light-headed all the while
Second, you close your eyes, taste the terror rising up the back of your throat and blocking the air from going down
Third, you shatter, feel your body falling apart and realize with a vengeance how delicate your life is
Fourth, the panic starts. you shake, scream, sob, curl up or lash out while it grabs hold of your nerves and bends your body to it's will
Fifth, you find some breath. maybe someone is helping you. maybe you're helping yourself. a wave of calm displaces every other feeling.
Sixth, you lose your body. your mind floats in a pool of nothingness while your body runs out of primitive instinct. your calm turns to numb.
Seventh, you blink. you breathe. you remember what it feels like to be in control of your body again. you drink some water, or sleep, or both. your head hurts. your mind drifts between your body and the ether. you wipe your face and try to remember what it's like to not be having an attack.
Eighth, you can't remember, because it never seems to end. you accept it. you refuse it. you hate it. you cry. your chest gets tight.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
His motion dark. It’s sickening
how fields are barren from the salt.
The years they come to ****** away my mind.
The brewing hate is welcoming
So raise your finger to them all
and fall back into comatose this last time.
If there’s a need, I’ll gravitate
into the gaps of history
and break the burden of this yoke for you.
With tainted cups we celebrate
the sowing of a fractured seed.
Its funeral for everyone we knew.
The morsels fall from trickled thoughts
they taste like you when you were mine
our effervescent youth now lay in ruins.
The share of us displaces taunts
my serendipity has died
you’re all that’s left…you’re all that’s left…and you’re always all that’s right.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 11:31 AM UTC
The Struggle of the
American
It's Heaven”
Mr. Buetti,
“Or this is Hell”
Who is 51 and lives
“It's a choose your own adventure”
Standardized,
Mass Produced, Vessels.
Missing some deeper substance
Southern farmers, Harlem stoop sitters,
Musicians, builders, athletes,
Liberians, and sailors
A
Dormant
Theater Set
Waiting
For Actors' or super models'
To bring it back to life
Wealth displaces grief.
From Here
I Saw
What Happened and Cried.
Just another day in the life of
Secret Americana.
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 5:39 PM UTC
the words have lost their meaning, put down and forgotten
the ink is old and hitting refresh, flesh is rotten
the love of doves is for the birds, love of forgotten
words, buried deep unearth on Earth, what has brought this on...
short tempered phrases
Viennese masked faces
road rage that displaces
where words that disgraced
the root that spawned their meaning
and thinkers were able to be gleaning
to drink the rich and full in leaving
pride at the door and no deceiving
what we are all here for
not a geo-politico hidden agenda
not a plan within a plan within a plan
like some Shogun in a Clavell novel,
not to be a notch whelped on Evils' belt
size 365 days a year,
equal spaced holes like stepping stones
tighten around a neck stuck out too far
risk taking and all in isn't a sin, groan,
who am I to judge, I am so marred
am I poeticizing how to live,
no, how write poetry and be so alive,
I have so many words they
roll like boulders, in my head
and off my shoulder across the floor
the neighbours complain of the
noise and I lie, say-
ing it is my dog with her toys,
so go write your poetry,
no one else can, please
may it cure you as mine
cures me of my disease
so you can do what you were born to do,
what are you waiting for ** I can't tell you!**
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Fall displaces our sun
Hidden behind a sterile vale
I wait in ignorance
Wolves chase me
Tear me through the open
Long drawn out dashes of red
Streaks on the cheeks of the river
She soaks in the end of a prayer
A dried ball of cotton dyed into other
Ways of being And matter
The stone Buddha smiles
Red ink in my palms with thanks
An offering made in prostate
pose like the subject to the question
Answered with distilled teeth
Unclentched the tongue soft
Under the lips of a kiss in the winter's day
To be given Not had
This thanks of dubious nature
Red tape outlines the past
Red like the ink in your pleading hands
Red like the cotton in your mouth
Red like the beginning of your life
It comes swiftly into her eyes
Against the blue and green
of our days in thought
The candle wax
red too
Holds the negative space
Between the pages
A promise written to home
"My child is born today"
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC
Mouse-perspective; touristy
neck cranked to measure
immensity before me.
So I went higher, to cloudy hills
and gaudy views, where I knew
a great border Above.
Between the clouds I beheld
the enormity of structure, staring
into my eyes? An iris!
Tapestries. Shadow and relief
realized in stone. Baffled
before the incontrovertible
evidence of a benevolent
face? Rushing terrain brings
nostrils, now lips.
Orbiting in the stillness,
stories laid bare as skin
lesions glow.
The cost of working gears
displaces and appears red
as recent scars
where now sprawling sameness
mask the bruises, smooth
as plastic.
My city a single dot
for hands of a blind God
to glide over.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 11:53 AM UTC
There is a mist that settles
close to the earth
It has no hope of surviving the sun
Whose warmth and glow
Displaces its watery blanket
Freeing the short grass
and hidden flowers
To strain with the breeze
Two feet venture across the moors
Heavily booted
Over non-matching socks
There is silence to be gained
on the plains
Suppressing the tarred brickwork
Of houses nestled together
Homes to hop-filled words
Pointing fingers
Contorted faces
Harsh ugly spewing outbursts
Love was for outsiders
And loneliness a gift within
The sky seems so close to the tips
Of your raised fingers
A gesture - a reach
For places you will leave behind
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 3:29 AM UTC
i.
the rain falls down
in sheets now, blocking my view
as i stand here on the corner
waiting for you
i wish i was young again
i wish i was warmer
ii.
counting backwards
settles my mind
like a surgery patient
waiting for the blade
(although you never use
anesthesia)
iii.
the cab pulls
to my corner
you open the door
i take in your aura
a pulsing
which displaces
the air in the cab
so this is what
heartbreak is for
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 2:00 PM UTC
Reading a friend's poetry
and learning about myself--
learning new articulations.
Switching to menthols
for as long as this cold lasts.
Realizing my body wants nicotine
but my mouth wants smoke,
that very often one, not the other,
will be satisfied--that is what's in conflict.
I am trying to be a child,
and I could go philosophically about that
or regressively--
Sort of, it is not the bottle itself I sip
which makes me the rosy ribald randy carouser
but what I put back into the bottle then the trashbin
which displaces the liquid up to my lips.
But regardless of my intents and drinking habits,
I'll still be splashing in the water,
running along the edge of the pool
building a current, a whirlpool
compelling my friends into water,
tackling and dunking and pull them underneath,
and gasping together for breath,
swept along and swelling
hoping to summon a Maelstrom
to engulf me and all.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
~
in this place of darkness,
a quiet chill seeps deep within;
the place where light won't reach,
far below the noisy din
that floods my life above;
the noise that swallows me,
distracting purpose and resolve.
between this rock and hard place
hidden from all time,
where i feel there is no space;
though threatening in its silence,
and though i feel it’s crush;
this place that i despised,
had come to hate so much...
this rock become my cleft,
the cleft became my rock!
where i'm hidden from my foes.
from all that wish me harm,
where loss becomes my hope,
where pain reveals my gain;
where my tattered, filthy rags
are washed in water, clean and cool;
where i'm held in deepest love,
and sheltered from the storm.
as with mercy’s grace in action,
deep below within the earth,
water finds the darkest traces,
seeping to the lowest places,
the foulest air it displaces,
as it finds and fills
the needy spaces.
~
*post script.
is between a rock
and a hard place,
in reality within the cleft?
perhaps it’s all just perspective.
my hardest, darkest place
being under his protective grace.
as water always falls,
down, down, seeping, trickling,
flowing, till it pools
in the very lowest
and darkest places;
just like mercy...
and what is mercy
but grace flowing…
grace in action!*
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
You are like the sea,
Truth be told there is no other way to put it.
The sound of silence covered in repeated sigh.
A total embodiment of things placed of collective wonderment.
What shall triumph the noise of wave overlapping wave.
Of all things calm you spread your presence,
Drowning in the bliss of serenity.
You and only you could create the quiet hush dreams are made of.
Although
Some tides are bigger than most,
Of all times, not all are escapable.
Splashing against the shore in a bipolar like disorder.
Crushing everything it touches, selfish in nature.
For every action there is a natural reaction that displaces the initial action.
A need for finding peace in the eye of discord.
This is where your heart becomes a walking representation of the sea itself.
And I the jagged coast, cleansed of any disbelief that things won't get any better outside of the moment.
Pieces of myself lost in you. A constant movement no longer stagnant in thought.
This is where I consider you the sea, the depth of your eyes covering everything it touches.
And I the boat lost in mid drift, without a care in the world.
A means of transportation exploring a depth of things I never knew to exist.
The things you keep hidden.
Far from the hindsight of eyes, your habits, things you reveal to be true given enough time.
The constant change that happens every moment of every minute.
Still it doesn't take away from it's beauty, the things kept hidden.
You are like the sea,
A profound way of expression.
And I, the sailor.
Watching the truth reveal, bit by bit.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
At midnight, the microwave reads "00:01"
And the sound it emits displaces roaches in the cupboards.
The sound of a distant freeway, running with traffic,
Like the blood which flows through my veins, constant.
Neon lights buzz in the background,
And a moth floats, attracted to the light,
Which flutters until it dies, and its final resting place is the window sill,
Near a dying tomato plant whose soil is littered with ashes,
From late night smoking sessions as I stare at the street below.
Pedestrians are silhouettes stalking the streets at night.
And when they pass under a light, you're surprised to see:
The student, the migrant worker, and the mother of four,
disengaging from the hourly buses which run at this hour.
The microwave reads "00:00," and its beep alerts of the meal,
Mostly frozen peas and potatoes, but the meat is warm,
And the plastic film poked with holes slowly fills the apartment,
With some sign of life and comfort.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
:
The weight of what I'm carrying is heavier with you
the bruises on my back are turning black as I turn blue
This body once a ticking clock is losing track of time
and now the only hands I hold are breaking both of mine
The keeper of my tendencies is shattering my bones
subjecting them to rulership of everything he owns
The only things I haven't lost are pieces of my head
the thoughts forced into dormancy because of what you said
And they have been my hiding place for longer than I know
though entropy displaces me whenever I do go
The journey back to where we are is always just the same
exasperating both of us despite what you can claim
I want to leave and so I stay, my reasoning will prove
that it is here, in front of you that I dare not to move
.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
Deep in the folds
My vulnerable places
Like a draft displaces
Turbid Stagnance
Firey sun illuminates
The dewey fertile soil
Infiltrating unturned
Spongy depths
Stimulates the follicles
Teases tenacious life
Into frothing vigorous
Surging prominence
Hungry searching tongues
Tasting the flushed flesh
So forceful and so hot
in open air
Primitively freely
illuminate
My hunger
Devour me
Like a flame
Consuming
My pride and shame
To surrender
Is to love you
And the falling
Hurts the best
Aug 15, 2022
Aug 15, 2022 at 9:26 PM UTC
Where are the lines when the time has aligned?
And is there a way to accountably die?
I seek but a grave for this body to lie
Yet cannot submit to the ground, it is dry
A desert of trouble is all I can find
Desperate, I wander and tangle the vines
Here in the moment our steps are entwined
But who was the first to arrive, you or I?
Take up your pen and the hand that you hide
Use all the ink that is harbored inside
Bleed like a wound, it will keep you alive
Why do you fear what you simply deny?
Bury the questions, one sand at a time
Under the doubt that displaces your mind
Come be unraveled, prepared and refined
Then help me uncover meridian lines
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
Inspiration is born in:
Dark places
Lost cases
Consumed chases
Forgotten races
Empty spaces
Mind mazes
Someone else's suitcases
What life Erases
Displaces
Absent Embraces
Bad places
Sad places
Disappearing faces
So go.
Find your aces.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 11:07 PM UTC
A CORPORAL'S DEFINITION OF POETRY
The perfect summer's day.
The sky a postcard blue.
Hate distorted voices...faces
chanting: "STICK IT IN HIS GUTS!"
A lark ascending
throws itself against the vault of Heaven.
Only to be
rejected.
"...MAKE IT HURT...TWIST IT ABOUT
**** THE FUC**ING *******
God has a sick sense
of humour to have
bayonet practice
on such a perfect day.
The world whirlpools
down the plug hole
of Corporal 'Orrible's
almighty mouth.
He hates me because I
(Pt. Dempsey D. No. 835572)
am not showing enough
hate to **** a sandbag.
Sweat trickles down my spine
vertebra by vertebra.
The sandbag ***** the blade in
and won't give it back again.
I pull it out and fall
upon my derrière.
The sandbag bleeds sand.
Mocks my efforts
which displaces the book
I have about my person.
"What's this...what's this!"
Corporal 'Orrible hisses.
"A book, Corporal!"
"I can ****** well see it's a book!"
"A poetry book, Corporal!
IN PARENTHESIS by David Jones."
"In...in...wotsis do you think I'm
thick or wot!"
"Wot, Corporal?"
"Don't you wot me sunny Jim!"
His spit
peppers my face.
"There isn't enough white space
around the words for it to be a poem!"
"That's not an accurate definition
of a poem, Corporal!"
He froths at the mouth
tears it in half...throws it over his shoulder.
"Why you impudent little pup!
*** that rifle up...up....up!"
He runs me around the training ground
three times and then three times.
Later I go back and find
only half of it.
The half I have already read.
A sheep is nibbling it.
But like the Corporal it isn't
to his taste.
Over 40 years go by and
here I am an ex-army man.
Finishing the second half of
Jones' IN PARENTHESIS.
Remembering all too well the hell of
running 'round the training ground
three times and then three times
with my rifle up above my head.
Oh the agony of bearing arms.
Remembering too never to argue
with a corporal's definition of
poetry during bayonet practice.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
from nothing we came and to nothing we will return ad nauseum
i become who i want to be
a stone moves no water and feels no wind, it displaces the air but it takes nothing away, leaves a small footprint, just a trace in the sand
look for the path and tread lightly there, feet make no marks, and lungs long to breathe no air, eyes focused on both the east and the west, all the fires that you’ve made, and all the bridges yet to burn
and if you think you have a right to ask the question is always the same we must tread lightly and if you think you have a right to take in trust just think of all the people that came before
form is emptiness and emptiness is form
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 4:29 AM UTC
Winter has no cold lie the brief terror of life that seems endless the terror strikes from streets
And paths once walked in joy now each house every board each window every angle states
What was and never will be again nature will not allow a vacuum but lost- loved ones are the
Holes and vacuum that honeycomb the human heart these are the shadows that the brightest
Sun cannot abolish they visit in long walks or can come from the briefest encounter their
Unprecedented power is evidenced in silence of chiseled granite over windswept hills and
Fields nothing effect these monuments but the human heart alone through love can enwrap
The Coldest stone making it melt by love’s glowing power the stone shimmers momentarily and
Then is replaced by living memory that the coldest beast of all which is time has relentlessly
Pursued until has drawn a high flame of youthful vigor down till it is but a feeble flame that the
Smallest breeze extinguishes all leave a lasting mark and each in their own special way give
Enduring power that goes a long way in the healing process God their most prominent
Characteristics to veil the suffering one until the walk can be made alone for some it is the
Power of their personality others their gentle sweet nature can even hold deaths pall at bay
And still others the wonder they spin in common ordinary days come rushing in as swirling
Waters that raise the soul and carry it to higher climes shadows call us to refection our loved
Ones stand ever present to diffuse the harsh glaring light we hear their whispering voices they
Are timeless reminders of life’s greatest good we gather these mortal treasures they continue
To be our closest advisers and closest friends although they have ventured to the farthest
Boundaries of our understanding our hearts will always be knit together by love the greatest
Power known to mankind that is our unbreakable cord that binds us together yesterday today
And for all the tomorrows O stillness that can hold heaviest burdens it displaces the most
Contrary circumstances let us view our tomorrow the silence our escape walk the solitary
Landscape tin the emptiest places you will find the rare that stands out in exquisite detail we
Have shared the wonder of souls that have been strategically placed in our lives so that we
Could reach our destiny and fulfillment go forth bravely and share the gifts they bestowed in
Your life
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
Ear worms during zen prove that left to nothing, popular culture will take my attention.
So let them create their music: an evil in the Hadiths of Islam, and a degradation in the Pali Canon.
Music's flames burn away the veins and stupify the mind.
The heart is replaced with straw and the liver is poisoned.
Baha'u'llah said music is lawful as long as it uplifts the spirit.
But I say:
It eats the organs, toxifies the blood.
It makes me forgetful of liberation.
Its words are idols against the Path.
It masks the senses.
It trivializes reason.
It points the disposition into darkness upon darkness.
It deafens the ears.
It lightens the body.
It stammers the sense of smell.
It invades attention and enslaves the mind.
It dries the throat.
It displaces the sense of location.
Feb 6, 2021
Feb 6, 2021 at 2:42 AM UTC
#*Sometimes
It’s the quiet, of the calm
That quietly exists
With the rage, of the storm
Non displaces other
Forever
As, the dark of the night
Never replaces
The bright shining sun
Eternally, they live*#
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 1:55 PM UTC