"downturn" poems
*Isabel sits on the rusted garden bench,
my heart misses a beat, yet again as I watch,
her eyes are downcast, it's late afternoon,
she looks **** tired, dishevelled, distraught.
The world is on a slide, going bad to worse,
believe me i could see premature grey in her coiffure,
she is fired from her job, I can guess,
it hits me hard to think she is inconsolable.
Then, we all are, who is secure these days!
Under a tree, with withered leaves, she sits,
climatic change, obviously is playing havoc with it,
the evening sun, just slanted westwards,
seems unusually cruel to this girl,
no cover of thick foliage, moreover.
I see children playing around Isabel,
even they are soon losing interest,
if mirthful they are, make some noise and
run around, she would have smiled,
I would have felt far better than this!
Well, I don't know Isabel, may be her name is different,
on evenings I used to watch her from afar,
with curious eyes, I admired her incomparable elan,
hoping to make friends with her,
such a gentle soul she looked.
We'd become friends, by and by, I had hope,
I saw her smile and loved her sunny side,
but before I could meet and ask her out,
it happened, even without a notice,
I am fired from my job, today.
They said the downturn affected us bad, it showed,
What can you possibly say,
other than, just accepting the pink slip*
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
Although she didn’t use these exact words,
What it got down to was:
“My **** hurts!”
Your age-appropriate **** buddy
Experiencing a profound lubrication deficit.
Vaginal dryness:
A legitimate topic these days for
Baby-Boom conversation.
“65: the New 30,” the slogan rings.
A Mel Brooks clarion call,
Harvey Corman doing Count Da Money:
"Don't get saucy with me, Bearnaise!"
For all our good friends at
KY, Vaseline & Astroglide--
As recommended by female OB/GYNs,
(Should there be any other kind?)
Sales projections are rosy for
Ottmar’s Coconut Cooch Oil,
Despite the economic downturn,
So, naturally, you commence your
Search for a young, wet—sopping wet—co-ed,
Running the risk of bumping into
Some UC Berkeley ****
Who digs older gentlemen, and
Knows your daughter, Gwendolyn.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
.to have gained so much through a process of loss is a meandering truth to my life. the relationships i build, manufacture..become processed. an unreal version of the way life was supposed to be. for me anyways. where has the real "grit" gone to. the granules of momentum in mind and heart. to be willing to overcome the self pity, to go the distance, to be you. i look around, peer into the eyes of others and see a smog. a stream of tar. thick with loathing and disdain. for what reason do we allow ourselves to become these wandering entities? we do not deserve this life, this body, this chance if we are going to let it become stagnant, flat, static. i much rather let reclusive acts take me away, than to be consumed in the negativity, the natural downturn. don't grasp onto the cruel aspects of life, live through them and continue by appreciating the grace that has been given to you through such turmoils. love whom you choose to love with all of your sacred heart. you have an endless pit of this emotion as long as you are strong enough to witness the miracle of forgiveness. be one with you. be you. dont leave pieces of you lying about. you are the morning the after noon, the evening and the night. the blossoming sun, and the face in the moon. you are eternity if you wish upon it. wish.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
“where do we go from here?”
a line that haunts a million songs
like a small, aching insect
creeping in through the cracks in the lyrics
and spreading its wings to infect the expanse
of music that reaches my ears
do you ever feel like there’s a theme to your life?
some familiar collection of words, some thought
that pervades the space around you
and finds body in the world that follows
your every move
some chord, bright or dire or dim
that resounds in the echoes
in the tunnels you pass through
and sings silently after each word you speak
ringing softly beneath your footsteps
colouring the air you exhale
“where do we go from here?”
the first time i heard those six words
i have no idea where i was
or when
but i remember the thought that came to mind as
desolation
and it made my heart hurt
and i was happy
because i now i could prove its existence
“where do we go from here?”
one day i heard those six syllables
as i often did, above me
tinny and abrupt from the speakers
hidden in public places, among the plastic clouds
and spiderwebs
and i, at the precipice
of some great beginning
felt that thought beneath my step
and my soul sang, it breathed in deep
and i was happy
because now i could prove its existence
“where do we go from here?”
one day i found those words
etched into the notes of some electronic
heartbeat or sellout tune
and i, in the middle of a slow tumble
towards the realization of a loss
of a feeling i had worked so hard to find
felt the emptiness between my fingers
and the ground pressing into the soles of my feet
and the ache once again in my mind
and my heart and my soul
and i knew now the existence
of the feeling inspired
by the downturn of that phrase, six words
that speak to us all
“where do we go from here?”
i thought of this line on my own time
and never knew how to use it
until today, aware of a familiar scent
in the air, i sat down
and faced the six words haunting my ears
and embraced their meaning
closed my eyes and breathed in their truth
felt the confusion and desolation and joy
that seeped into my bones the harder i tried
to join myself with the forever aching phrase
that i now know was written
to describe the way i move through this life
and today, as i walked
with false purpose along the real lines of the road
i felt words pressing sharp into my cheeks
and i turned to you but could not let them free
six words, a simple door
into the patterned floor and closed curtains
of my untidy mind
and so i let the sentence be
swallowed it whole, let it sit in my lungs
a while longer
and i still have yet to ask you
“where do we go from here?”
has there ever been an answer to that question?
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
Lurking near the brown ***** river
a soulless beast with hollow heart.
Its contaminated red and blue blood
is directed by its masters flowchart.
The Westmonster's hearing is defunct
it can not detect the public frequency.
Tuned in only to enormous corporations
attracted to the stench of their currency.
The one eye of the beast is almost blind
its corporate master must lead the way.
Feeding off the labour of honest souls
discriminately choosing its next prey.
We, the slaves of this twisted deformity
must rise up against it and its master.
But for now we should just organise
and wait for the next financial disaster.
So prepare yourselves and ready others
we strike at the next financial downturn.
How we will rejoice when we slay the beast
as we sing "BURN PARLIAMENT BURN!"
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 4:25 AM UTC
This night the wind grew so chilled as a moist rainy season.
the air no stopped thrashing haggardly in an awful spray.
the suspended leaves are hovered and folded up and down .
as a hellish decorum .
as sorrowful sea rendering a sinister reminisce .
of furrow war that she is trying to get the golden sea pebble laying upon its edge .
deemed into red liquid fade and sullen as dead,
to be cleaned ******
i felt this horror night deep down my vein in painful response and wander.
i remembered that i have been targeting in somehow ode way.
with revengeful knack.
i never been beguiled.
but i trusted the shimmered night, as a night for my foe.
still moving in me with similarly of dulling and no dawdling.
dragging me out of the course then and now.
and i felt my struggle going down a mop.
though i have a heart full of courage and action .
i never spoke of that tragedy yet.
but my heart is submerged of the sad decay.
and my front head is red of the rays gleaming of its span.
this is downturn .
it gave me nothing but nightmare for company.
flinging in any while at me the uncovered ground.
and cheating as the real saprophyte way .
oh... horror ..
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
**When I’m overwhelmed with tears at night..
Emotions are an ocean that consume me.**
Soft waters flow down my cheeks as I reminisce about us and our brief memories..
It was a year ago..
Remembering your soft blue eyes slowly closing on a plane.
Your shakey hands would lay so softly in your lap, slowly drifting away…
You finally had some time to rest.
I loved the mornings when you would turn over and hold me.
A still warmth.
In my indecisiveness you took control,
in my want for nothing you gave me your all.
Just by tugging your hand, your eyes would soften and your voice more calm.
You're raging storm silenced..
Darling I’m here now.
-
I knew you..
Well, just the part of you revealed to me, of course..
I remember when you would downturn your lip and look across when you were unsure..
Yet twist your hand up to say ‘come on lets go!'
I remember when I unhung the turquoise dress from your wardrobe..
I chose it because it matched your eyes..
If only you knew how beautiful your eyes looked under an Italian sunset..
I remember us climbing on top of the old town, watching the sun go down..
The glazing orange skyline blessing your angelic face.
All I could ever want was here.
With you.. there was no pain.
No sadness, no war and no violence..
With my resting head on your shoulder.
No words, just peace.
My memories are a clear water..
Climbing the church tower and cycling the city.
Reaching for my hand up the stairs to make sure I was safe.
I could never catch up to you.
In a room full of art, all I could see was you.
In a town full of blessings, YOU were mine.
While my body was broken, you were my healer.
How in a brief moment, you loved me and let me go.
Intoxicated nights,
but a blazing fire as soon as the front door shut..
The balcony doors opened..
The night sky saw our passion, only the stars knew our secrets..
How in a short space of time you became so impressionable on my soul, my inner being.
A feeling.. a place I didn’t know existed within me.. awoken.
I’ll never forget how happy you made me, and still make me when I replay those memories.
