"displacing" poems
Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Washed up.
Lifeless.
All for a new life too far to reach?
Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Terrorists
Heartless.
What happened to the human rights we all preach?
Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Traffickers.
Gangs.
Displacing people no home and no speech.
Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
A son.
No future.
We hang our heads and weep!
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Steam rises from the blocks of industry
beyond the immediate trees;
a thin white veil
cloaking the city like a bedsheet.
And you waking, displacing
your head about apathetically
trying to light a smoke
with sunlight -
this linear love on a tangent,
golden, some ornament.
Everything up then falling
each morning, with light
tethered to the ceiling
while you lay still
dazed from dreaming,
the day breaks unassuming.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
Love will **** you
It'll bend you, break you, throw you around.
It's like a tsunami:
consuming, powerful, inescapable.
You and tsunamis are pretty similar.
When I saw you I felt you in the deepest parts of my being, smashing around and displacing my insides.
And when you left, you took away parts of me I can never retrieve. Like a wave returning to the sea, taking with it all in it's path.
You and tsunamis aten't that different after all.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 7:12 PM UTC
Hurtling along and away,
Approaching the center of the galaxy,
The event horizon becomes visible,
Slowly pulling me inside,
Time and space distorted,
Wave-forms collapsing in on themselves,
Stretching and bending frequencies,
Unrealities become fluid,
then begin collapsing and twisting,
Beyond recognizable form,
Into infinite and immense matter,
Like twist and tears in the fabric of space,
Falling toward nothingness,
That dreaded singularity,
A moment away,
A million moments away,
As time ceases to exist,
And crushing gravity,
Displacing understanding,
Dispelled notions,
Horrific,
And peaceful,
Become the same.
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 6:06 AM UTC
Seduced
by the
school
shooter
singing
siren
songs
of
shotgun
blows
to the heart beat
of the wet American dream.
It's the human interest
horror allegory
The hero doesn't even get
15 minutes
But the shadow has
got a gun fetish
Counting bullets as
They're counting blessings,
numbered 1-27
3x his pump action
Light 'em up
***** 'em out
Some head-sick self-entitled
monster in a mask
on a mission of mass destruction
Cashed in on their
little tax deductions
The most sacred snuffed out
before the light could become them
It's the darkness that dominates
As the dragon **********
Witch inside
The mind
displacing emotions
away from the art of
living
loving
and losing
You're the submissive
Ascend the divine madness
or find yourself in shackles
in the machinery.
Humming
hypnotizing
hymns
of conformity
Another one's lost his mind
Descended
And the scapegoat
is mental illness
We all know,
The media is the medium
is the message
The subliminal secret passage
to the shared skewed subconscious
Planting ideas of bloodshed
Like evidence in the
Bodies of specific demographics
Demonize
Pack the prisons
Capitalize
And cut the blood losses
Here we are now
Hopeless
It makes for great entertainment
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
Big ships, small ships, yachts and dingeys
Floating across the mighty sea
Carving their way, displacing their weight
To keep afloat the Captain and First mate.
Old ships, new ships, schooners and cruise liners
Have crossed paths throughout the ages old
Once to explore, make claim, pirate and fight
Now to wine and dine on a luxurious bite
Salted beef, rock hard bread and weevil-friendly biscuits
A 3 course meal fit for Old Salts alike
Weevils & worms and bugs of all kind
Along with sparse portions of meat, you might find
French wine, filet mignon, sushi and pastries
Buffets and fine dining, variety is key
All you can eat, whenever you'd like
No chores, no work, just eating all night'
What a contrast exists between these two worlds
Only 2 to 300 hundred years apart
Once grimy, risky, arduous and fraught
Now fancy, lazy, and much to be bought
What if the Old Salts could teleport to today
And live aboard our floating hotels?
With no masts to climb or sheets to tend
Would they break or would they bend?
I suppose that switch would be easy enough
But send us back to Pirate-ridden waters
You'd be sure never to hear from us again
Swabbing the deck would **** us alone
Not to mention the food and disease of back when.
- BPW
Dec. 11, 2013
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:29 PM UTC
Blast off the powder keg
One-two with the punches
Rope over your shoulder
Like I wanna reach the summit
Maybe you let loose before
But, honey, I ain't seen it yet
But, baby, I'm scared to like
Messin your perfect face, displacing
Your innocence and makin
Our blankets wet
I said I don't wanna blast
But you got the controller
Got that hold and doin it right
Got my ***** **** my Xbone
On lock on this *** throne
Pop your mouth a minute girl
Base to the tip that ****
Is rocket sauce
Blast off the powder keg
One-two with the punches
Rope over your shoulder
Like I wanna reach the summit
Maybe you let loose before
But, honey, I ain't seen it yet
Maybe this night is the best
Night of my life I lick my
***** off your skin, sleep
Tight, tomorrow I'll breathe
***** breath
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 3:54 AM UTC
As culled from an arts magazine, 13 March 2019
Socialist Realism - The official doctrine in Soviet art and literature after 1932 that evolved from the traditional commitment to social and civic concerns into an all-pervasive general ideological mandate.
-Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 20th Century Russian Poetry
collective exhibition space vibe community
interactive narrative brown neighborhood
defined commodified Indigenous
identity tone-deaf decolonial
narratives populist intertwined
exhibition curatorial vision
culture local artists arts district small galleries
DIY spaces speaking out against
gentrification displacing shelter
studio space elsewhere late stage capitalism
collective mantra underdog art savior
corporate entity partnering insensitive
ignorant collective brown people art
contemporary work that may not fit
into establishment art galleries
media advisory venture collaborate
creative community authentic
local statement of expression excitement
creative energy arts district project
many levels collaborate local
creative important creative
community what that collaboration
looks like ongoing local artists going
to be engaged in planning commissioned
project community buy-in consulted members of the creative community Indigenous artists curators museum
directors professors burgeoning landscape
cultural framework critique talk individuals
entities inclusivity open
dialogue opportunities project
conversations collaboration discuss
your projects share our work with you
common ground work together healthy sustainable
accountable decolonization
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 5:41 PM UTC
it isn't all black and white
the choke-hold of history
shades of red and brown
paint the scenery, too
the documented imagery
forgotten in the fray
a little big horn playing mournful
songs as the cavalry marches on
to the tune of galleons and guns
no passport required
when the port was young
émigré and immigrant
displacing native sons
who also once were pilgrims
breathing in the sun.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 8:04 AM UTC
Golden words penned long ago
when I was young and zesty
occupied with lofty things
perhaps a lot less testy.
That which clouds my vision
tragic losses which destroyed
sweet perceptions
dark deceptions
left me underjoyed.
Of boyfriends unattainable
rejection would then smite
the hope of finding love,
which left me
just a bit uptight.
in the stretch to earn a living
well my boss is kind of rough
In trying to say something nice I'm on ice
cuz she's hard-headed, driving, and tough.
The high cost of living and then there's the tax
puts a strain on my old bank account
but that backbiting backriding queen battleaxe
can jump from the ground to the mount.
and every day's the same old thing
like a hamster on the wheel
the same old thing is looking old
and I’m feeling cold as steel.
but still I ignore the passing of time
and balance hard work with clean fun
and believing that this is as good as it gets
I'll settle for less than the one.
seeking distraction from everything dull
and attracted to that which you are
I read self help books while you eats what I cooks
and you're lost in the Harper's Bazaar.
My cellulite was ill replete
and disappointments grew
and long before the smog moved in
it choked the thrill from you.
and out of this stress comes the need to digress
so we sleep and we play and we drink
and we drain our desires and ***** up our wires
and leave our *** life on the brink.
Simple amusements, the clutter of things
common to man and his beast
from the pretense of knowledge and so many things
to the Thanksgiving holiday feast.
And now we're blown out, you lie and I shout
there's a palpable distance that's haunted
I long for the day when you'd hold me and say
that I'm the THE ONE you've always wanted.
But now mediocre, you opt to play poker
and run with a sweatpool of stink
and hoping to find something good on the street
in the morning you feel like a fink.
Left to your own devices
sleeping soundly, your heart's one desire
for passion it waits, while the office debates
and will do so until you expire.
Displacing my anger I'm less satisfied
and will never see straight, as you'll see
my own crooked finger was put through the wringer
and now it points straight back at me.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Shepard Leopard print not calligraphy double "L's" lively as llamas lily roll roots lull underwater dreams felt from the events of hypnotized by the words of the orator, an ores rating is the basis of the all purpose flowering behind the veil, human as satiated, red as sunsets lewd as an anagram of wed rings marry Saturn on this mourning of the death of time, rocks felt sediment may ties tan in the Sun pelts peeled layered in the wind steaming serpentine smokes coils in the sky Clouds the equipment of the buster Organs play louder than church hymns reigns power blood men straighten in their pews at the sound of the root of all evil the mouth of the whale begging for the message more "S's" in saliva drool without one of Oh now bow before the bow arc in the Know a Self flooded urge elevated surfaced by the pit of the concrete, open your abstract the path leopard prints in the mud escape the boar snarling winters Solar is the limit speed time for the Scarab dry enough for the role of matter being dense as ****** In no sense cures us from our aged protractor, human after all is how I robot rock.
I am earth breathing fire hearing wind moving water beneath my meat eating feet. I stare through the ghost riding I am Equine the warship of the Poised den at landings end I devour funnel cakes within the three circles, I merge the warmth and cool blending the reflections with its shadow commanding paddle cyclical backstroke the Frog's moment chosen amp powered transition form and fathom an alternate realm, I dropped a meteor on a puddle world displacing half of all livin; Lanced a Wasp's nest as a Dragoon steals an egg as a test.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
Full Moon
Barefoot; each step sinking in mud
splashes of rain marry with
crimson drops in a puddle
of stormed waves
from an opened heaven
She kneels to the ground
simultaneously glancing
left, right, behind
cheeks blushed, her soul falling
as teardrops - her lowest ebb.
Ripping her cotton dress
she replaces blood soaked rags -
it’s been six days.
This war within herself
at only twelve years of age
Every nineteen days
her body a vessel; a period
of girlhood abruptly ends,
womanhood demurred.
Each & every month
persecuted;
Jesus nailed to a cross.
Amidst war-torn streets
fleeing torched homes
civil war displacing
orphaned sisters –
*****
As militants continue to
prevail over children’s
innocence
Washing her sin away
red body fluids disperse
in mud, rain, water, soil -
her reflection lost
alongside any remaining dignity
On those same knees
Badriyyah pleads with God
to no longer bring forth
the fertility of conception
each cursed month.
Congolese civil wars
scraped away landscapes
Mother Nature
scraped away internal walls
& month after month
after month after month
this period endures
& a child of the night
stays hidden from sight.
© Sia Jane
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
A bubble.
Form without void,
the time before time,
absolute inertia,
total resolution,
perfect harmony,
the bubble forming,
expanding,
like an explosion,
displacing,
creating,
The Birthing
of galaxies and stars,
planets in formation,
the universe
unfolding,
meteors crashing
into the atmosphere primitive,
amino acids
forming,
evolving inorganic
to organic,
microbes becoming
multi-cellular
--the race is on,
to and from
fishes,
amphibians,
reptiles,
birds,
animals,
primates
man,
consciousness and self-consciousness,
born and dying,
nothing meaning everything
time
and time again.
Awareness began,
both
with a bang
and a newborn baby's
cry.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 8:23 AM UTC
Stark dark black limbs
Breast eyes beak wings
Abysmal feathered
Garments; a messenger.
Mal to prefix, as well,
Remnants from the abyss.
Not malicious, for delicious
Is a delight dragged
Out of any carrion.
Not carried because
They carry enough
Is too much for
These observers of us.
Screeching their squawks.
Perched on boughs for talks.
Of malign imminence.
To coalesce friendly fragments.
Found at any crossing's discourse.
Gusting about an eerie force.
Beacons upon who to bereave.
Portent displacing fallen leaves.
So we re-member
Our piece by piece plummet
Into that omnipotent
Stark dark descent.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
vibrant colors effervescent arrays
energetically on show for the eye's window
gardens ebullient with vivacious displays
front and backyards brilliantly aglow
hues of a rainbow a springtime glory
energetically on show for the eye's window
a paint box of shades telling the story
streets and avenues resplendent of decoration
hues of a rainbow a springtime story
our towns and villages so bright in elation
they bring a gaiety after winter's drear
streets and avenues resplendent of decoration
it does gladden the heart when they appear
the floral tones of cerise purple and orange bloom
they bring a gaiety after winter's drear
spring displacing the cold season's gloom
the floral tones of cerise purple and orange bloom
vibrant colors effervescent arrays
gardens ebullient with vivacious displays
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
'literature has a way of owning you'--
(the author said, after the book-signing;
and taking me behind the shelves, showed me
what possession meant, riptide trough and swell)
---much as the sea lays claim to one adrift,
to drown or hold aloft, then pin to bed,
displacing breath; choke...release...toss free, choke;
lungs drenched: retching silt, pelagic darkness
spotted with the faint transmuted sun.
whether full to glint a myriad in sky,
or blind to evanesce in foam and spray...
an atlantean crush of symbols: lost--
my inner mythic fades to distant waves
revising how i write of self, sunk
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
I need to go.
I am displacing
here.
Displaced Wednesday,
time to fast, not
for my health, not
for moral justice, not
to slow consumption, only
from dawn to dinner, a
lackluster way not
to restore dopamine, not
to suppress apetite
in some lateral, percussive
hypothalamus injury.
I fast in sync only
with voices and volume, doing
in mind emptiness.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
There is a word that expresses all
the ways in which you have disappointed me
and driven me to tears of frustration;
I could not enumerate them without displacing
my mind in the process,
I can only seethe in the chagrin
that you have left behind you,
a thick gelatinous mess you spread
with each movement of your sluggish body
and with each breath you take
you augment my resentment for you
until it boils over into one expression,
one word that encompasses this
empirically justifiable vexation,
uttered with the sarcastic malice
that could drive it into your dense English skull;
cheers.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
No one has ever taken a chance with me
Some have danced with me
But most are quick to be real slick
And change their stance with me
Fake people making noise
And playing games
Calling names, pointing fingers
And placing blame
Little realize
While they're fixed on displacing shame
All this nonsense stays constantly
Suspended through my veins
They burst open with the worst notions Contorted emotions to mass explosions
Like mixing large proportions of gasoline
Fire driven moths-to-flames
And my response is to conjure
Create, contemplate, and maintain
So please run along and carry on
Like you never knew my name
Because saying it will curse you
When you mention it in vain
Don't react or erupt like 'this' was abrupt When you never said 'this' to my face
Don't act surprised or try to hide it
Like you missed it or tried to fight it
Like you have any right to deny it
Now that you've finally been erased
I'm tired of all the back-thens
And back-whens
You're a has-been, and I'm laughing
Coming out of the woodwork
Some leaving without a trace
Like a blank space could ever replace
Everything you didn't make work
In the end we didn't mend
So I guess I wasn't worth it
At best we could jest, try to forget
Let's say that I deserve it
I wasn't perfect and then again
I'm not a ******* servant
Should I reword it?
Use different verbage?
Change my perspective respective
Of your verdict on the time spent?
I wouldn't know
Because you never showed
And I'm too busy living in ('this') moment
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 6:48 AM UTC
Golden words penned long ago
when I was young and zesty
occupied with lofty things
perhaps a lot less testy.
That which clouds my vision
tragic losses which destroyed
sweet perceptions
dark deceptions
left me underjoyed.
Of boyfriends unattainable
rejection would then smite
the hope of finding love,
which left me
just a bit uptight.
in the stretch to earn a living
well my boss is kind of rough
In trying to say something nice I'm on ice
'cause she's hard-headed, driving, and tough.
The high cost of living and then there's the tax
puts a strain on my old bank account
but that backbiting back-riding queen battleaxe
can jump from the ground to the mount.
and every day's the same old thing
like a hamster on the wheel
the same old thing is looking old
and I’m feeling cold as steel.
but still I ignore the passing of time
and balance hard work with clean fun
and believing that this is as good as it gets
I'll settle for less than the one.
seeking distraction from everything dull
and attracted to that which you are
I read self help books while you eats what I cooks
and you're lost in the Harper's Bazaar.
My cellulite was ill replete
and disappointments grew
and long before the smog moved in
it choked the thrill from you.
and out of this stress comes the need to digress
so we sleep and we play and we drink
and we drain our desires and ***** up our wires
and leave our *** life on the brink.
Simple amusements, the clutter of things
common to man and his beast
from the pretense of knowledge and so many things
to the Thanksgiving holiday feast.
And now we're blown out, you lie and I shout
there's a palpable distance that's haunted
I long for the day that you'll hold me and say
I was always the THE ONE that you wanted.
But now mediocre, you opt to play poker
and run with a sweat-pool of stink
and hoping to find something good on the street
in the morning you feel like a fink.
Left to your own devices
sleeping soundly, your heart's one desire
for passion it waits, while the office debates
and will do so until you expire.
Displacing my anger I'm less satisfied
and will never see straight, as you'll see
my own crooked finger was put through the wringer
and now it points straight back at me.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
The Birth Of Gaia
"The changes themselves are already under way for quite some time. They are energetic changes, not so much on a physical 3D level. The Hunab Ku wave signal, on its way to Earth aka Gaia, will open a Stargate. The wavefront will get here by the end of 2012.
In physical terms Hunab Ku (Hunab Ku aka Perseus aka Ouroboros, the Milky Way Serpent who swallows its own tail) is a quasar radio source, also known as Sagittarius A, 'weighting' about 4 million suns and so 40 million kilometers (or 2 light minutes) across and about 25,627 lightyears distant from the core of the Earth.
The changes will result via energy Matrix changing not the planet itself. Gaia's ascension is interdimensional, not physical.
Changing the rotation and inertia of Earth (geographic pole shifts,..etc) could easily destroy the planet. The higher dimensional envelope is changing (subtly seen in environmental changes).
Energy shift is slowly displacing the old Matrix - this is the ascension. By 2013 it will complete the reconfiguration. Old humanity will be "forced" to either adapt or go crazy. The less "dense" reconfiguration will enable the ET (extra terrestrial ) contact by then. Until that time, ET will only be seen as plasma (white light, orbs..shadows of 4D).
There will be a pole shift....but at the center of the Earth. Its a dimensional 'Opening' or Rupture of spacetime itself as a 'SelfIntersection', of geometry. The wave signal will than bounce back and begin transmitting all the gathered data from Noospehre aka Akashic Records aka... to the entire universe."
THE COUNCIL OF THUBAN
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
I start with a backhoe, displacing
brain-sized clumps of earth.
A few fickle particles escape
between the imposing metal teeth.
The mechanized bucket clinks
against a rigid texture.
I grab a shovel, bending my spine
to the task at hand.
Pretty soon the shovel only scoops up
unsatisfying fistfuls of dust.
It is cast aside for the broom,
revealing the smooth shape underneath.
A dingy film is spread around
by the coarse fibers of the broom.
I grab my toothbrush, furiously scrubbing
the chrome-plated formation.
Now all passersby
can bite my shiny metal
victory.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
There are poor neighborhoods
that are tucked into towns,
where the less educated,
where the lesser of means,
find in the dregs, the ability
to coexist with higher society.
Society is grown to the point of disease,
killing the feeble, disabling the lost,
in the name of and for some ease.
So here comes the city, meaning so well.
They said, "Let's add a train line
to a town that has none!"
Well, there goes the block.
There go the people who
barely have homes.
The Council wants to drop a line
where they see shoes bounce power lines.
What's the harm in displacing
the part of the community already dead?
The town now seems to be just fine
now that the poor are paying fines.
Why not double down and just
gentrify when history tells the story best?
Expand Portland, rid Tigard of blemish,
trade your rug for cement and track.
Beautify Tigard, please your ill desire,
don't be surprised when your eyesore
comes back.
Go ahead, pave your poverty.
Go ahead, clean your streets.
You're thinking, "Lines for dimes."
What do you think a new line means?
What do you think the traffic brings?
The sweet guillotine repeats.
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
a shell, a rock, valueless
token of exchange
Cain's creation, perhaps,
impelled by hunger and his mark
today a non attributable lie
a picture of true faith
- but the sword still stands -
speaks more truth than any word can
deeper its insidious roots grow
for the greater its seeming efficacy
displacing the currency of love
for my enemies love me as themselves
but the lie is true
gnawing from the inside out
from nations, to businesses, to people,
a soulless heartless ********** remains
by the sword you live, by the sword you die
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 11:19 PM UTC
~~~
dislocation/punk'd
hey baby,
put one forward,
faking baby steps.
life is hard in different ways,
for so many of us, the days say,
each year of us, walks a unique maze,
hands on the wall, unavoidable tripping on
speed bumps that make one crazed
and that you even see
coming
but inevitable is the red,
swelling, bruises, cutting,
the side effects of what gets said,
the falling-downs of words that are
dislocating
things get said, and you get paid
in eerie and weary,
and the loss of balance,
as if you are just the warm water,
water that slips over the side,
not the body inside,
and when you slip up,
that wet, warm beat-up,
That empty feeling of being is
displacing
you know, well advanced,
that parts of you,
moving around inside,
sources of internal dizziness,
the curve ***** thrown in slow mo
that so mesmerize you
into watching but not swinging,
accepting that the arc,
provides burns skinning,
and you go down 'n out
striking
what ya gonna do?
dust off and upstanding accept,
that some pitches are just **** hard on us,
we the swingers, often miss the ball,
wide of the mark,
sometimes we just stand, mouth agape,
watching the ball coming right at us,
even foreseeing the incoming
paining
what hurts,
is not those rosy red ridge reminders,
the after party of being hit,
but that when getting punk'd,
chewed up, spit out,
you get used to it, and to survive,
to keep your wits,
you spend time convincing yourself,
that you don't even care,
but you find your thinking is all about
rhyming
so when poetry get complicated,
ya get back to where ya
once before where,
keeping it simple,
roses red, violets blue,
what ya gonna do,
but your sense of smell
shot to hell,
what the hell,
thinking just another wet plunking
thinking no big dealing
this one mo' punking,
there will be more
but wonder why
you can no longer make your
simple, confused words to be reduced
by right
rhyming
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC