"durable" poems
there is always somebody or something
waiting for you,
something stronger, more intelligent,
more evil, more kind, more durable,
something bigger, something better,
something worse, something with
eyes like the tiger, jaws like the shark,
something crazier than crazy,
saner than sane,
there is always something or somebody
waiting for you
as you put on your shoes
or as you sleep
or as you empty a garbage can
or pet your cat
or brush your teeth
or celebrate a holiday
there is always somebody or something
waiting for you.
keep this fully in mind
so that when it happens
you will be as ready as possible.
meanwhile, a good day to
you
if you are still there.
I think that I am---
I just burnt my fingers on
this
cigarette.
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I don't know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
"what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can **** me!"
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there's beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.
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There once was a friendship
A friendship that grew strong
One that was durable and could survive all that went wrong
The people in this friendship loved each other
through blood, tears, and depression
They stood by each others sides through
Spite, anger,and loss of affection
They fought for each others beliefs
Held each other when one felt weak
Trusted one another with everything
But eventually the day came
When their friendship wasn't the same
And they ran
Having each other to blame
For the once proud friendships decay
There once was a girl who yearned for what was lost
She wanted her friendship no matter the cost
So she gave up her pride
With a plead and a cry
She waited patiently for old friend to oblige
But to her surprise her friend still insisted she had lied
On the outside she shrugged and said at least I tried
But on the inside she knew the pain would not subside
That the friendship would be broken even after the day she died
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC
I recall from some time ago
a pink plastic tea set
a white plastic rocking chair
and a yellow plastic pony
with blue plastic hair,
which
was impossible to untangle
except for with the green plastic brush
that belonged to my blonde barbie doll
out of her plastic vanity cabinet
beneath her plastic vanity mirror,
which
she checked her makeup in
before meeting her plastic boyfriend
in his plastic van
to go to a plastic diner
that served plastic pizza,
which
was really just a sticker
on a tiny plastic plate
that would get lost in the bottom
of my plastic toybox,
which
had a plastic lid
that was also my sailboat
that brought me to a plastic castle
with a plastic princess
who had the prettiest plastic eyes
and the most elaborate plastic dress
and the shiniest plastic crown,
which
was the envy of all the plastic women
in the entire plastic kingdom,
which
was really just a plastic castle
surrounded by an enchanted plastic forest
filled with furry plastic creatures
all atop a clear plastic box,
which
held the plastic dishes
and plastic glasses
and plastic food
in case a feast should be thrown
for an unexpected plastic guest
from a plastic kingdom in the far east,
which
was really just a plastic plate
placed on the plastic-coated windowsill,
from which
I would peer into the blue sky
through broken plastic binoculars
while standing on a yellow and green plastic step stool,
which
when turned upside down
became not simply a make-shift plastic sailboat,
but a glorious, luxury plastic cruise liner
for my pretty plastic dolls
and I would board my toybox lid
and we would sail into a perfect plastic horizon
which
was really just a white plastic baby gate
that kept me from tumbling
into the world downstairs
where things are wooden
and glass
and cloth
but not plastic
for plastic is synthetic
and plastic is superficial
and plastic looks bad
against gilded wallpaper
but plastic is cheaper
and plastic is safer
and plastic is durable
and childhood is plastic
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering --
As if you never existed, as if I came
God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly:
Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything
When I wormed back under my mother's heart.
Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all
Enlisted in a cramped necropolis
your speckled stone skewed by an iron fence.
In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
Breaks the soil. This is Azalea path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir
In the basket of plastic evergreens they put
At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
Although the rains dissolve a ****** dye:
The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.
Another kind of redness bothers me:
The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the silts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, an ill-starred thing;
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.
The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone
My mother said: you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
My own blue razor rusting at my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father -- your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.
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Through sweat-filled labor
and unrelenting love,
my patient parents
meticulously molded
strong shoes to fit,
making each effort efficient
and all materials durable
so that if I were to walk
the path full of broken glass,
my skin would not tear,
my spirit not diminish,
and through their sacrifices,
prevent my blood
from staining the street.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC
I never in a thousand years thought of myself as anything, but here I am and everything that you have found favorable comes from this place.
Constantly creating just to stay in the game, I play for my work; not for my pay…
I get behind every word!
The life of the appetite! always hungry for something?
I chose words to be durable ... for better or for worse!
I sense a deep yarning.
I have an ego that's pointless.
I'm driven to create, to sing talk and lark about to help dissolve our suffering, even the trash has it's place in that!
Always hoping to reduce the eye, my work is small like me!
What my hands fall on I do willingly to be connected, to give something back.
Everything is so very; very small !
Contentment is the key to it all !
That and kindness!
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 6:41 AM UTC
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)
Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.
Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
Pretty (adj):
1. pleasing or attractive to the eye, as by delicacy or gracefulness;
"Pretty" is a word that's been spewed at you since the day you were born,
A social standard set upon you that you had yet to even hear, but it was being used to describe you instantly;
A "pretty little girl", a "pretty face", "pretty eyes", "pretty smile", "pretty outfit",
Did anyone ever stop to wonder if you'd have a pretty soul?
What about the way you could be brought to tears at the thought of shaming homeless people or victims of abuse, how your heart felt like it was ripping out of your chest when you heard about someone who was struggling,
They didn't seem to care that you tested highest in compassion, they just wanted to know where you got your dress from.
As you grew older the adjective turned from an innocent compliment to what seemed like a snide remark,
The word "pretty" began to eat you from the inside out every time it was said
like you should measure your worth in how delicate others find you;
You stopped accepting "pretty" as a compliment when it turned into an adjective that was only associated with girls that were more than average but less than beautiful,
You stopped accepting "pretty" as a compliment when it became an antonym of strong,
like "pretty" girls were things that would break if you talked too loud, as if loving a "pretty" thing could never be synonymous with loving a durable or sturdy or resilient thing.
D.A. Sharp once said
"You weren't meant to be pretty; you were meant to burn down the earth and graffiti the sky. Don't let anyone ever simplify you to just "pretty"."
And so when someone kindly placed the word in a sentence referring to you you learned to automatically put it into quotations because they were just trying to be nice,
They didn't know they were reducing you to outer beauty, that "pretty" seemed less like a compliment the more it was said, like people couldn't figure out another way to describe you,
As if God hadn't already intricately woven the threads of your DNA, as if he hadn't perfectly tinted every hair on your head to be its crisp burnt color or hand painted the irises of your eyes,
No, "pretty" could no longer cut it.
Because you had been made for bigger and better things,
Those "pretty" eyes of yours will one day see things that God hadn't originally intended anyone to have to see, and those "pretty" hands of yours will have to pick up the pieces of a heartache that God had never wanted you to know and put them back together, and those "pretty" lips of yours are the same lips that will stand in front of sin and tell it that you have chosen Jesus.
Because "pretty" is fine,
but you have been fearfully and wonderfully made, a masterpiece of the Creator.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
dirt and grime
line the bottom panels.
worn down,
worn out, but
war ready.
an orange-tan tint
on old suede.
an elegant design with
thick rubber soles.
the cushion of leather
around the brim.
thin,
yellow-amber laces.
sleek and comfortable
yet
tough and durable.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
his Eyes are the leafy root of a carrot,
Portals to the sustenance underground.
his Feet are bare but determined to go far.
his mouth is a canopy to a dense forest
Hiding from the world, what lays inside.
his flyaway hair, like a fallen piece of bark,
an imperfection that's part of a perfect picture.
his Thoughts are raindrops pouring off of an elephant leaf,
Small indentations flowing from a vast expanse.
his Voice is the wind, carrying me away to a better place.
his Charisma is Grandfather Mountain who holds old wisdom,
ever durable through the storm.
his Past, a collection of sand,
is molding into a seashell that will take a lifetime to form.
his Soul is a pinecone,
Guarded on the outside but holds something precious to me.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 8:33 AM UTC
And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
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I look down at my feet,
toes adorned with chipped nail varnish,
a pitiful plaster clinging to the sole,
and I grimace at the
purple marks, reddening blisters,
cicatrices of stories long forgotten.
