"distantly" poems
I lost the ***** that held my world together
There is no finding it now
And yes, I looked between the cushions of the couch
I prepare to run because
Like water through a busted dam it is coming
Like the pain of a stubbed toe it arrives in a furious instant
That asks for select curse words to be shouted
But so unlike pain in my toe, it does not fade
My world comes crashing down
The clouds in the sky fall
As dust onto my outstretched fingertips
(They hope to catch a bit of my falling world)
The atmosphere caves in
The air pressure intensifies
Until it has wrapped me
In a straight-jacket and
I
Am
Paralyzed
I Search for your comforting eyes as you
Distantly ask me if I am okay I’m not
Okay but I cannot
Open my mouth
For the words to say because
I cannot move an inch to save you
Let alone myself
I couldn’t even save a
Word document right now
I try to scream but
I
Can’t
Speak
And my world is crashing down
The water from the busted dam
Hits me like a concrete wall
My useless straight-jacketed body
Is swept away
The water washes away all emotion
I
Can’t
Feel
The sound of my demise is so loud
In my ears
I cannot hear you any longer
I
Can’t
Hear
The lack of oxygen
In my brain
Turns off the light
I cannot see the stars
I
Can’t
See
Water everywhere
World crashing down
I
Am
Drowning
My heart beats too
Fast
Fast
Fast
I don’t have enough air to
Last
Last
Last
World
Crashing
Down
I
Can’t
Move
Can’t
Speak
Nor
Feel
Hear
See,
I
(Gasp)
Can’t
(Gasp)
Breathe.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
so i get this idea sometimes
that you enjoy being coy
when it comes to me
to conjure momentary spectacle
& make me wonder
if you paint catharsis
on the doors of a home
you've never lived in
as a memory of our first night together
because i do, i remember you
beaming white on blue
speaking softer than any storm
i ever knew, i often think that maybe
you live that night in your mind
when your pillow is cold
& you can't sleep, it makes me wonder
if you do as i do, and rewrite three years fictionally beginning with a kiss somewhere
maybe a balcony or a quiet car
on the sand or in a sunlit grove close to your home but always a familiar scar on the maps we know we know by heart
i wonder if sometimes
the idea of me loving you is too real
and if it teems under your tongue
to stay observant but distantly intrigued
if by this distance you think it safe
to get a dog and pass time
on the couch with a journal & some wine
what i really wanna know is if your fingernails ever wish to have my skin under them
or if they would boast
about winning a war with my headboard
i wonder if you can imagine me
meeting your parents in your apartment & shaking your fathers hand
as a first of many calloused palm readings
and if you know that i trembled before them
how insignificant i had felt
to not know their daughter
in the way i had envisioned
how i picture such poignant moments
so tangibly sharp that sometimes
i replace my memories with little stories
i tell myself that i can't count on two hands
the number of times i've seen you
& that i don't feel like a crater
when i recollect our collisions
i want to know if you still find madness
in the words that have always been about you
i wanna know if your imagination of me
looks more like an anniversary or an obituary
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
I've got two big pimples,
Each located on either side of my forehead.
And distantly,
I look like the fictional Frankenstein's Monster!!
I guess these are from excessive tension...
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
<>
you pout and defer, dancing backwards,
claiming, blue is now blackened
from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival
*saying eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far,
the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent,
but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die,
though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised
denying that inspiration
no longer resides with in thy sensitivities,
has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires
all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying
my internal spaces once filled by poems
you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze,
came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied,
but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!*
***you know it’s you of whom I write, but,
a note not shaming names, but messages
countless private messages have I sent
begging, beseeching, give me your gifts***
once more, you owe me not, though I
oft irritate with my deafening pleas,
yet only denials continue, my pleas ding
but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition
so speak to you plain,
feed my soul selfish
like in years gone past,
there are holes in mine
that require your elixir,
creamy softness that moistens
my face with tears of your words
originating, astound, enfold**
not later, not soon, not excusals,
write for me NOW, WRITE FOR YOURSELF,
but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,**
Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC
Forever neglected
Forever dismayed
Forever deafened
By the cacophony of the trade
The antiquated digger stands by
A sentient guard of the worker
It watches as the tree slowly dissipates
Its life slowly crumbling
As the voracious chipper
Devours the tree whole
The worker stands by
The digger stands by
The chipper chips away
The taciturn worker remains
Ruminating the existence of the world.
Why was he put here?
For what reason must he stay with these hallowed construction tools?
Do they feel any remorse for the change that they've enacted
On the world around them?
Are they aware that they transgress the laws of nature?
The bellicose chipper
Wages war with nature
As the people watch so distantly.
Its sound makes the neighbors quite belligerent
Yet the zealots watch attentively.
The pure ignorance
The pure neglect
The blatant apathy
Is something to be seen.
Whatever could possess you
To follow in the footsteps of the worker
To feel his pain as the trimmer
Chips away at the trees' centuries
The sound of shattered glass
Punctuates the air.
Perhaps there has been an accident.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
I found myself buried deep within the womb of creation
Lost, I climbed through the mud of life
Pulling myself up on the bones of the ancients
I broke through to the light, and heard the earth cry
Rise, Woman, Rise
I looked upon the face of the eternal
Reaching upward, I tried to touch the sky
So with my feet planted firmly in the past
I grew toward the future, bridging both earth and divine
And in me, the words rose once more,
Rise, Woman, Rise
After I had bridged the heavens,
After I had delved through the mud
I branched out towards the stars surrounding
Souls glittering in the lonely sky
Beckoned by a need, I reached to them
But just out of reach, they twinkled distantly
When a single answer I heard them call
Rise, Woman, Rise
And from my roots, I grew down deeper
And from my arms, I reached out high
With my fingers, stretched out longingly
Glancing over them, I swept the sky
Fingers clasped my own in their hands
Pulling me towards their brilliant light
Connected, I am tied to the universe
Woven into the web of life
And now, when I see another reaching,
I cry out the words that brought me here,
Rise, Woman, Rise
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 8:53 PM UTC
I love the way you stare at me blankly from behind your coffee.
You take slow, painstaking sips...
It suggests exciting ***
I love the way you sensuously lick your lips,
every time you put the cup down.
I love the way you're not flirting with me.
I love that you tell me your **** looks amazing in those leggings.
I know.
I love the way you say my name-
distantly,
boringly,
disinterestedly.
Your mind a million miles away, on another man-
You tell me how nice his **** is.
I smirk and tell you I'm glad that we're friends.
You're a special kind of torture.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
About a week or so ago,
I fell in love with a man
when I went to sleep
in a boy's bed.
His chest
read "weird"
in black-block ink
his self acceptance
made me smile.
His eyes,
puppy dawg brown,
breathed in every edge
of my body
knowing exactly
where they
were going,
but never fully
meeting mine.
Up my hips
on our dance floor.
Down my tummy
on his bed.
His distant
self assurance
consumingly
relaxing.
His
freckled face
and dimpled smile
only implied
deep sincerity
matching
his overgrown
words.
In adolescence
I'd forced myself
to give up the idea
of being with a boy
whose fingers read "bad."
But
When he came
to me
his hands
over
my body
his silence
over
my mind.
He
enjoyed me
The whole night
The way I did him
He took in
my stories
grabbed my shoulders
with shaking
enthusiasm
with reaction
to my action
with interest
in the questions
of my own life
I'd barely explored.
He took in
my toes
my ankles
my hips.
He acknowledged
the marks
on the skin
of my backside
i became
self conscious
and uncomfortable
But he noticed.
He tinkered
with the ring
of my belly button
grazed
the edges
of my breast.
He breathed
in my ears
He wanted
badly
for me
to feel good.
He didn't play games
in either his loving
or his company.
They were both
giving
gentle
and distantly
warm.
So much
sincerity
from a man
I accidentally
fell in love
with the briefness
of a boy.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 7:27 PM UTC
Rake-thin Humble hoes subsistence soil
Planting green-topped onion bulbs,
Camino divides the field forcing Humble's Husband
To till distantly, he works slower, and is of bulbous girth,
A red Reebok shirt adorns his back whilst she
Wears the hand-me-downs her grandmother had worn.
Their house is built of stone like bone,
Ground-sewn and dug fresh centuries before,
No siestas punctuate their endeavors.
Passing pilgrims groan under weight of sack -
Whilst Humble counts the years before her bones
Are interned in preparation to shelter future generations.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
I'm sorry, I don't remember you, what was your name? Funny how you can't remember who I am yet you were my world at one point.
An introduction wil sufice, my name is sea, yours must be moon because I'm steady drawn to you while you taunt me with your perfection.
bless me with the smile I'm used to and I may give you the carress of which you've been forgetting so it may jog your memory.
Do you still not recognize me? Perhaps a slight lock of the lips... Welcome back love, I've missed you far too much.
If only life were as simple as the above described, maybe then I might see her. The soul of a butterfly, the heart of a pheonix, yet a love with the strength of a thousand hearts.
She is my counterpart, a taboo to none but I, She.. the... god. My goddess of whom I've been missing. I welcome her with an open heart and a spacious view of her love.
I get on my knees in worship of my goddess, only to thank the lord for her. My personal blessing and I shall pay homage to her every chance I get.
To hold her, you can't imagine. She's the warmth of the sun, the sweetness of a black cherry, the softness of fresh picked cotton, yet ironically as cool as a glass of ice water to one parched and decrepit.
I'm in love, no, yes, no. What's the conflict? Why does it matter?
Am I not a the earth? Is she not a moon to me, or beter yet, an extension of my personal self? She satisfies the need for intimacy better than those before her and yet I can't think straight. Is this supposed to happen?
Mutual love. What I needed, she provided like a mother and child. Yet we're still at a disconnect.
She said we're romeo and juliet, did she not see the ending? or did that tell all I needed to know? I think not. She was a representation of what the heart wants, and the heart wants what it wants.
Sugar brown placid beauty, rest your head once more on my shoulders as we rest in a sunset meant for the long-hall and discuss what is meant to be of our distantly close relationship.
Pray we make it and kiss me goodbye, for when all is said and done no games shall we play but still bet it all against the odds.
Do you remember me? Nevermind colleague, we are in a multi-verse all our own.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
Memory comes quickly and goes faster still.
Childhood blurs and bends from the action
to nostalgia to nothing to a surprise visit
and ultimately, back to nothing.
It's never formal, opting out of knocking
before entering with muddy sneakers
and corn-butter-dribbled chin.
The hues of a late, summer afternoon
filled with fireflies and barbecue smell
connect the doorbell circuit
and make itself at home
before ears or legs can bid welcome.
Smile and greet one another breathless
only to depart at a moment's notice
as if the nomad suddenly realized
that no crop or solace remains.
So distinctly different
than that of a severed relationship,
which typically takes its bitter, sweet time.
For months, that fracture can stay and continue asking
for another Earl Grey and bowlful of discontent,
adding in spurts of lonely self-conversation
every several, silence-ridden hours.
Eventually, ever so carefully and quietly,
it tip-toes away with lip-marked cup and peacoat
at the moment when you've unwillingly returned
from the kitchen to fill pained guest's requests
but the only thing that remains
are indents in the leather armrests
and moisture gone cold.
Flashed across mind's eye and on its way.
The hollow fills itself endlessly with present
and distantly connects with past to find
that neither can be here while the other exists.
Start again and re-ember remembering,
drifted away on a silent plane
of glazed eyes and wide smile.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
having lived in california until i was seven,
and then moving to virginia beach for one year,
and then living in chesapeake for the rest of my life,
my childhood feels scattered.
i don't remember california all that well.
i remember palm trees lining the streets,
and listening to shania twain with my mom.
i remember the ben & jerry's on a corner,
and i remember the two boxers next door.
i remember two people, too. mostly, anyway.
there's you, jacob. and you, kayla.
jacob, you were my first real friend.
our families were inseparable,
we lived right next door to each other.
we were inseparable too.
i remember digging around in the garden,
that we quickly turned into a mud bog.
i remember you having chicken pox,
and our moms letting us play together.
[funny, i didn't get it until i was nine.]
i remember watching you crash,
all the blood on your dirtbike and face.
i remember visiting your school...first grade.
god, two years seemed like such a huge difference.
i remember throwing you a softball,
and you missed it, and got a ****** nose.
i think that was the first time i felt guilt.
but most of all, i remember that game.
with the dinosaurs, and a big field,
and an even bigger maze inside.
and, of course, your room.
your twin sized bed, and the huge bean bag.
even then we couldn't close the door.
we received your pictures for a long time.
so i feel like i might recognize you on the street.
but not for who you are, really. more of a...
deja vu type of thing, if you will.
i miss you, distantly. but deeply.
and kayla, well.
what i remember most of us...
is the purple jewelry box full of notes.
because you were always grounded.
then i think about making mud pies,
as we sat on the fence between us.
and...unfortunately, that one night.
the raid, and not seeing you again.
hiding the notes, until they stopped.
i think you gave me my first broken heart.
but it's okay, i forgive you. it stopped hurting...
oh, about ten years ago. i think of you, though.
i hope your parents cleaned up,
and i like to think you're happy.
you two represent my innocence.
my childhood. thank you.
i miss it so very much.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
When will we.. stop admiringly
distantly..
stop posting afar,
its impossible to try and reach a star,
But I can certainly shout
to the star above
conversate with it show it love.
In my heart and mind
sparkly hype find..
share my thoughts all in the blind.
A traveler at heart is mine....
I quickly rhyme...
yet truthful a blessed find..
I'll leave and stray away..
keep my attention far at bay...
Good day...hope you like it..
my paper plane..
sent to a moonlit sky..
Registered.. S.A.M _shardays_Copy Righted notes.
Jun 16, 2023
Jun 16, 2023 at 5:30 PM UTC
To the men who talk down to me
As though I am helpless
Because the parts of my body.
You do not know the meaning of helpless
Until you are being stared straight in the face by fear
Like looking down the barrel of a gun
It's hands strapped around your breathless throat
Point blank range
Eyes closed.
You wait for it to fire
You know it's coming
Words, usually starting with
"We need to talk"
Or
"You better sit down."
You know it can't be good
As tears fill her once shining eyes
And those stars fall into the ocean.
Then you learn very quickly
Almost by instinct
That everyone you love must die.
Helpless is when comforting your mother
Makes you a seamstress.
Stitching her together while you yourself are composed of
False hope
Fading memories
Fear.
Helplessness is when behind this gun is the face of a man
A man you prayed you could trust
But he violates you
Colors your view of the opposite ***
From the time you are seven years old
He ties the noose that you continually hang yourself with
In the years to come.
Helplessness is when you tell yourself you have moved on but
No matter how much therapy they inject into your veins
No matter how many drugs they try to numb you out with
Influence spreads like a virus
Into every area of your life
But since you have become so distantly removed
So adamantly avoidant of this looming secret
Like smoke rising to the ceiling
You notice something lower itself
Whenever you have to face this head on again:
Fear.
See it is a cycle
Helplessness is a cycle
And it always ends in fear
How can I remove myself from this circle?
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
All perish whence they quest for immortality,
Such foolish dreams will result in fatality.
Critters struggle in nets of ersatz reality,
Hormonal clashes unbalance our morality.
Under the influence by budding, ravishing thyme,
Oft' that sunny beam leaves me doing pantomime.
Chaste clues and envy droughts left me mellowing,
Such pain ipso facto I can't kiss this porcelain.
My seat of notions drives me to calculate,
While undead, fatigued, I falsely formulate.
Floundering in viscous fluids, I am drowning...
My verdant sail is half-mast: lonely, frowning.
Within moon-lit meadows, shadows flow cursively,
Beyond the kaleidoscope lay a rustic key.
Beg you pardon the rust and blackened fissures,
Pardon those slights to open eternal treasures.
To crave two heart beats align in synchrony,
To sluice my fingers through the strands of memory.
Embracing silvery asps soaring on the breeze,
My sight spies thy adieu and I shatter apiece.
Un-writing errors, distantly, unstumbling,
The abyss: now a star, wings unfurling.
'Tween the heavens fell meteoric golds,
Sinusoidal cascades of such sublime codes.
Traversed steadily upon the gilded firmaments,
Was so small, blind to the unseen monuments.
To be offered aristocratic absolution,
From my humble plebeian resolution.
I am sublime. 'Hold my dichotomous, nay,
Such cantankerous introversion within, eh?
Sep 22, 2010
Sep 22, 2010 at 3:40 PM UTC
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive
In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre
Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here
A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home
By Phil Roberts
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
I stand on the shore, my feet sinking in the sands,
My hair tousled wild in winds hustling hands,
Covering my face, veiling my eyes,
Distantly, I hear the seagulls, their yearning cries.
I grip firmer and hold myself tight,
In dusk's diminishing, dwindling twilight.
I watch the waves lunge at me -
Overwhelming, menacingly.
But as they race to the shore, reaching my feet
They drench me, turn back and then recede.
I see another wave, I yearn to move a step behind.
Fear and uncertainty fill my troubled mind.
But I still stand, stand my ground,
Unmindful of the sounds,
Of the winds and the waves,
In a trance, lost, nature's slave.
I nearly fall, my balance lost,
Taken by surprise, by waves tossed.
But I still stand, stand with unsteady feet,
Where the land and waters meet.
I, on the seashore, a speck, besides a sea so vast -
I know that each wave will rest and it too shall pass.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
Hans was outside himself. Perched on the edge of a daydream, he looked below, distantly aware of his bustling dinner table. How casually they live, Hans thought; with what feigned clarity they can connect and understand. There were his brothers and sisters; his aunts, uncles, cousins and ah—there was his father. Look at him personifying repugnance, locks of hair falling clumsily on his tattered shirt. Look at him! (Hans could yell only in silence.) Look there and see him cloyingly preparing his knife to hunt, to tear, to slice yet another hunk of meat for his own gluttony. With what excitement—what vivid, forbidden ecstasy Hans would take his father’s knife and turn the hunter into the hunted.
Somewhere in the cluttered abyss there was a sound followed by a warming light. Hans was entranced. And again, a gentle thunder followed by a thread of heat connecting for a moment earth and sky, father, family, and son.
It was goodness and caring, it was a mother’s voice. It was this graceful fluttering in the medium of time that awoke a primitive yearning in Hans, grabbed his throat and stared him lustily in the eyes. What could it be? Hans wondered aloud, what could it be that she desires, for he already knew that he had to be the one to deliver any object she longed for, to slay any beast that tormented her—it had to be him, to be Hans, to be her son.
Please, she said; can someone please pour me a glass of water. Oh how Hans was enraged to find that this whim had not been made solely of a son. It was his right to quench his mother’s thirst; it was his place within the natural order to satisfy her needs. What cruelty and ice! Hans said, but also felt; and in an instant returned to himself below, tumbling violently from the high canopy of his trance to the sight of his father’s filthy hand reaching for the water jug.
In base impulse, Hans jabbed at the jug, forcibly pushing aside the carnal hand. Upon contact, Hans felt an overwhelming calm, an absolute peace. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. At once he was joyous, he was spent; he was adrenalized and gloriously dominant. He would be the one to tend to the maternal flower, supplying water for a thirst that he prayed would always be there.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
Leading sounds of spring
Are now preceding the season.
Scattered platoons of yardmen
clunk aluminum ladders
that thunk debris littered roof gutters,
bang a size range of galvanized nails
into an exterior catalogue of materials
needing attentive appending.
The leaf blowers, the leaf blowers
exhausting NASCAR level roars
attempting to push back
last fall/winter into their calendared slots.
And the first nice day Harleys
rumble distantly along the gorge road below.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 2:50 PM UTC
Avenging activity among our society
Based behind our bravery,
Centered in our controlled community
Dances our dimes distantly,
Eating the Economy entirely,
Freeing some family’s from financial stability
Giving the Government full guidance to “Give willingly”
Help save history and fix the hired hereby diligently
Isolating the problem Indefinitely before another civil war breaks out immobilizing us internally,
Jacking up jumping prices to live within our jungle of commonality
Killing Kids futures by leaving them in debt for keeps of knowledge to secure their vivacity
Living our Lives in stress leniently because we are your servants dwelling down here in the low depths of poverty.
Massing out our Money on your table tops feasting morbidly on fattening foods while millions suffer from malnutrion
Nobody speaking nervously now
On the open opinion’s on our governments greed
People pacing the streets for a piece to eat
Quiet our questions or riots will quake the streets
Rage ripping through our roads radiantly
So sustain us all seriously separating the needy from situations of squandering
Take hold of our Tantrums and turn them on the ones demanding this tangibility
You’re yearning for yesterday’s better life
Venom of today’s values vast out over our minds
When will they welcome the revolution?
Xenophobia exerts exteremremitys on our souls
Zero Tolerance for Zaberism and Zolism is the way we go.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
her voice a fragile thunder
her thoughts gossamer wings beating on
the thick summer air
her awkward gestures a lovin embrace to
the eyes that haunt her histories
dawns intensity begins
its silent fire consuming more and more of
the spacious turning heavens
a star falls
she reaches out one unconstrained hand
fingers tracing its path across the pale blue skies
a word of worshipful sorrow on her lips
till it fades into the sea
extinguished with loves kiss no doubt
no doubt
she floats upon the wind
no sand or tree in sight
she floats upon the sea
back and forth across the deep night
seeing the world breath
seeing the mechanics of the star strewn heavens turning
how beautiful the stars
how desolate the sun
silence had finally taken her
her parched eyes now forever closed
her hand on the tiller
till doom strikes its hour
alone on the sea
her life slowly ceases
extinguished with loves kiss no doubt
no doubt
her dusty wings folded
the breached purity of her heart
leaves her a silent figure forlorn
with her eyes forever looking distantly
with longings painted vividly on her face
a desolate angel
of sea and sand
to greet the lost sailors
and thouse who wander the sea
at the end of their voyages
end of their days
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
Dear...
This haphazard poem was written solely for you
Matterless, what you came garbed in
Fever elicited, passion anew
You’ve graced me, the repetition of ‘could-have-been’
I loved the way you speak
Of knowledge and triumph
And I, bumbling and meek
Tirelessly I sought and now still seek
Your council, your court
For my amusement, for my sport
Conversing over a poisoned well
I listen in genuine
Raise my voice
Sing with my friends amongst the din
Higher on the pillar, you I hoist
Pure skin my well intentioned hands mar
Clumsily, I lean into a similar heart
To discuss life and literature, fantasies these hands take too far
How eloquent the silk you weave, which you impart
Which inveigles and entices, cajole us into the city
On pale page, the street lamps and dim moon, art
Palpitations and liquor test the pity
Of light and fire
I cannot help but explore your shapely form
And yet, without bar
Across miasma, my guide is a cute little hand
Solitude, the pulsations do doggedly solicit
I just want to be close, you grant this
Bewitched by the creamy satin of pale skin
Distantly, warmly, I gaze in those God-given sculptures
Of the richest green and azure hues, bespeak feminine
Engaged in the other’s stare, two drunken apers
The night, black as sin,
The mould of outcome of we are the shapers
And I shape regret that rises with the sun
You come back vividly and lucidly
Distant and opposite, worlds across, you from me
A nondescript ghost in the corner
Who speaks so placidly
I remember with regret
I remember with exultation
I’ve ruined our relationship
Our relationship topical felicitation
I haven’t had time to apologize
I haven’t had enough time with you
If I ever see you again
I’d mend everything
I’d discover the girl behind the name
And cleanse the projection askew.
Love, Me
Dear... .
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
Misty Morning, tunnel exit
Radio blaring. Yet more Brexit
Shipyards looming in the mist
Coffee. Top of this checklist
Distantly spied, Golden Arches glisten
Dumbly calling those who listen
Desperate homeless huddled outside
Callous addiction stealing his pride
Inside the feckless locals gather
Of nameless baby dads they caw & blather
No sign of insight, syns nor points
Weight of burgers on their joints
Red-eyed middle management jostle for WiFi
Ketchup spilt upon his tie
Spreadsheets, targets, bonuses forgotten
Awareness at last. This lunch is rotten
Light bursting inside his head
Realising how easily he's been led
A new day. A Golden New Dawn
A middle-management minion reborn
Now with joy. Now with flourish
New skills, his mind does nourish
Never Stop. Ignore what they say
And make this day. Make this day. Make this the day.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 6:40 AM UTC
There! In the shadows, she watches
breaking hushed tranquility that shades
my eucalyptus
on a morningbeige wall
the Tingle, it’s here. a sense
of unease as she climbs my;
nick! and imports her touch. Lick
up my arms, fingers unwelcomely
running through my head
she is in my scalp
itching imprint stays, echoing off
tired skin. ruining tender visions
of whispering
eclipse filled daynight
Perhaps
they came together;
in shallow memories of dark
Chicago forbid my viewing
She’s here now. watch
wild fingers grabbing lapping
trees, ******* up their marrow
Creeping; burrowed in cold breeze
on my quiet 73 degrees
afternoon willow
her hands touch without touch,
eyes catch moments of them
past dusk, aching sunlight echoes
more distantly down time’s dust
each day she; the moon comes
closer and colder I see her
fingers, lustly peek out behind
looming, that chipped orb
the encompassing force was all;
no shades protected
retinas burned, she is here!
behind my eyes
her fingers
to close my eyes is to touch her
her ***** nails
they would drag me
I feel her
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
When I look at you
and your hundred photographs
with some smiles saying cheese
while you are busy making some material memories.
You tend a click a shooting star
or perhaps a new born flower.
You capture the reindeer
and get a video of a someone drinking beer.
Those likes that please
and the validations that they give.
Is it really what matters ?
Would you still click the riviera
instead of lying on the grass ?
or would you take a moment to breath
or post just another smiley ?
Its a never ending cycle.
Communication through light
and distantly distant on the inside
You still don't bother
and still request more friendships.
Do you still long for those hugs and
that little chemistry.
Do you still wish to hold hands
or the ups in your heartbeats.
I still wait for a whisper,
telling me that you love me.
I wish to wake up besides you
and not for a beep.
But there’s you
and your Fake Dopamine.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 3:33 AM UTC