Yet memories are just memories..
I pray that I find a way to put to sleep..
The fire that burns within me.
**When I’m overwhelmed with tears at night..
Emotions are an ocean that consume me.
Memories.**
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 11:49 PM UTC
To Whom it May Concern,
My blood begins to burn
and I’m compelled to spurn
the current plans to turn
our mascot to a worm.
The members from my firm
cannot stay taciturn
when our alumni learn
that strangers overturned
the past we had governed
because they’re all stubborn,
seeking to be modern
and spread, exploit and churn
their folly and their germs.
I urge you to discern
the consequence you’ll earn
unless you can confirm
our legacy long-term.
We will not adjourn
until it’s reaffirmed
that history is stern
and keeps our old pattern.
If you do not concur
and submit to our terms,
then surely you will yearn
for courtesy interns
as funding will downturn
and we will watch you squirm
like spiders in an urn
at the point of no return.
Sincerely, Dr. Kern
Jan 11, 2020
Jan 11, 2020 at 12:37 PM UTC
Iris and Blanche,
retired West end Usherettes,
Joint treasurers to the benevolent society,
their own Christmas story flickers ,
fearing poverty, melted candles
for 6d - they buy the job lot,
worn, threadbare carpets cover the hallway.
Seemingly unmoved, they try to forget
this turn of fortune.
Upheaval is now the perpetual downturn.
They’ve availed themselves to
missing out on life's gravy train,
and been met with gas light frugality.
The sunken mattress tumbles across the wooden floor,
casting shadows over,
yesterday's hubris.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
A fat young woman sat reading her graphic novel
(don't you love it that they call comic books graphic novels
nowadays so as not to offend the mongos who read them?)
- apologies apologies I digress from my narrative I fear -
her eyes followed the words slowly one by one
and her lips very visibly mouthed each syllable
as though such a pathetic process might help the meaning
to sink in at least partially to her poor addled half-educated wits
(in case you haven't worked it out by now I should explain
she was a bit stupid in fact much thicker than two short planks,
but I suppose that's an unkind thing to say really
but what the hell this is ******* free thought association
and stream of ******* consciousness isn't it?)
Bearing in mind that the poor fat cow had a brain
only marginally more adroit than a bluebottle's
she was doing quite well as she had after all
reached as far as page five after only two hours
when something marginally untoward occurred
as she suddenly felt a nasty pain in her tummy
and in some atavistic sort of way that realised she was on
the verge of having a miscarriage which was quite
a shock bearing in mind she didn't even know
she was seven months pregnant at the time
having been unable to read the birds and bees manual
she had been given as a present by her mummy.
But it was just as well taking everything into consideration
bearing in mind she was unmarried (surprise! surprise!)
and had no idea who the father might have been
as (how oh how can I put this delicately?)
she was totally the village bicycle having been ridden by everyone
including most of the teachers at the ******** folks home
where she lived in some squalor at state expense
but never mind as all's well that ends well
as her staggeringly brutal low-iq daddy would have killed her
for bringing shame on the family escutcheon
and because the downturn in the economy
meant that there was a three month wait for a bed
in the nearest mongo maternity ward
so she just kept on reading and would you believe it
she had reached page seven by the time
it was all over apart from the mess on the upholstery.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
OR: Benchmarks for Bench-Warming
The author, after recently publishing
Working to Frame Approaches Towards Approaching Frameworks: Contextualizing Systemic Interventions as an Interventional System in Context
collaborated with himself and co-wrote
Granting Greater Rights to Grant-Writers:
Turning Down the Echo in an Eco-Downturn.
Both papers were well-received and build on the strength of the author's initial work, published in 2018, entitled:
Speed-Dating the Data: Progressive Measures towards Measurable Progress
The author's third paper examined day-by-day data deterrence as a strategy to enhance documentation of impact towards tracking the implementation of benchmarks. The main thesis of the author's 78-page analysis was that out-dated data, when out on a date, flirts with obsolescence by trying to ford the current affordability when instead, it could be out-sourcing data while invoicing clients in adolescence—rather than dragging the river for dead data. All three publications are recommended and underwritten by overwhelmed authorized ghost writers.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 12:12 PM UTC
Bad *** MC
decided to play piano
when he saw the economy wasn't anything interesting
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 12:47 AM UTC
cant take it no mo'!
....
i cant
(really)
................
hallucination's song's
become a dememted vision with skulls
and bones
.
laughin and cryin like children
and mad women who were meant
to be mothers you know
..
..
..
yea
..
an "economic downturn"
my ***
.....
******
******
that's what it is
...
the cool winds of new york city
and the guru dreams live on
in warrior rags and starving lovers
in alleyways
of light
and
images containing you and me
before we believed
the wrinkles and sad lines
on our broken faces
was us!
(fools!.....simply fools!!)
-------
only the dance with death is real we now know
all our pretense !
calling "F__KING"
loving!!!!!!
.
** **
(kiddin no-one)
....
only a tiny ember remains
but the eternal wind
(our breath)
is strong perhaps
and perhaps "who knows"
may thrill us again
into a true sense
of humanity
....
cant take it no mo'!
(our lyin to ourselves)
.
COME ON!
.
*** wit it!
NOW!
...
AINT NO HIDIN
no more
no where
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:29 PM UTC
A brisk gale wind
blows thru my
clanking gears-
thunder shears-
and my riven ears
then hear nothing:
but thru clairaudience
I will ever be a
master of everything
that ravishes the
world beneath your
feet.
The pompous skies
drink up the seas,
to drop thus upon
my eyes in beads;
and as I pen my
muse's advice, the
ink disappears from
the sheets; and watcher
dieties-in the third choir
of the celestial hierarchy-
now have useless wings.
Oh, mold my vernal
features into a candle
effigy— watch them gleam—
then grow so low by high
degrees; and the wax melting by
the heat of flame -to once again
downturn my merry cheeks. So if
you please, masquerade as a blessed
princess -before I am consumed completely-
and I will play both parts of the duelling
princes. One a man, the other a machine.
Go, rendezvous with my doyenne madness!
Indeed the tryst could cause my discarnate
ghost to scarper. I will wrap a cloak around
my Joy and Sadness
—pleased that I might hide my spare character; or at least proclaim thee
dressed a bit sharper.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 7:57 AM UTC
It was on our lips.
(And) the downturn was everything.
'why wouldn't you think rocks could be green?'
You turned from the ships like a foam-latent cold.
The snaps-onlooked couldn't believe.
'stop wading, my love,
we're not here to understand'
We're here to look.
We're here to love,
and then leave.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
I won't have you
dress like that,
Lizbeth's mother said,
eyeing her daughter's
too short skirt,
because she had outgrown it,
but still wore it,
and the blouse tight
across her *******
What's wrong with it?
Lizbeth asked,
taking in
her mother's stare,
the downturn of mouth.
It's too short;
it shows too much,
her mother replied,
sensing rebellion
in her daughter's stare.
But I like it:
don't like that other thing
you bought,
Lizbeth said.
Go and change;
put on a dress;
something that isn't
too short,
her mother stated.
Lizbeth sighed
and left the room
and stomped the stairs
to her bedroom
and slammed the door.
She closed her eyes;
heard birdsong
from the open window,
opening on to the garden.
Downstairs her mother
had switched on the radio
and classical music erupted.
She undid the skirt
and stepped out of it
and kicked it
across the room.
It lay next
to the record player
and the Billy fury LP.
She stood in front
of the wardrobe mirror
and gazed at herself.
She wished Benny
was there
eyeing her.
Not that he'd stare;
he'd look away shyly.
She pulled open a drawer
and took out the skirt
her mother had bought:
flowery and pink and red.
She stepped into it
and zipped it up:
it fell past her knees.
She turned the top
shortening the length.
It was above
her knees now.
She gazed at it:
maybe I could
make it shorter,
somehow.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:12 AM UTC
the news from the telegraph is bittersweet today.
they say they've found a way to take out the pain
of forgotten memories and blocked pathways in the brain.
i wish they would've cleared the road a little sooner.
swept off the loose branches and debris just a little faster.
because... what if it could have saved you?
what if you could've been the one i hugged at my graduation?
what if your letters were the ones waiting for me at the post office?
i can see it written in the corners of my mother's face
as i tell her the discoveries.
it doesn't take long for me to uncover
the bittersweetness she tastes too.
nothing is said but
i see it in the downturn of her eyes and
the ends of her lips, how they don't quite lift up.
that's how i know.
life has moved so fast since you've been gone, hasn't it?
and i know that she would've remembered the pain
of loss, of grief, of loneliness.
but maybe she wouldn't only have to live on
in film pictures and old grocery lists.
maybe my essay wouldn't have ended with a hope and a wish.
i have to trust that it's better off this way because
i know she is in a place with endless beaches and
not a single stone to weigh down her pockets
and that has to be enough.
i still think about the roses and red cardinals in the backyard
and it is enough.