The ***** of my feet are thin and worn,
my heels rubbed raw from
shoes I have loved and shoes I have detested,
faded scars from childhood accidents.
I have aged hating my feet,
the discoloured skin, dotted with odious callouses,
my throbbing, wrinkled soles.
They have grown with me,
from tiny clumps unrecognisable as a foetus,
to wide, long size 7s.
My toes are misshapen, twisting this way and that,
freckled with sun kisses from foreign countries.
They’ve been battered and bruised
repeatedly,
victims of my hurtling abuse and mortal neglect.
I have punished them
with verruca socks and freezing ointments,
pin ****** small shoes, razor blades, nail clippers and
not once
have I nurtured them, soaked them with praise.
These feet have walked me up mountains,
aided me in athletic championships,
withstood six inch heels on weekends,
ran me through marathons,
enduring my never-ending physical torment and though
they may buckle,
with weeping blisters and aching pains,
dry skin, broken bones and sprained ankles,
they will recover,
rebuilding the scabrous skin.
Regardless of how unstable my life may become in later years,
whether I am stranded on a deserted island,
or walking the ***** streets of the city, no room to call my own,
my feet will always,
undoubtedly, lead me to safety.
And when I am old
and withered, an exhausted heap of human life,
with my last dying breath,
I will thank my durable, reliable feet.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
As you came from the holy land
Of Walsingham,
Met you not with my true love
By the way as you came?
“How shall I know your true love,
That have met many one,
I went to the holy land,
That have come, that have gone?”
She is neither white, nor brown,
But as the heavens fair;
There is none hath a form so divine
In the earth, or the air.
“Such a one did I meet, good sir,
Such an angelic face,
Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear
By her gait, by her grace.”
She hath left me here all alone,
All alone, as unknown,
Who sometimes did me lead with herself,
And me loved as her own.
“What’s the cause that she leaves you alone,
And a new way doth take,
Who loved you once as her own,
And her joy did you make?”
I have lov’d her all my youth;
But now old, as you see,
Love likes not the falling fruit
From the withered tree.
Know that Love is a careless child,
And forgets promise past;
He is blind, he is deaf when he list,
And in faith never fast.
His desire is a dureless content,
And a trustless joy:
He is won with a world of despair,
And is lost with a toy.
Of womenkind such indeed is the love,
Or the word love abus’d,
Under which many childish desires
And conceits are excus’d.
But true love is a durable fire,
In the mind ever burning,
Never sick, never old, never dead,
From itself never turning.
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Fountains of flowers, growing so fast.
Such a shame that none of them last.
Summer blossoms soon will wane,
They’ll be back next year again.
Bees await the autumn flowers,
Checking out the wooded bowers.
Twittering blackbirds guard their land:
Will their fights get out of hand?
Swallows swoop with arcing wings,
Ever returning for endless Springs.
It’s early July, just past midsummer,
Every green leaf is a newcomer.
Earlier dawn and longer light,
Durable daylight and shorter night.
British weather will still prevail:
Sunny spells and storms with hail.
Winter always is a ******
I thank Goodness we have our Summer.
Paul Butters
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 5:59 AM UTC
This time last year you had dreads.
Such a labyrinth of biology tied by sweat, salt, and blood.
Laced up in a fashion of infirmity,
held together by fleeting desires.
Promises keep us floating.
Like the oxygen inlaced in driftwood.
We're densities, varying.
Fragile like a molecule, but as durable as atom.
At the mercy of magnetism.
Vibrating deep from the core.
While waiting modestly for…
nature to carry us home.
Follow the coastline.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
1369
Trusty as the stars
Who quit their shining working
Prompt as when I lit them
In Genesis’ new house,
Durable as dawn
Whose antiquated blossom
Makes a world’s suspense
Perish and rejoice.
2.1k
From the innocent purity of white
To the hopeful friendliness of yellow
The emotional tenderness of pink
The elegant femininity of lavender
The passionate strength of red
The warm flamboyance of orange
The natural generosity of green
The royal nobility of purple
The peaceful serenity of blue
The durable simplicity of brown
The reliable dignity of gray
Or the deep mystery of black
Whatever your true colours are
Be proud and let them shine!
© Raphael Uzor
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
Let's engender a love like an elastic.
Let's create a love where when we're plagued and bombarded with complications,
we still spontaneously recommence our conventional shape,
like an elastic.
Let's create a durable love;
a love where lies and opinions shock us as a whole
but our love is an insulator,
so we remain unaffected
by the lies that lie in the lightning.
Let's create a love where Cupid's arrows no longer have an effect on us because just how in love can two people possibly be?
Let's create a love where roses are over-rated
and who really cares about a violet's true nature when we all know violets are violet and not blue?
I want that elastic love,
whereas we're oblivious to our boundaries and we're too paranoid to test them out because we just may pop.
I want that colorful elastic love;
not that basic black love...
Although I do like the idea of that black never cracks kinda love.
I want that John Legend give me all of you love,
that you still want my kisses even though I got the flu kinda love.
I want that stick together like glue kinda love,
that walk into a crowded room and all I see is you kinda love.
I want that dream about me and you wake up wet kinda love,
that pet your kitty *** I'm your vet kinda love.
I want that chocolate love...
mixed with some of that mathematical love...
that 1+1= me and you kinda love,
that your skin + my skin= melted chocolate kinda love,
that whisper in your ear and you snicker kinda love,
that make your body parts quiver and purr like a kit-kat kinda love;
...not that slim shady kinda love
but that sweet tooth M&M; kinda love.
I want love and I want you...
I want the tough polymeric substances connecting out hearts to communicate.
Vibe with a ***** one time.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 6:26 PM UTC
Ellos tienen razón
esa felicidad
al menos con mayúscula
no existe
ah pero si existiera con minúscula
sería semejante a nuestra breve
presoledad
después de la alegría viene la soledad
después de la plenitud viene la soledad
después del amor viene la soledad
ya sé que es una pobre deformación
pero cierto es que en ese durable minuto
uno se siente
solo en el mundo
sin asideros
sin pretextos
sin abrazos
sin rencores
sin las cosas que unen o separan
y en esa sola manera de estar solo
ni siquiera uno se apiada de uno mismo
los datos objetivos son como sigue
Hay diez centímetros de silencio
entre sus manos y mis manos
una frontera de palabras no dichas
entre tus labios y mis labios
y algo que brilla así de triste
entre tus ojos y mis ojos
claro que la soledad no viene sola
Si se mira por sobre el hombro mustio
de nuestras soledades
se verá un largo y compacto imposible
un sencillo respeto por terceros o cuartos
ese percance de ser buenagente
Después de la alegría
después de la plenitud
después del amor
viene la soledad
conforme
pero
qué vendrá después
de la soledad
a veces no me siento
tan solo
si imagino
mejor dicho si sé
que más allá de mi soledad
y de la tuya
otra vez estás vos
aunque sea preguntándote a solas
qué vendrá después
de la soledad.
1.8k
Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Liberating or degrading
Hangs from single strings
Nothing comes and no one sings
No one laughs and nothing breaks
See the cracks drip down my face
Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Fascinating fascist face
Flash-forward foreshadow
White cold lace
Not as durable as we first thought
But the car is packed
In the parking lot
I light the cigarettes we bought
And now there is no going back
Not back to there
Nor back to that
Not back to night
Nor back to day
Nor back to summers
Far away
Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Forget my fascist family tree
The fascist fascist memory
And moustache moustache damaging
Or fresco firefly reverie
Just tell me that I’m yours
Sign the line
Like you have before
This is where we are right now
Two souls alive
In the empty town
Two souls alive
In the ********* ghost god-empty town.
So, What think you of Whitman?
And what say I of Plath?
I understand all but maybe half
On my greatest finest day
(dearest, how’d we get this way?)
How’d we fall so far from grace?
How’d this canyon split my face?
Maybe it’s the trace trace amounts of fascist.
Fascist fascist
Fascinating
Friday fickle convocating
Tragic talent intubating
All the world smiles, undulating
But in the end
You’re still a fascist.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC