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Silence Screamz Aug 2015
Walk across the marshes
View from the distance
into the streets of London
The downtrodden man,
contrite and solemn,
with weathered shoes
and a weathered soul

Walk in his shoes,
View through his eyes
into the streets of desperation
The downtrodden man,
worn and hungry,
with no bread to eat
and no cent to his name

Walk beside him,
View of his world,
into the street of questions
The downtrodden man,
simple and depraved,
with not an answer
and no life to live

Walk to his grave,
View of his stone
into the streets of nothing
The downtrodden man,
asleep and alone,
with no one to care
and no one to see
Downtrodden man, do we question why or walk on by?
howard brace Sep 2012
He'd been conceived in Flamborough, so his little sister assured him some eleven summers ago, which was a tad hard for Rocky to swallow, she was a whole eighteen months his junior and then some... and at that age, well... what did she know, she was only a kid, "on this very rock" River insisted, kicking her heels in delight, "next to this very rock pool" they were both sitting beside, "one sunny afternoon eleven years ago..." and that was how he came by the name of Rocky... she taunted as the rest of the colourful story unfolded... and that she had it all on the best possible authority... although the more she thought about it, had she meant concealed... she wasn't quite sure now, it was all so very confusing at her tender age but thought it sounded close enough not to matter too much and that she would just wait and see which way the wind blew.
        
     It was conceivably an ill wind that blew no one any good that day, especially if you were a boy and just happened to be sat by a rock pool next to your little sister...  Having just taken a well earned drink from a neighbouring rock pool, Sockeye the floppiest Springer Spaniel this side of the Pecos decided that he was going to dig a hole and that he would be digging it deep, then changed his mind mid-dig and decided to have a more down to earth back scratching wriggle instead... then promptly flopped over and slid into the hole... life was sweet.  Now covered from nose to tail with every species of deceased shore life usually found frequenting the high water mark Sockeye, in a blinding flash of canine inspiration judged it would be in everyone's best interest were he to have a really good shakedown which always appeared to go down well on these occasions... and give everyone a good peppering, just so they could see exactly what they'd been missing all their lives.  

     "A rock of all places, for goodness sakes..." and what's more, it was this rock, "Yuk..." he jumped up and wiped his palms on the back of his jeans in disgust, then onto his tee-shirt, then sat back down again and began exploring his left nostril in quiet contemplation before finally jambing his hands back into his pockets... what in Heaven's name had his parents been thinking of..? what on earth was his little sister talking about..? and more to the point, what in fact did conceived mean..?  these were the questions that were uppermost in Rocky's mind as he poked an exploratory stick into the rock pool...  a baby crab marooned by the tide scampered sideways beneath a large pebble and stuck one beady eye out at him... Rocky's sister, seemingly in a world of her own, much like the baby crab sat on the edge of the noteworthy rock kicking her heels, an innocent smile curled the corners of her mouth as she quietly hummed a little song of tuneful bliss to herself and considered what further mischief she could possibly pass her brother's way.

     Rocky tossed a piece of driftwood over his sisters shoulder at a nearby flock of seagulls, squabbling over what appeared to be a discarded bag of fish and chips... Sockeye, simply knowing that his little master wanted to play a game of fetch gambolled after the stick, his ears flying courageously in the still Summer air and burst, amid a melee of feathers into their midst, only to romp back moments later, the stick all but forgotten in the excitement but now proudly sporting the derelict bag of leftovers and the odd splash of guano, his tail lolloping magnificently from side to side... and for the moment at least, leaving the fratching seagulls wheeling noisily overhead and to go about their daily business without further interruption... as for Sockeye, it had been a no contest situation.

     After fourteen years of valiant endeavour his father... Red, so named for his vivid shock of wiry hair, was still engaged in man's eternal struggle to win his significant other half's approbation with the manful art of deck-chair assembly, beach barbeque and other significant gentlemanly pursuits, all while strutting his manly stuff, sporting top of the range beach wear in accordance with the social etiquette of the previous decade... his masculine paunch slumping gallantly atop his waistband...  

     After the same fourteen terms of domestic servitude and the same thirteen identically overlooked anniversary cards a certain someone had no intention of allowing another certain someone to forget so much as one of them... his better half, so she insisted would ride rough shod, administering her own brand of justice at every given opportunity, in much the same way you'd brandish a royal-flush on poker night... or better still, a loaded revolver... and that she personally carried the burden of every ill-fated card that Lady Luck had dealt strung about her neck like Adam's original sin on Judgement Day.  

     Red much preferred the shorter, more condensed name of Rock for his son, rather than the longer more protracted Rocky, as he struggled with the wood and canvas lounger badly trapping the mound of his thumb in the process, "Aaargh...!!!" plunging his throbbing hand deep into the cold, soothing rock-pool "aaah...!!!"   Still marooned by the tide, the baby crab stood poised and ready for action as it considered giving this latest intrusion a good offensive nip, then hang on spitefully as it gave Red the final withering once over with the same baleful eye it had successfully used earlier.

     Acknowledging her husbands misfortune with a perfunctory grunt as she rummaged in her beach-bag for the thermos, she refused to be drawn in where thumbs were concerned right now, after all with his DNA sequencing she was convinced he could probably grow a new one within the month... whilst Tina, well... she was just plain worn-out... but still rejoiced in telling anyone who cared to lend a sympathetic ear in her direction... and who in turn was more than happy to listen to the woes of others and went somewhere along the lines of... 'and had she heard any more of poor Mrs Dorey's lingering martyrdom recently..? you know, the downtrodden lady who lives in the next street but one... and how they would all miss her when she was gone... and how she couldn't wait...' and as rumour had it, neither could her husband...

      Feigning to be otherwise engaged, Tina... as her husband, now blowing frantically on his mangled thumb, stumbled backwards over the half erected lounger and with a spine jarring "Ooomph...!!!" landed squarely in Sockeye's subsiding earthworks... professed total disassociation with the entire fiasco as she plunged her nose even deeper into the overdue library book she'd purposely brought on holiday for just such an occasion, making it perfectly clear that she was a tourist and furthermore, planned to stick with the same itinerary once they returned home... and that while she was here, she did not under any circumstances wish to be disturbed, the notice was clearly displayed hanging from the door handle... but if anyone should, then whoever it was did so at their own peril... and she was keeping score... although a mangled thumb she luxuriated, with the same roguish smile curling the corners of her mouth as the one normally found playing around her daughter's... was equally as heart warming.

      All Tina wanted was one week of uninterrupted peace and quiet in Flamborough, preferably with a certain someone out from under her feet then spend what might pass for several undisturbed hours sitting quietly by the rock pool comparing notes on eye makeup and the feminine merits of pedicure with the little crab who, still marooned by the tide was now sat busily knitting four pairs of matching leg warmers in the cool, still water but that was only if that certain someone... a shrill  "AAaargh...!!!" somewhat more desperate than the first, ****** itself upon the as yet unaggressive afternoon as it gyrated across the warm Jurrasic rock and recoiled out to sea... "now where was I", twisting her book uppermost "oh yes..! someone was going to pay..." only now it was going to be sooner rather than later, but only if that certain someone didn't finish the seating arrangements before the Sun disappeared and drift into some backstreet tea-room before all the lemon cheesecake sold out, or was that she reflected, simply too much to ask.

     It was his Surname that Rock found so objectionable, or it had been right up until his little sister's enlightening disclosure, now it was both names Rocky disliked, it would have been far kinder had Rock Salmon been sandwiched between sliced bread and given to Sockeye... who's solemn duty, from the first mouthful to the very last, was to gaze up beseechingly from beneath the kitchen table  and devour anything that passed his way, even the postman had to be quick about his business or have his arm follow the mail through the letter box... then Sockeye would just smack his lips and help himself to seconds.  

     All Rocky's mum had thought about for the last fourteen years was seconds... every last solitary one of them since she'd suffered with an infection of matrimonial neurosis which had deprived her of common sense and her maiden name, from Chovey to that of Salmon and how with hindsight she should have taken an Aspirin instead, wedlock she asserted was everything the name claimed to be and was without doubt the worst move she'd ever made... and what's more was seen as a bad move in whoever's wedding album you just happened to be paying your condolences to.

     Rocky would never be so fortunate on that score, unlike his sister he was stuck with Salmon for good, his grandma-Ann by all accounts had been dead set against the union from word Go and saw his father as someone who would always be out of his depth in whatever rock pool he found himself in, swimming against the tide as it were, rather than going with the flow... and it appeared that Rocky, almost eleven years into a life sentence, was about to flounder in the same murky undertow as the rest of the Salmon family... only he couldn't swim.

     "There"! her husband exclaimed "all finished... better late than never eh', who fancies trying it"? his wife luxuriated over the words 'better late' and wondered whether her new earrings, her latest acquisition would complement formal mourning attire.  Red dusted off the palms of his hands with the certain knowledge of a job well done and cautiously took one step back, looking with justifiable pride at the outcome of his manly exertions of the last two hours, this was what holidays were all about he declared, one man pitted against insurmountable odds...  His wife meanwhile was getting to grips with more odds of her own than you could safely expect to shake a stick at... her husband being one of them.  

     Having gathered her offspring with the promise of verbal earache if they didn't... and finished packing the beach-bag, Tina finally located Sockeye peering out from the shade of an adjacent rock, wisps of feathers poked tellingly from the corners of his mouth, his tail beating mischievously on the shingle decided in one further blaze of canine brainstorming, as Tina attempted to slip his collar on that a game of tag would just about round the day off nicely... Tina then devoted the next ten minutes chasing him amid unrestrained salvo's of cheering from the rest of the family... then bid goodbye to the little crab who, still marooned by the tide waved a friendly pincer in return... and trusted that she wouldn't have too long to wait for the next rising tide back home, then she slid off the rock with a corrosive... "the deck-chair attendant would have shown you" she snapped "and don't forget the deposit when you take them back" then double checking that she landed squarely on his foot she marched past, her floral sun hat jammed resolutely on her head at what she considered a jaunty angle with her equally jaunty, angular children scrambling in hot pursuit, back in the direction of their lodgings.  

     "Woof "..? said a bewildered Sockeye, bringing everyone to an abrupt halt... and with paws the size of place-mats, he wasn't going anywhere he didn't want to... he hunkered down with a look of hurtful accusation on his face, "oh yes you are my lad"! said his mistress "I've met your sort before" and knew exactly where to place the toe of her dainty size-5 as Sockeye, digging his heals in even further created swathes of canine furrows up the beach, leaving her husband the unwitting holder and in sole possession of the overlooked guest-house keys... and somewhat resigned to clean up his own masculinity and dismantle the recently assembled, now redundant deck-chairs by himself... as for Tina, well... she'd had quite enough excitement for one day thank you very much.

     Morning register was always the worst he thought, as they trooped back along the shingle beach, Rocky making surprisingly good furrows of his own... but the rest of the class loved it and saw it as the highlight of each day... Rocky's form teacher, despite showing a brave face was always hard pressed to avoid bursting into hysterics every time she worked her way down the register to the letter 'S' and would attempt to bypass it altogether, jumping from 'R' to 'T' and just prayed that no one else had noticed, but it hadn't taken the class very long to point out her oversight and... "please Miss" they'd all chant "we haven't had Salmon all week" and while the rest of the class were having convulsive fits, Rocky would elbow the lad sat at the next desk in the ribs... and promptly get one hundred lines for his trouble... thank goodness it was school holidays.  Why couldn't they have been given respectable names like Seymour Legge, Rock wondered, who sat over by the window or perhaps the teachers pet, Anna Prentice or even, Robyn Banks at a pinch, but definitely not what they'd been given and certainly not Salmon, they were the most hilarious names he could imagine and if someone was looking down on them right now he thought... then they had a very unique sense of humour indeed and Rock said so... "why" his little sister asked sweetly, "what's wrong with River Salmon".

                                                      ­                         ...   ...   ...*

a work in progress*                                                        ­                                                              240­6
Maria Tom Aug 2014
My fantasy live long
I vowed I would break alive
Tell me a modern fairy tale
A bigger sized bullet to **** me
Instead of a wink
Deep in the ***** of the sun I lay warm and free
Clenching my teeth to a downtrodden love

Touch the sky with my fingers
Play the rain my serenade
A long lost wait before
Seems just a step away
Away ....


An owl lay wake in the mornings
Deep blue seas come live
Closer mountains to hear my plea
Shaded waters and reverie
Sweet nothings to keep me calm
Clenching my teeth to a downtrodden love
Jimmy Bowman Aug 2017
The world is a playground, the rich ring the bell,
the poor queue up and get lost in the smell.
That stench is the lies we're fed to believe.
Depressed, deprived, downtrodden, forgotten, we see
this system is broken, we cannot conceive,
a house where no one has anything in common.
A house that's failed us for so long.
One side shuts us out,
the other cast their morals with doubt.

Hey! Who's this Blair? He could make this our lair.
If we gain power no longer will we cower,
we'll have all the nice things they have over there,
we'll run the playground, sit in the big chair!
And more money, lots and lots of money...
Unlike the people we're supposed to help, how funny.

Things can only get better, it's a d:ream dream.
Play keys today and a scientist tomorrow
Noel at number ten look at our popularity grow!
A real alternative, a party for the working man
pack them up and send them to Iraq while you can!
There's nothing Socialist about a war criminal.
Tony, Tony, Tony how clinical.

Must this injustice persist.

Back in the playground we continue to queue.
Awaiting the bell, looking up at Teresa, wondering...
can we tame a shrew?
A lady turned and muttered to me,
this is no life, I'd go to uni 'cept for the tuition fee,
I work 'til I can't I stop when I die
I've nothing to show, ask yourself why.

There once was a man...

Like in that film when the Jedi appeared
and we all rejoiced and cheered as the leered
because the Jedi ****** off the Tusken Raiders
'cept this aint Tattooine this is earth we've our own Darth Vaders.
Yet I'm sure the Death Star had free health care.
That weren't under threat, that weren't stripped bare.
Workers rights left a little to be desired
but to be fair half of his staff were totally wired.
But this galaxy's not far far away, it's far far too close to home.
And that man I spoke of was purged by his own.
Yet 313,209 voted return of the Jedi.
All those in favour say aye!
To the return of our party, the return of a new hope
the return of an opposition, to the end of this *****.

No to the Blairite,
no to the far right,
and as for austerity?
He sees the severity.
The times are a changin',
the people are raging,
the Tories need caging
and parliament rearranging.

The bell rings out and we start to walk.
We're back to the classroom where no one can talk.
We're spoon fed more lies and then we go home.
Now we have a chance to make government our own.
Written in the wake of the second labour leadership election Jeremy Corbyn won and touches on the state of politics in the uk as well as harping back to the horrible idea of new labour.
Sara L Russell Aug 2014
The First-Born Blues
Sara L Russell 22nd August 2014 20:59 revised 27th Aug 2014, 13:58

So I bite down on bitter words
and I eat my humble pie
for those who will not understand me
Until the day I die.
self-pity's for the birds,
where the golden egos fly;
if you will not understand me
should I bother to ask why?

So you know I'm always me
and I never will be her
and you know she's gone forever
things can't be the way they were
I survived, unworthily
though you think I should concur
that death struck out unfairly
- should have taken me, not her.

So I wear my comfort cross
and I carry my cross of woe -
each a spiritual placebo
from the God I used to know;
and an eerie sense of loss
follows everywhere I go
for this poor downtrodden ego
that you always overthrow.
Frank Ruland Jan 2015
Okay, here is my list of people who I think are awesome. They come in no particular order, mind you! If you have been left off, I apologize </3 If you're reading this, you're probably awesome too! Except the artist, Logan Carveo, Beryl Dove, Edna SweetLove, Lovecraft, and every other troll on HP. Kindly fall off a cliff!
Now, let the list of awesomeness commence!

-Rex Forte': Dude, you and me and have been commenting back and fourth for awhile now and I think you're a really down to earth guy! You stand against the trolls when you have no obligation to and I have meassive respect for that!

-The Emerald Outcast: Emerald, you appear to me as one of those sweet, endearing innocent souls! I really admire the purity of your poetry and the word choices you employ. It's all so smooth and I want you to know you touch people on here.

-ThePoet: Sarah, how sorry I am to have left you out! Surely my wires became crossed when I was writing this. I've been messaging you for a while now, and you're nothing but a sugar cookie (sorry, southern euphemisms :p). Hello Poetry needs people like you to perk up the downtrodden masses. You are a beautiful person, your words are uplifting, and you are beyond poetically sound. Much love!

-Alyssa Rose:: I've only just begun to see you on here, but you are awesome none the less. I did my "I Love Doing Lines!' challenge on you because of the raw emotion I saw in your poetry.

-TSALOVERLOVER: I don't know you extremely well, but you appear to be kind, generous, and nurturing with your comments (compliments!). You are attentive, and you point out positive things in people's poetry.

-chimaera:You are a talented poet. Albeit I don't know you too well personally, you strike me with the power of your words.m

-The Girl Who Loved You: Melanie, you have been my personal friend and peer for quite some time now. We can joke, talk about poetry, and get pissy with each other from time to time, but it doesn't change the fact I love ya! Thanks for having my back with trolls <3

-SPT: I don't know you well personally, but not a day goes by where you don't post a poem that is just rich with personal experience and soul.

-Elsa Angelica: My, my, my. You are without a doubt, one of the sweetest people I have come to know. Your heart is gentle, but there is a fire that burns hotter than the sun above Texas! I thank you for being my friend on here and all your sweet words!

-Adreishka Luciano: I love you. i remember your first message to me concerning my profile background! You are one of the most creative, musically gifted, beautiful people I know. The collaboration that we did was one of the smoothest going I've ever done, and I think it's because we sync so well.

-WickedHope: Wicked, how I always wondered why you picked that for your screen name. You are the farthest thing from that ever! Try: gentle, loving, affectionate, kind, sweet and endearing! You write such heartfelt poetry and I have come to know you in depth more so than some others, and I think you have  a beautiful soul.

-Spencer Craig: Here's to my biggest Public Service Announcement supporter! You've been there from humble beginnings to what they have evolved to now. Thank you so much for your wonderful compliments.

-Maha Salman: I don't know you too well, but I think your poetry is divine! Keep writing!

-The Creep Who Loved You: Creep? Try Angel! You're as cool as the come, friend! Your poetry is wonderfully quirky, and you have spoken out against the nasty trolls a few times. Be well!

-Ember Evanescent: Ember, you speak your mind more so than probably anybody else on this site. Your words come from the soul, and I really respect who you are as a person. You've left me some lovely comments, and I truly think you are an awesome person!

-WolfSpirit aka Quinfinn: God almighty, is there a more humorous, upright, and amazingly talented poet than yourself? I don;t know of any. I truly respect who you are. You've backed me as well as numerous others on this site concerning trolls,and I thank you a million times over for your personal kindness and continued demonstration of your morality! I wish you all the best. I look up to you as a person and poet.

-Ryn: Oh my god, you are the F---ing master of the concrete poem! I can't tell you how many times I've seen the trending screen to see your latest literary concrete contraption! You have such a dedicated and creative mind. Dedicated, because even if I had come up with some of the ideas you've come up with, I would've given up on the first time after submitting and seeing how f---ed up it turned out. Much love, brother!

-Kollitiki Vradypodes: My good sloth friend! You created this challenge and I was your focal point! How taken back I was by your generosity! I don't know you too personally, but I can safely say that you are the coolest sloth I will ever come to know. Your poetry is very lax, and it all feels so very natural! Thanks for creating this challenge! Stay slothy!

-Ukcen: I don't know you personally too well, but your poetry is out of this world! It all comes from your soul, and it spills onto the page like the most gorgeous wildfire ever spawned! It just consumes your readers. Keep writing!

-Kalypso: Here's to you, doll! You are one of the most endearing souls I know, and so very beautiful on top of that! Truly, your poetry is awe inspiring, and there's no asking why you just made daily not too long ago! You don't just capture people's minds, you capture their hearts as well! Never stop writing!

-Sye: Sigh Sye, you are one of the most kind people I've ever encountered. You have nothing negative to say, and you carry yourself like a true poet! Wise, inspired, and heartfelt, I don't think anyone can trump the sheer inspiration that goes into your work! Much love!

-Ana Sophia: Ana, you've been paying attention to me longer than... probably everybody on this list! You are truly a sweetheart, and I love, Love, LOVE all of your poetry! Your happy writes bring smiles to my face, and your sadder ones grip my heart. Never stop putting out these works of art!

-Eudora: I think you message me more than any other person on here, and you are so wonderful for it! You come to me with nothing but kindness, and I love you for it. Thank you so much for your continued support, and I ask that you keep putting out your splendid poetry!

-Erenn Y: Dude, you are cool as all Hell. Your writes resonate with me more so than most. I get a laid back vibe from you, and i definitely sense your in depth artistic nature. Respect, my poet brother.

-Pradip Chattopadhyay: I don't know you too well personally, though I love your poetry! You've been paying attention to me for awhile, and it has not gone unnoticed. Please, continue being awesome, friend!

-Sir Poet: Adam, I know you somewhat personally, and I have a lot of respect for you. I love your nature inspired poetry, as well as your pieces concerning racial issues. You are a very in depth person. Keep at it.

-Rose: I love you so much! Your poetry is well inspired and so heartfelt! it really grips at me in one of the best ways possible. The lighthouse collaboration you did with Mel? Out of this world! Keep at it, Rose!

-KetomaRose: I don't know you personally, but you constantly read my poetry, and I think yours is awesome as well! Keep on writing!

-TheDedPoet:: You sir, are one hell of a powerful poet and you carry yourself with the utmost soul. I've read some of your works and found my mouth agape at times. Please, please, please, continue writing!

-Cat aka CatBird: Cat, you are one of the sweetest Cats I know! You are very friendly, open to comments, and genuinely welcome people! I love your style!

-Joe Cole: Sir, I look up to you. Your poetry is without a doubt, some of the most vivid writing that I've ever been graced with reading. On top of this, you have proven yourself morally upright concerning the recent waking of the trolls. You have come to the aid of those who have been besieged by trolls, and I applaud both you and your poetry.

-Poetic T: Dude, your stuff is far out! And I mean that in the best way possible, You really hooked me with your sci-fi writes, and I'll never forget the amazing collaboration that we did! I hope you feel better, man. I know you have some health issues. Never stop writing.

-WeepingWillow: I don't know you too well personally, but you write with all the soul, heart, and spirit in the world! I swear, it's almost unnatural, but I'll never stop loving it!

-Jaishree Kumar I've known you longer than most, and we've done a few collabs together. They were the most in depth and your conceptualization skills are beyond reproach. You are truly kind, smart, and beautiful person! Keep being you!

-Pamela Rae: You are a kind heart if ever I've seen one! You never stop giving, and I love the hell outta you! Your poetry is breath taking, and I'm not surprised in the least concerning how many other people love you as well.

-r: I don't know you personally, but you were one of the first people I took interest in when I joined this site. I'm amazed by the concepts you continue to come up with, and I love your style.

-Alexis Nicole Glover: Hon, you are one of the nicest people I've met on here! You just keep coming with your kindness, and I applaud you and your heartfelt writes. Keep at it!

-Jinxx: Kid, you are one hell of a person. You messaged me randomly, but I'm really glad you did. I know you're going through some s--- right now, but I wish you all the best. You seem very resilient, and I know you're going to get through this tragedy. You're strong, kid. Stronger than you might think. Keep at it. And, thanks for your tea suggestion. It's really helping me out.

-Joe Malgeri: Dude, you are one of the most socially conscious guys out there! So much of your poetry concerns things that are bigger than us, and I have the utmost respect for your style and continued interests in my works as well!

-Midnight Writer: Midnight, you are a kindhearted soul, and I love everything that you put out! Truly, you are an amazing person and writer! Please, never stop writing.

-Aesha nisar: I was a bit taken back when you messaged me saying you had mentioned me in one of your submissions! Truly, the tribute to me as well as the others was just lovely. Your poetry is just as beautiful as you and I hope you never stop inking!

-Musfiq us shaleheen: Sir, you've been on here for awhile, and you don not stop impressing people with your work, and your followers prove it! I love reading your stuff, and I wish you the best continued poetry career!


--Awesome people who I don't know too well--
-Sjr1000
-Bloom
-The Noose
-BetterDays
-Maggie Grace
-Earl Vandorn
-olestoryteller
-kylia
-The Jolteon
-MercuryChyld
-AcidLovesMercury
-Ashley Lopez
-lildicktornado
Okay, I tried REALLY HARD! I really hope I didn't leave anybody out. Seriously. I worked on this for like an hour. You guys are all awesome and I love you all.
Martin Narrod Feb 2015
Part I


the plateau. the truest of them all. coast line. night spells and even controlled by the dream of meeting again. the ribbon of darker than light in your crown. No region overlooked. Third picnic table to the drive at Half Moon Bay, meet me there, decant my speech there. the table by the restroom block. While the tide is in show me your oyster garden, 3:00p.m. at half-light here in the evilest torments that have been shed.---------------door locked.  The moors. Cow herds and lymph nodes, rancorous afternoon West light and bending roads, the cliffs, a sister, the need to jump. There is nothing as serious as this. There is nothing nor no one that could ever, or would ever on this side come between. Who needs sleep or jokes or snow or rivers or bombs or to turn or be a rat or a fly or ceiling fan or a gurney or a cadaver or piece of cloth or a bed spread or a couch or a game or the flint of a lighter or the bell of a dress; the bell of your dress, yes, perhaps. Having been crushed like orange cigarette light in a pool of Spanish tongues. I feel the heave, the pull; not a yawn but a wired, thread-like twist about my core. Up around the neck it makes the first cut, through the eyes out and into the nostrils down over the left arm, on the inside of the bicep, contorting my length, feigning sleep, and then cutting over my stomach, around and around multiples of times- pulled at the hips and under the groin, across each leg and in-between each nerve, capillary, artery, hair, dot, dimple, muscle, to the toes and in-between them. Wiry dream-like and nervous nightmarish, hellacious plateaus of leapers. Penguin heads and more penguin heads. Startling torment. The evilest of the vile mind. The dance of despair: if feet contorted and bound could move. The beach off Belmont. The hills and the reasons I stared. Caveat after caveat at the heads of letters, on the heads of crowns, and the wrists, and on the palms. Being pulled and signed, and moved away so greatly and so heavily at once in a moment, that even if it were a year or a set of many months it would always be a moment too taking away to be considered an expanse, and it would be too hellacious to be presumptuous. It could only be a shadow over my right shoulder as I write the letters over and again. One after another. Internally I ask if I would even grant a convo with Keats or Yeats or Plath or Hughes? Does mine come close? Does it matter the bellies reddish and cerise giving of pain? Does it have to have many names?


"This is the only Earth," I would say with the bouquet of lilies spread out on the table. Are lilies only for funerals, I would never make or risk or wish this metaphor, even play it like the drawn out notes of a melody unwritten and un-played: my black box and latched, corner of the room saxophone. Top-floor, end of the hall two-room never-ending story, I'm the left side of the bed Chicago and I see pink walls, bathrooms, the two masonite paintings, the Chanel books, the bookshelves, the white desk, the white dresser, you on the left side of the bed in such sentimental woe, **** carpet and tilted blinds, and still the moors and the whispering in the driver's seat in afternoon pasture. Sunset, sunrise, nighttime and bike room writing in other places, apartments, rooms where I inked out fingertips, blights, and moods; nothing ever being so bleak, so eerily woe-like or stoic. Nothing has ever made me so serious.

Put it on the rib, in a t-shirt. Make it a hand and guide it up a set of two skinny legs under a short-sheeted bed in small room and literary Belmont, address included. Trash cans set out morning and night, deck-readied cigarette smoking. Sliding glass door and kitchen fright. Low-lit living room white couch, kaleidoscope, and zoetrope. Spin me right round baby right round. I am my own revenge of toxic night. Attack the skin, the soul, the eyes, the mind, and the lids. The finger lids and their tips. Rot it out. Blearing wild and deafening blow after blow: left side of the bed the both of us, whilst stirs the intrepid hate and ousts each ******* tongue I can bellow and blow.

Last resort lake note in snow bank and my river speak and forest walk. Wrapped in blocks and boxes, Christmas packaging and giant over-sized red ribbons and bows. Shall I mention the bassinet, the stroller, the yard, several rings of gold and silver, several necklaces of black and thread? I draw dagger from box, jagged ended and paper-wrapped in white and amber: lit in candle light and black room shadow-kept and sleeping partisan unforgettable forever. Do I mention Hawaii, my mother dying, invisible ligatures and the unveiling of the sweat and horror? Villainous and frightening, the breath as a bleat or heart-beat and matchstick stirring slightly every friends' woe and tantrum of their spirit.

Lobster-legged, waiting, sifting through the sea shore at the sea line, the bright tyrannosaurs in mahogany, in maple, and in twine over throw rose meadow over-looks, honey-brimming and warehouse built terrariums in the underbelly of the ravine, twist and turn: road bending, hollowing, in and out and in and out, forever, the everlasting and too fastidious driving towards; and it's but what .2 miles? I sign my name but I'll never get out. I am mocked and musing at tortoise speed. Headless while improvising. Purring at any example of continue or extremity or coolness of mind, meddling, or temptation. I rock, bellowing. Talk, sending shivers up my spine. I'm cramped, and one thousand fore-words and after words that split like a million large chunks of spit, grime, and *****; **** and more ****. I might even be standing now. I could be a candle, in England, a kingdom, in Palo Alto, a rook in St. Petersburg. Mottled by giants or sleepless nights, I could be the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty, a heated marble flower or the figure dying to be carved out. I'm veering off highways, I'm belittling myself: this heathen of the unforgettable, the bog man and bow-tied vagrant of dross falsification and dross despair. I am at the sea shore, tide-righted and tongue-tide, bilingual, and multi-inhibited by sweat, spit, quaffs of sea salt, lake water, and the like. Rotten wergild ridden- stitched of a poor man's ringworm and his tattered top hat and knee-holed trousers. I'm at the sea shore, with the cucumbers dying, the rain coming in sideways, the drifts and the sandbars twisting and turning. I'm at the sea shore with the light house bruise-bending the sweet ships of victory out backwards into the backwaters of a mislead moonlight; guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos swept like black coffees on green walled night clubs, arenose and eroding, grainy and distraught, bleeding and well, just bleeding.






I'm at the sea shore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets, ******* and two lines left in the letter. I’m at the sea shore, my mouth is a ghost. I've seen nothing but darkness. I'm at the seashore, second picnic table, bench facing the squat and gobble, the tin roof and riled weir near the roadside. .2 and I'm still here with my bouquet wading and waiting. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. My inches are growing shorter by the second, cold, whet by the sunset, its moon men, their heavy claws and bi-laws overthrowing and throwing me out. The thorns stick. The tyrannosaurs scream. I'm at the sea shore, plateau, left bedside to write three more letters. Sign my name and there's nobody here.

I'm at the sea shore: here are my lips, my palms (both of them facing up), here are my legs (twine and all), my torso, and my head shooting sideways. I'm at the seashore and this is my grave, this is my purposeful calotype, my hide and go seek, my show and tell, my forever. .2 and forever and never ending. I was just one dream away come and keep me. I'm at the sea shore come and see me and seam me. I'm without nothing, the sky has drifted, the sea is leaving, my seat is a matchbox and I'm all wound up. The snow settling, the ice box and its glory taken for granted. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. The room with its white sets of furniture, the lilies, the Chanel, the masonite paintings, the bed, your ribbon of darker on light, the throw rug **** carpet, pink walled sister's room, and the couch at the top of the stairs. I'm at the sea shore, my windows opened wide, my skin thrown with threat, rhinoceri, reddish bruises bent of cerise staled sunsets. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. I'm at the plateau and there isn't a single ship. There are the rocks below and I'm counting. My caveats all implored and my goodbyes written. I'm in my bed and the sleep never set in. I'm name dropping God and there's nobody there. I'm in a chair with my hands on a keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock, horse-riding into candle light on a wicked wedding of wild words and teary-eyed gazes and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder. I'm all alone but I feel like you're here.



Part II




I wake up in Panama. The axe there. Sleeping on the floors in the guest bedroom, the floor of the garden shed, the choir closet, the rut of dirt at the end of the flower bed; just a towel, grayish-blue, alone, lawnmower at my side, and sky blue setting all around. I was a family man. No I just taste bits of dirt watching a quiet and contrary feeling of cool limestone wrap over and about my arms and my legs. Lungs battered by snapping tongues, and ancient conversations; I think it was the Malaysian Express. Mom quieted. Sister quieted. Father wept. And is still weeping. Never have I heard such horrifying and un-kindly words.-----------------------It's going to take giant steel cavernous explorations of the nose, brain cell after brain cell quartered, giant ******* quaffs of alcohol, harboring false lanterns and even worse chemicals. Inhalations and more inhalations. I'm going to need to leap, flight, drop into bodies of waters from air planes and swallow capsules of psychotropics, sedatives beyond recalcitrance. I'm requiring shock treatments and shock values. Periodic elements and galvanized steel drums. Malevolence and more malevolence. Forest walks, and why am I still in Panama. I don't want to talk, to sleep, to dream, to play stale-mating games of chess, checkers, Monopoly, or anything Risk involving. I can't sleep, eat, treaty or retreat. I'm wickeded by temptations of grandeur and threats of anomaly, widening only in proverb and swept only by opposing endeavors. Horrified, enveloped, pictured and persuaded by the evilest of haunts, spirits, and match head weeping women. I can't even open my mouth without hearing voices anymore. The colors are beginning to be enormous and I still can't swim. I couldn't drown with my ears open if I kept my nose dry and my mouth full of a plane ticket and first class beanstalk to elysian fields. It's pervasive and I'm purveyed. It's unquantifiable. It's the epitomizing and the epitome. I have my epaulets set for turbulent battles though I still can't fend off night. Speak and I might remember. Hear and it's second rite. Sea attacks, oceans roaring, lakes swallowing me whole. Grand bodies of waters and faces and arms appendages, crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and I'm still shaking, and I'm still just a button. And I still can't sleep. And I'm still waiting.

It is night. The moon ripening, peeling back his face. Writhing. Seamed by the beauty of the nocturne, his ways made by sun, sky, and stars. Rolled and rampant. Moved across the plateau of the air, and its even and coolly majestic wanton shades of twilight. It heads off mountains, is swept as the plains of beauty, their faces in wild and feral growths. Bent and bolded, indelible and facing off Roman Empires too gladly well in inked and whet tips of bolder hands to soothe them forth.-----------Here in their grand and grandiose furnaces of the heart, whipped tails and tall fables fettered and tarnished in gold’s and lime. Here with their mothers' doting. Here with their Jimi Hendrix and poor poetry and stand-up downtrodden wergild and retardation. I don't give a ****. I could weep for the ***** if they even had hair half as fine as my own. I am real now. Limited by nothing. Served by no worship or warship. My flotilla serves tostadas at full-price. So now we have a game going.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------  My cowlick is not Sinatra's and it certainly doesn't beat women. As a matter of factotum and of writ and bylaw. I'm running down words more quickly than the stanza's of Longfellow. I'm moving subtexts like Eliot. I'm rampant and gaining speed. Methamphetamine and five star meats. Alfalfa and pea tendrils. Loves and the lovers I fall over and apart on. Heroes and my fortune over told and ever telling. Moving in arc light and keeping a warm glow.

the fish line caves. the shimmy and the shake. Bluegrass music and big wafting bell tones. snakes and the river, hands on the heads, through the hair; I look straight at the Pacific. I hate plastic flowers, those inanimate stems and machine-processed flesh tones. Waltzing the state divide. I am hooked on the intrepid doom of startling ego. I let it rake into my spine. It's hooves are heavy and singe and bind like manacles all over me. My first, my last, my favorite lover. I'm stalemating in the bathtub. Harnessing Crystal Lite and making rose gardens out of CD inserts and leaf covers. I'm fascinated by magic and gods. Guns and hunters. Thieving and mold, and laundry, and stereotypes, and great stereos, and boom-boxes, and the hi-fi nightlife of Chicago, roasting on a pith and meaty flame, built like a horror story five feet tall and laced with ruggedness and small needles. My skin is a chromium orchid and the grizzly subtext of a Nick Cave tune. I've allowed myself to be over-amplified, to mistake in falsetto and vice versa. To writhe on the heavy metallic reverberations of an altercated palpitation. The heart is the lonely hunted. First the waterproof matchsticks, then the water, the bowie knife, crass grasses and hard-necked pitch-hitters and phony friends; for doing lunch in the park on a frozen pond, I play like I invented blonde and really none of my **** even smells like gold.--------------------- There are the tales of false worship. I heard a street vendor sell a story about Ovid that was worse than local politics. As far as intermittent and esoteric histories go I'm the king of the present, second stage act in the shadow of the sideshow. Tonight I'm greeting the characters with Vaseline. For their love of music and their love of philosophy. For their twilight choirs and their skinny women who wear black antler masks and PVC and polyurethane body suits standing in inner-city gardens chanting. For their chanting. The pacific. For the fish line caves. For the buzzing and the kazoos. For the alfalfa and the three fathers of blue, red, and yellow. For the state of the nation. But still mostly working for the state of equality, more than a room for one’s own.-------------------------------------------------------------­------"Rice milk for all of you." " Kensington and whittled spirits."
(Doppelganger enters stage left)MAN: Prism state, flash of the golden arc. Beastly flowers and teeming woodlands. Heir to the throes and heir to the throng.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------- The sheep meadow press in the house of affection. The terns on my hem or the hide in my beak; all across the steel girder and whipping ******* the windows facing out. The mystery gaze that seers the diplopic eye. Still its opening shunned. I put a cage over it and carry it like a child through Haight-Ashbury. At times I hint that I'm bored, but there is no letting of blood or rattle of hope. When you live with a risk you begin at times to identify with the routes. Above the regional converse, the two on two or the two on four. At times for reasons of sadness but usually its just exhaustion. At times before the come and go gets to you, but usually that is wrong and they get to you first. Lathering up in a small cerulean piece of sky at the end turnabout of a dirt road
Francis Duggan Apr 2010
She sees things of beauty in all that she see
And what's beautiful to her seems ugly to me
What to her is a flower to me is a ****
We do seem so different so different indeed.

The window of her soul is open to light
She always seems happy and bubbly and bright
And her type of person a pleasure to know
For beauty goes with her where-ever she go.

Of those who are different good things she does say
And for to help out others she goes out of her way
She helps out the homeless and those in dire poverty
I do not know of anyone as great as she.

And sad to think her type are becoming more rare
For the poor and downtrodden she genuinely does care
To the most worthy causes her work free time she devote
Yet she is not seen as one worthy of note.

A beautiful person with a heart of gold
And surely her story deserves to be told
Not proud of her beauty and free of conceit
And people like her one does not often meet.
False Poets Feb 2018
complexity bias

how you love to criticize my poems
as too long and overly complex

poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting
unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the
intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews

Writing is a **** temptation -
we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90%

perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones
put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking
word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring -

give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is
easily digested and there are no consequences

I am a member of a discriminated-against minority
we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say
hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of
our faces,  you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied

25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white,
my occupation is playing video games and making sure
my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States
where I was born

there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives
a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts
any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in
my future

this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy,
ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about,
on your way out, of course, of course,
we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden

my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way,
order slowly declines into disorder

my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the
the Herzog continuums
and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my
going, gone under

so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the
requisite taxing authority

you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions

resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length

compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go,
perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
RW Dennen Aug 2014
They walk into darkness
exiled from fear.

Relinquished  cerebral thoughts,

freedom   wanes,

dissolved      into             rote-reality,

into a spirit of ****,

cast                        downtrodden,


embracing submissive                bogus         security.
Remember what old Ben said about loosing our future freedom
phocks Sep 2013
Fraught with ginger headlights blowing
Down the wind that keeps you knowing
About the lost temptation longed for
From the highland town on the foreshore,
We see a dark presence engulf
What was once a mere meeting post
Of ornaments and statues speaking out
To all that hear them scream and shout.

Tiring from the overtime unpaid
The pretty ladies fade away
Dreading the fifth movement of the piece,
Though waiting as though ill at ease
Along the back decks of the seventh sage
Never longing or showing their grace
The forever lost again find a place.
Never judge.*
You don't know the condition of their shoes.
The downtrodden have this unique way of hiding themselves. I try to make it my goal not to judge by appearance.
CK Baker Jun 2017
pale clouds at the summit
water color sky
cattle guard at wood bridge
creek bed running dry

split log fence downtrodden
razor back in wire
sinkhole on the wild plain
grouse fields under fire

pine bug and a lone wolf
clear cut on the trail
stump lake on the open range
kettle valley rail

raven on the hatheume
slash and burn and scar
blasted church in a tired sun
wild rose under char

thistle in the hollow
quails nest sitting high
carriage house at lone rock
curtains of july

smoke jaw in the canyon
percolator dream
silver sage in chapel
schneider's requiem

stockmen on the wrangle
big horn antler chase
table top at sunset
deacon creek in grace

quarry in a furry
lines of tinted red
spurs and blades and columns
patchwork of the dead

past the bow hill junction
cattle ropes are black
indian amphitheater
saddle on the rack

sun is at a high bake
sedimentary stone
three days on the morphine
skeleton and bone

cold water road is lonely
corrals are cut and paste
gone but not forgotten
the dust filled aftertaste
MdAsadullah Dec 2014
Allah was his ears
As sounds unlawful, unethical it never heard.
Secrets, gossips and rumours were also barred.
It buzzed with words of Quran day and night
Always Open to sounds just and upright.

Allah was his eyes
As it looked parents, orphans and needy with love
Brimmed with tears thinking of Almighty above
It never despised his brother and from lust it was freed.
Gold and silver had no worth and had no signs of greed.

Allah was his hands
As it stopped things reprehensible with force
In Allah's cause spent abundantly his resource
It caressed the head of an orphan in affection.
Time and again meekly raised it in supplication.

Allah was his feet
As it never moved towards things which Allah hate
Avoided walking arrogantly with a strutting gait
It always ran to help downtrodden, oppressed.
For knowledge for light it was on constant quest.

He had mountains of obligatory good deeds
He had mountains of non-obligatory good deeds
His protector was Allah The Almighty
His enemy was enemy of Allah The Almighty
He was beloved of Allah
He was friend of Allah
He was Wali of Allah
He was Waliullah.
Edward Laine Dec 2011
Ground flesh, stumble-grins, arguments without anything pertaining to anything else, only downside down-slide, grumble, rumble & spiff.
If you ever take out a loan at this bank you better not take down any trees '*** they'll chop you back down, believe me.
Only the fire may burn in yellow & gold, you gotta burn in black,
horrid gold, horrid shtuck, never take a trip too soon, never ride in a car with a man in a green fedora or a 8-ball on the gear stick.
When I fell down the stairs you caught me and said 'dont you know that you can die?'
'no, no, whats that?'
'never mind'
and you were gone.
I think I'm really going crazy, I'm losing my hair and my teeth feel loose, soon I'll be nothing but a shell of hollow bones & ideas that never made it to fruition.
The world is really crumbling all around me, the people are melting, the babies are crying, the cats are singing songs of doom & the birds have all forgotten how to fly.
I have the answer, I have the solution, I can be the savior of manki...
..ooh look, donuts/***/television/THINGS
Kezia Ann Joseph Oct 2014
Smile even when you don't have......
reason to do so.

Smile even when you are sad
because you never know who is falling in love.

Smile even when you want to cry
because it may be inspiring for others.

Smile even when someone leaves you
because someone more loving is waiting for you.

Smile even when you are alone
because something holds you special.

Smile even when water is upto your neck
because still you can breathe.

Smile even when you are downtrodden
because God is powerful to lift you high.

Smile even when your days are counted
because still you can change the world.

Smile even when the river flows against you
because you are gifted with fins of words.

Smile even when you are going to end
because you did what you can do.

Smile even when some one blames you for everything
because they are accepting you in their mind.

Smile even some one gossips about you
because you know about you more than anyone.

Smile even when you are helpless
because God is teaching you important lessons of life.

Smile even when you are away from your loved ones
because they always want you to do so.
Raghu Menon Jul 2015
Green
Refreshing
Maturing to become
Grains that will feed us

WIth the sweat of the farmer
WIth the tears of the widows and daughters
WIth the sorrow of the indebted ..
WIth the curse of the deprived and downtrodden..

We don't see the stories behind the scene
We relish the fancy recipes of the Master Chefs
Of fragrant rice, golden rice and the slim and slender grains
We forget the dark, thin, slender bodies who make it for us...
http://tprmenon.blogspot.in/2015/07/green-killing-fields.html
London Poet Sep 2012
Life is a journey that slowly ends,
but not allowing you to make amends.
How can I right the wrongs I have done,
With all the lies that I have spun.

Nobody teaches you right from wrong,
not in this life's tragic song.
where will I be in 10 years time?
what about this old heart of mine?
Love is for poets, or so they say,
not for my heart to wilfully stray.

for my heart is broken and scarred today,
there is no hope for tomorrow, so into the fray.
As Life is a journey, or so they say,
Nobody will love me or even pray.

So how do you travel on this exhaustive trip?
How do you travel without a stumble or slip?
Hope is a friend that regularly visits,
Hope is a friend that stands and spits!

But without this friend, how do you travel,
on this road of downtrodden gravel,
But hope is a friend, a true friend of mine
Hope is the one thing that's with me through time.

One day this journey will abruptly stop,
with hope behind me when I hear that knock.
The knock I hear so loud and clear
From deaths door alas I truly fear.

Life is a journey so full of promise
sadly its mostly full of solace.
what will be said when I am gone?
good riddens to *******, I hear from some.
I have tried to travel with love and compassion
but others may say I am just like fashion
as fashion changes and never stands still,
I am true to this hardened will.

Here lays Neil, may he rest in peace,
as his journey now has begun to cease.
Sometimes journeys are just too far, and some journeys  never end!
allan harold rex May 2012
scuttling across the valley,
the trench was deep and steep

scorching heat of the dry sun,
dried blemishes on the weathered skin.

Settling along the rocky facades,
hackneyed by the haunting past.

Sleepless nights of the perching predators,
Hibernating in aloof worlds .

Stymied by the wind in the barren land ,
Harnessed by the futile fears.

Simone Melchoir of the sinking ship ,
would not you go down with the fault.

Shunning away from natures affection ,
for every rose does share its thorn .

Sunny ends are reached ,
when the raging ravines fade away.

Slithering away the swirling serpent ,
The sun lurks in the brewing storm .

Sanctity of the witheld winds ,
sapping away the deathly darkness.

Serene air of the seraphic angel,
brought the plighting dreams to the refugees repose

Smelting ores and melting poles,
brimming with brightness the cradled cirque .

Summons of the exalted virtue ,
To burn the lizard and fly away like the phoenix

Succumbing to the wilderness,
to soaring heights and rising spirits .

Swanking in the soothing winds,
the phoenix looked down on the plundering valley.

Scorning at the downtrodden spirits,
The fraternity of the Desert lizard
Anderson M Jan 2014
Glitzy gowns, crisp suits
Dainty personalities, well-groomed gentlemen
The crème de la crème of society
Poised reveling in an aura of importance
Flex their financial muscle
In the name of philanthropy.
Handing out gifts to hoi polloi
Their hands gloved
Smiling from ear to ear
Their noses twitching
Apparently un-accustomed to the “smell” of poverty
Has poverty…a smell?
Self-aggrandizement overwhelming their souls
Having warmed the hearts of the downtrodden
It’s a deal…sealed
Effortlessly
Thought Broadcasting

Silence is a silver ship
Traveling at the speed of the darkness,
Black holes are the edifices in which I
Build my thoughts-
Word by word,
Each and every syllable forms upon my lips,
And then broadcasted, aloud-
Thoughts are killers- thoughts can harm-
My thoughts can be heard from afar.
Within this room I write my thoughts
With a pen that is void of ink, or a pencil
That has no lead,
Invisible they are, but somehow,
These thoughts are broadcasted aloud.
Thoughts are killers thoughts control-
My thoughts can be heard from afar.
A silver ship with its sail to the wind,
A wild horse that canters across vast terrain, or
Pebbles that roll off of my fingertips,
That splash into the creek, one by one,
You can see, you can hear, as
My thoughts, broadcasted aloud.
My thoughts can be heard from afar.
My thoughts are a flame that only I can quench.
I am in control of what comes into my mind,
As my hands build the world from
The bricks of Time,
My thoughts control the world.
My thinking destroys those, whom I abhor,
My thoughts control the downtrodden.
Silence is a silver ship, or
The dome beneath which I dwell-
I build my edifice beneath this dome.
No one dares to enter, as
I have broadcasted a message to the world,
My eyes order the world away;
My thoughts are broadcasted aloud,
A bad thought can destroy, as good ones
Create and control,
My thoughts control the world…

Claudia Krizay
nivek Sep 2015
The tongues of the poor are silent
their bellies do most of the talking
the backs of the downtrodden break
a thousand times each day they snap
bullets fly in every direction, even upwards
celebrating some kind of victory
the whole wide world watches a TV screen
as they get thinner, wider, more HD
we can now see spots and dimples more clearly
on all the faces of killing projectiles and casualties.
Won boxing matches with Lewis , Lasky, Corn Griffin, Swiderski,
Then many more titles with Griffiths, Farr, Stillman, and Levandowski,

Jackson, Caggiano, Darnell and Dobson
Something he could tell his grandson

His greatest match of all was the title he earned against Max Baer
The fight was the ultimate win at Gardens of Madison Square

A very passionate man for his wife and children he went to great lengths
To keep his family together during the depression, even in times of brink

Served honorably in WWII as a 1st Lieutenant
Owned a surplus supplier of marine equipment

Helped to construct the bridge Verrazano
It was the proud city’s beautiful Picasso

Gone is Jim Braddock, a movie about him, CINDERELLA MAN to be sure he’s not forgotten
His Granddaughter Rosemarie Dewitt  played his neighbor Sara Wilson, who was downtrodden

Copyright 2014
All Rights Reserved
Biopoem
Zachary Fore Oct 2010
burdened with the weight of it all,
the camel stops and lies
in the middle of the desert

the man driving the herd--
the herd that's laden
with tired, overworked
camels, walks toward the downtrodden
offender with his arm outstretched
and in his palm, sat a pistol--

then, he hesitates--

as he stares into the eyes of
the camel--
deeply--
intrigued--
but beyond that,
he felt a sense of calm, which
soon turned sour--
everything turns sour

he gazed into the dark abyss
of the pistol
turned it toward his temple
and pulled the trigger

all the camels scattered--
except the one lying down

he placed his head in the sand,
then slept
in memory of
the
fallen
herder
Billy B Oct 2012
A Tribute

A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate,    he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….

The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.



The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.

The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow.  The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.
lowercasemmmmmm Nov 2014
the waves crash the winter of her smile
in your mind she's a veiled faced bride
all of those seasons that came and died
bitterness of betrayal, emptiness of life

you gave her the riches you didn't own
housed her in a mansion, 2 up 2 down
gave her two extra hearts to hold
and warmed her past from all its cold

when you were the man
she wanted you to be
it was never enough
how could it be
your going round and round
just like your mind
and all the things you've found
you can't leave behind

you worked yourself into the floor
providing all the things that she adored
you never expected her to roam
so far away without ever leaving home

the shock it came as no surprise
tears flowed as you caught her in her lies
she packed all her world and said goodbye
then changed her mind, you wonder why

when you were the man
she wanted you to be
it was never enough
how could it be
your going round and round
just like your mind
and all the things you've found
you can't leave behind

now you're a shadow of yourself
with a slow decline in your mental health
all your trust gone and so's your wealth
still her waves crash a long dusty shelf
Mr Incognito Dec 2014
She was crying.
So he approached
to lessen the anguish,
her life has notched

He exchanged her tears
with his cozy smile;
to calm down her nerves
at least for a while.

The language of tears
has always appealed him;
as to the insects,
the sundew's gleam.

Innate was this nature of his
to weep for the poor,
for the women, for the children
and for the downtrodden, to be sure.

But with hollow chauvinism
then, the men ruled the society.
And accounted weeping as a sin
resulting from inferiority.

They disliked the boy
and his uncommon ways
to heal the sufferer,
to their utter dismay.

They called the boy
and asked him to change
his beliefs and ideology
or to be ready to estrange.

The boy couldn't understand
how his actions have been
outrageous in their view
and thus sentenced as a sin.

He stood against them
and let the proposal decline.
He advocated his logic
to those ****** swine.

But their ears were concealed
to even the rumbling thunder.
Intoxicated by masculinity
they committed blunder.

The men enraged
and reached for their knives.
They shouted, they cursed
and skinned him alive.
This was the tale of a boy who was said to possess magical tears - the tears which would lessen the agony of other people. He found pleasure in eliminating pain and grief from others' life but the so called males became intolerant towards his behavior and later murdered him for the same
C J Baxter Aug 2015
Yer heads just a bed for others opinions to lay in;
growing bigger, badder and bolder there,
until they’re covered in sores, manky and reeking.
Yer heads just a place for others thoughts to leek in.
But dinnae get disheartened by their chat.
Remember its your head thats dain aw that.
They never said a word, its yer head that ye heard.
Traveler May 2016
Let me catch up
With your suffering heart
Tormented by love's fatigue
The brokenhearted wows me
Your longings that can never be

I too have a shadow following
The darkness of soul that begs for light
Spent my adult life in a literal prison
Lost my children, my world, my life

Still my voice is the liberal in the room
And no matter how ****** up my life "was"
I love who I am
And I'm happy
   So hang in there...
SA Nov 2011
A monotone voice
and a downtrodden persona
a cup of tears
a tablespoon of PTSD
a teaspoon of bullets
a bucket of camouflage
a sprinkle of hope
a mile of death
Mike Hauser Mar 2013
Blackbird oh Blackbird
Where is your proud song
I heard you sing in the sixties
Aren't you still downtrodden and all

Have you grown complacent
Did they clip your wings
I marched with your Fathers
They wouldn't hear of such a thing

Why was it they suffered
If not for the chance to be free
They had their eyes on the future
Is this what they wanted to see

The cage that contains you
The latch is on the inside
Blackbird in you is the power
To take freedoms ride

Blackbird oh Blackbird
Where is your proud song
If you'll sing it again
This time we'll all sing along
onlylovepoetry Jul 2016
perhaps if you have time,
take a moment to read the
predecessor poem in the notes below first,
in order to better understand this one


<>

the love poetry curfew so lately announced
misshapen, growing without respite, by hate extensions distended,
poet's sanity uncomprehending, for yet another! sabbath desecration,
debating internally, how long should this cessation be extended,
for the pockmarking of earth's face with fresh bloodshed,
continues unashamedly, swiftly apace, these unholy days of dread,
all haggard his mind, hazard his eyes, harden his heart
no muse could sway

but shocking himself,
poet's mirror image stares and dares
with a finger-pointing,
his own specter's absurd challenge of

"and yet, now more than ever "

when children are killed like bowling pins,
there can be no satisfaction in revenge
cannot expiate evil deeds with avenge
measure for measure add-on sins,

and yet,

poet thinks quietly, repeatedly, self-surprisingly,

and yet,
love poetry, now more than ever


asking confusedly, almost ashamedly, out loudly, yet secretly,
how can this be, for there will be again, more painful awakenings,
is it the end of days, of greeting sunrise, with a love for love poetry?
with madness come and confusion everywhere rampant,
'tis a doubtful thought, the carnage having wrought
an insoluble dissolution and can love poetry be any solution?

in poet's Adirondack safe place where life tributes were
birthed, bred and trials borne, a right writ place for unmasking,
a private soul in equal parts of joy and shame,
love and pain, loss and gain,
here the weighing scales bore equal measures
of old bereft, and life uplifting visions of,
what will come, what will be, the unforeseen,
the hopeful yet of

"and yet"

a dotted line of whitecaps  beckons the poet to tread upon,
the glassine bay's waters that lay before him, go, walk on water,
a path to point where and whence the quaking waves
have gathered, calmly begging, Oh poet!
provide  assurance, explanation, comprehension,
querying him as if all sanity, has flightly, unsightly, fled
from the home shores of human sailors, gently asking poet,

"your fellow walking earth-beasts have all sensibility killed,
these times so human terrible, we waters, cannot understand"

poet's rebellious soul all so confused, asking and answering the
waters in his head, the waters that address his eyes,
seeking wisdom words from a place where logic
has been whittled and willed away,

and yet,

love poetry, now more than ever


now is the time when a love poem beyond merely necessary,
poet's eyes cast downward in shame, his thinking, hesitant and wary,
time for prayer, not madness distraction of a love poetry commentary

the waters dissatisfied at his confusion,
part as if by Moses's staff, majesticly powerful rise up,
confronting poet with the sweetest tasking
as if they were the downtrodden and the hurting, asking...

"we storm, drown and take, for such is nature's angry periodic way,
something beyond our control no matter what we say,
to another's dictate and momentum, we must bow and obey,
but you human, have choice, and we have none -
choose love poetry and let it comfort like no other"

and the poet sighed and wrote

this poem

this poem of love,
realized and conjectured,
with inserted verses of

"and yet,"

for though the poet possessed no well of well words
more than these few saddened and impoverished,
wearied, hard scrabbled ones

and yet,

gasping and grasping a potent notion, a portent of what if,
of a world with no love poetry,
a planet that could not ever-overcome hate, dooming itself,
for love poetry and all its cousins and associates,
the only method to confiscate
these grill blackened marking silent barbell weights
so let this be ,
this is a love poem,
and now,
this is the time,
to let

"and yet"

vindicate...


<>
6:20am
Saturday July 16, 2016
and yet
one week ago, July 10, 2016...

there will be no love poetry today
there will be no love poetry today
Sabbath cancelled

there will be the will to love
and there will be poetry

someplace

but not here, not today

the load bearing suspension
of belief

beyond busted

the mind

no mas

busted

one killing too many

love poetry seems inappropriately fruitless


there will love
and there will be poetry

somewhere

but not here

more than pointless,  
sacrilegious,
human sacrifice ruthless,
a ****** sacrilege

the world profaned and the blood spilling
is in everything and everywhere  

and has driven the love poetry out of this person


maybe tomorrow

may it be tomorrow, we will pass a twenty four

news cycle  
with the bombs gone quiet
the innocents surviving
and the god spark burner inside me will
relight on its own

but not today not here not me

there will be
no love poetry

and this

this is not a poem

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1704071/there-will-be-no-love-poetry-today/  

<>

— The End —