Nov 17, 2021
Nov 17, 2021 at 12:12 AM UTC
All is not the same as I learn,
the hunger to disengage.
To give a wide berth
these battling contrasts.
Only took a photograph in medium format
a glimpse a shutter's worth,
to share in this ovidian downturn
and then walk away.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
You would have said, seeing the thoughtful reflection of his eye, that he had already...been through the revolutionary apocalypse.
I live in fear that I will die and meet him;
Liberty’s marble lover who once proudly proclaimed that
the nineteenth century was great, but the twentieth century will be happy.
I fear that I will meet him,
that he will ask if he was right with eager breath and waiting smile
and reach behind my eyes to scour my memory for the world he left behind,
for the happiness he prophesied from his makeshift plinth.
I fear that those burning eyes will dull with the aroma of burning flesh,
with the din of anguish and horror,
with the cold fingers of disillusion and resignation that pushed themselves into the minds of those still living,
with the happiness that he foretold overshadowed by the horrors our age has cloaked itself in.
I fear that I will have to apologise (or worse, that I will be able to say nothing)
I fear the downturn of that haughty lip
I fear the cracking of marble
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 8:44 AM UTC
Afraid to drive north;
Highway leading home.
To my mother's porch,
Food I can't ignore.
This time late last year -
Planning for the flood.
The torrent of tears,
My throat red with blood.
Attempting to hide
My light-headed days.
Mother mortified
Of my dark gray haze.
The carpet soaked through;
Salty tears the cause.
The growth of mildew,
Over my clenched jaws.
Fearful to return
After the downpour.
A second downturn
Leading toward the war.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
Feathers lift my downturn head,
Carrying me to the land below.
Solemn sky and crumbled stone;
Remnants of the Underearth.
The ground of tangled sinews,
The forests of marrow bone,
The heavens of moonlit blood,
The very air; slivers of ice.
Something beats among the feathers,
A pitch black mass; ungulating feverishly.
The many limbs and eyes
Of a thing long forgotten.
Where it leads me I do not know.
But I have no doubt any longer
That from the place I am going,
I will never return.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
From love to exhaustion
This intangible thing between us
Geography is just a symptom
(Affliction...)
(Endocrine...)
Deux mesures de solitude
The downturn sun of your skin
Is my broken ally
We love as enemies
In the jagged darkness
If only we could live as easily as we die
Oct 16, 2025
Oct 16, 2025 at 7:43 AM UTC
To everyone who has spurn,
to every hater who has made me learn,
to every despot who in hell will burn,
thank you.
To my desires, which I yearn,
to the men and women who barely earn,
to everyone whose lives have taken a downturn,
thank you.
For persisting in night and day,
for keeping this land free, I have to say,
that life isn't fair, you will sometimes go astray,
but the best thing to do is to work and stay.
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 1:01 PM UTC
In the middle of the night, she wanted me to
feel her belly—I forget if there was a tumor there
or the gap where a tumor used to be or
just a gap, a mysterious gap in her belly.
And old skin ripples and softens—now mine does though
nobody knows, I look only a little different,
and only I see the downturn in my mouth in the mirror.
I don’t say anything to you because I don’t want to talk about
the gap in my belly, the sags, the hardness that shouldn’t be there.
All I have to say is about pain, pleasure and poison.
So I wait for the good days to speak, I avoid answering questions
and try not to be too much myself as I am.
I wonder about your quiet days, though,
what dismal truths do you keep to yourself?
And do you have moments like these,
reaching through the lonely velvet dream
towards the scintillating shadows of someones,
only to fumble and go slack, exhausted
before having touched the other end,
to find if it’s an inky vibrating projection
or an ephemeral, delicate reality?
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 3:23 AM UTC
Never asking life to be easy
Knowing that everything will be tough sometimes
Being patient
And waiting and waiting
How long with this downturn
Of this rollercoaster ride take?
Waiting and waiting
Because things have to get better eventually
I keep working towards it
Doing what I feel is right
Being patient
And waiting and waiting
Telling myself tomorrow is a new day
Waking and wanting
A fresh start and another take
On this so called life
Some of us are destined for difficult lives
Because we feel pain and care
When others don't
If that is my role,
I accept it
In the meantime
I am being patient
And waiting and waiting
For tomorrow's fresh start
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC