"elevations" poems
We, the voice of the most oppressed,
Work in the profession remaining the most humble,
Throughout histories, as slaves our lives still remain tumble,
With our strangled necks, we are deliberately suppressed
For the centuries, our voices remain unheard,
Like a weeping fish at the sea,
We are treated zombies at the rush of a blood,
Collecting by hand, the human society’s poops & pea
Things for us got intensely worse,
We work as a group with an isolated curse,
For our livelihood, go into manholes as bare-bodies
Mostly get out as dead-bodies
From pathology to oncology,
We are treated untouchables, even by the modern technology
We are the oxygen-offering trees that remain green
Hurting ourselves, collecting excreta making this world neat &clean
With our hand-cuffs we shout and fight,
Rulers remain drunken-deafs to our plight,
Hell with your knowledge, to those who go to college
And keep pushing us to the drainage,
We remain living dead and frustrated, to get our right
When asked about work, we remain dumb and blind,
Fearing the responses to our ***** revelations,
Because humans are unemphathetic and unkind
To get our life some elevations.
Our mind said us “Please think! Please Think!”
When we revolt not to work, societies stink,
We warn, Witness your locality *****
To our sufferings, if you keep blank & empty.
We are a collective voice,
Representing inhuman humanity,
That keeps the society on a poise,
So raise your voice, with a clarity of choice
To get us work with the utmost dignity!
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
*Your love is like skydiving,
an unnerving thought,
breathless & intoxicating
elevations beyond exhilarating,
as it transforms life's panorama
nothing seemed ever the same,
after the thrill of the fall*
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
i want to feel the rush,
the tingly fireworks under my skin,
the buzzing sparks of awakeness.
i want to feel the bubble burst in my chest.
i want to dance. i want to ride the music
like a rollercoaster,
i want the thrill of the next drop,
the next wave of euphoria
pulsating through my veins
like electric current conducted by
all the goings-on around me
i want your energy and my energy
mixing together in the air around us
like a glittery galaxy milky-way aura,
a sanctuary of our own vibrations,
a place where our hearts are huge
and our egos small.
a place of peace, of love,
of unity, and respect,
of higher elevations
and acceptance for all.
can't we just do drugs?
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 6:30 AM UTC
Your rapid fire
Heart's desire
Is a high octane
Bullet train
Bouncing between destinations
At widely varying elevations
Stopping at mysterious stations
Where I experience deflation
In between these stops is a track
Where everything is black
And you attack
Until the merciful sun finally shines
You then say you'll always be mine
There are quick flashes of light
But also sick gasps of fright
And it's a big task of might
So the trick is to grasp right
When the speed of your movement
You claim to be an improvement
Creates fire extinguishing wind
So the flame you lit you rescind
Your ride was aridly adrenalized
Which is why I was penalized
In a poison prison incentivized
By your many mental lies
Eluding my sentinel kind
No love I find
Only tire marks
In entire dark
That lead to nowhere
While I scream no fair
You were an explosion of pleasure
Whose interest I tried to measure
Instead of being happy
I saw your train lapping
Familiar phantom spots
When emotions ran hot
Through my heart you shot
At a velocity I once thought
To be completely impossible
Proven wrong by bullet holes
And only lonely bullets know
What's inside my heart
They take those contents
To make me repent
Your speedy intent
That was fast
Smoking past
Things that last
Into broken glass
Until we were cut
By our rushing rut
I couldn't take anymore
So I sped to the door
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
you're drinking, and then you can't control
the reaction upon entering the tetragrammaton...
one h is for hushed up laughter, for sighs (ah),
and then the alter deja vu
is a cocktail of:
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,
yeah, so many, so you can look at it rather than
say it... it's a sunny day, go out and play
or something... leave me with the anchor of ****
humanity dragging us down, or simply basing us
in the underwater fudge of mud to a standstill...
it's sunny, go out and play, ride a bicycle or something...
you know, living 20 odd years in an english society
i never had an english girlfriend, i'm told she's a real
firecracker fortune-cookie... my hands are cold,
i swear by the oath of the old Bailey i never touched
her thighs... scouts' honour, cross my fingers
and wear woman's underwear with a bowler hat
to match my serious demeanour...
yep, an Abbey Road's standstill... a fifth beetle
chatting cheeky chat chat of a chirp...
gurgles of fizz in carbonated wine known as champagne,
well that's me... or as the roadrunner said to
speedy Gonzales... hark a sayonara when changing
the gears to a 100m sprint world record.
the Mayan disease? ah right... excess spontaneous
laughter, unstoppable like a tide;
got chatting to a ms. khan... Genghis' great great...
great great great great great... great great granddaughter...
a doctor from pakistan... nice english accent
gets you all the pleasantries so everything can
go to hell... the sleeping pills prescription is waiting...
now the sick-note... so i don't crash a plane
into the Swiss elevations by "accident"
while sitting on an arm-chair of nails while everyone
else is farting into cushions.
honest to god, the tetragrammaton is like a brick
wall for vowels, you hit the ball against the four
walls, and the vowels are either ****** up
or they extract the consonant stability of the four letters,
and your safest bet to express them is
to laugh;
well, i do call it a Mayan disease... because
my stomach is aching from building a six-pack with
the giggles.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
Hills like waves, frozen in motion
Topped with bulbous trees, frantically frothing.
Homes with minimalist facades,
Bobbing like great trawlers;
Settled in the steep crevices of looming elevations.
The Countryside.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
i know, it's not exactly mesmerising
such bounties with such curdling
crudeness, but that's how it is,
with eyes vectoring into the above,
cobalt, the highest pinnacle of the depths,
a shade like any other,
and then seeking the horizon, the dilution
of the formidable shade into Arctic...
a near white, but not exactly white,
not exactly worth metaphor that's a kindred
of white & black as lack & lack...
just the see-through colour for the allowance
of possessing eyes, not near melted mirrors
of mercury, but by day,
the highest peak blue in hue of cobalt,
and when walking from the mountain's peak,
the eyes spot the Arctic and Adriatic mist hues
outlining a bordering of all things elemantal...
the transparency of the whole dynamo
on being grounded from all elevations,
before dipping into the seas' shrubbery...
for indeed the sky makes use of the close-up, apparent
green shades of the sea, or the Thames grey
without an earl on a royal gondola worthy a parade,
nearer then the grander colour scheme,
but up from space, indeed, all is blue and all is green,
and all is sandy suntanned bronze
and seemingly serene; lest we forgot the dollops
of skeletal, floating in cloud - those scouts of Antarctica;
but from the elemental blue of the sky
receding into the seas of mirrors via arctic into white
if not seemingly see-through, there too i spot
the antidote of white nearing the pristine state of
claiming being see-through, a crow's
bleak colour of being shrouded
in celebratory mourning: the pupil of my eye, black,
and all the world around me, the flattened earth
of my iris, for no astronaut i am to imagine it otherwise,
from a perspective of such heights reached by
fellow man, if i am to be so humbly grounded,
i'll imagine it counter-productively as thus.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
I once knew a girl,
back when my posture was good,
we wore matching shirts,
jeans and shoes.
She kept her hair long,
to hide jealous shoulders.
All the loud voices
didn't have a thing to say.
They didn't resonate,
hammering on doors,
denting ear drums,
enunciating mispronunciations.
I played football in times square,
passing glances and stairs,
had rock climbing races
to higher elevations.
My badly tuned feet couldn't run,
ankle bones off key.
There's a saltwater film
frosting my eyelashes,
clinging to my tongue,
holding down my yells
to the quiet machines
that toss boiled eggs in the air.
Up to their knees
in the dark left behind by streetlights,
they rolled up their pants for wading.
They lingered in docking terminals,
standing still,
becoming dust collectors.
Somehow we're all just wanderers,
citing passages we herd
in front of us like mountain goats.
Ambling across empty intersections,
walking in handstand through cul de sacs,
picking up litter from busy streets.
Books for readers wear little letters,
use big words with four syllables.
They showed me how to fence with trains,
ride red wagons down hills,
win marmalade coated cricket matches.
I never judged the typos to be out of place
(I accepted the bits they forgot to erase)
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
Please help me spread the word. This polar shift is really about to get bad. Human kind may not survive. The wobbling, earthquakes, meteors and flooding is going to be so violent that it might split this earth. The ice shelf is already falling into warmer water and layers of our atmosphere are gone. There will be so many tornadoes and lightning storms that you won't survive in a home or building. If you want to survive, you better go under ground, in higher elevations of hills and mountains. The oceans will flood the USA 200 miles into land. There will be a billion dead bodies floating and on land. This will be getting bad around February 4th or so, when planet 9 makes an appearance beside the sun. The push and pull will make this planet wobble so bad, that there will be waves 50 feet high in places 200 miles from shore. Rivers will rise to three times higher flood levels than their highest flood levels ever. Wild animals will be attacking people. Look at the clouds near you and they have a purple tint. That's energy and gases that will turn to fire, possibly. Please....help the innocent ones. There will be no water for to drink, and not much food. It is like the US government is not going to help, and will probably be killing. This whole storm will last thousands of years. This is not a joke. I have worked with energy fields since I was a kid, and was amazed by magnets and electricity and I used to help my step father work on tube radios and televisions. I also used to manipulate a giant satellite dish and I would watch NASA stuff up in Ohio, in the 80s. I watched polar shifts happen and it can turn a planet into a gas planet, and possibly a black hole. I have no doubt that it will happen, and it is speeding up now. The pole shift is slow at first, then it speeds up. Then the planet will abruptly stop. I don't even know what advice to give, because no one will have control besides the rich and the violent. We won't even see the same, as our eyes will be switched to different frequency. This is going to be pure terror. I hope that you survive. I don't like poetry reading, but I know that some of you are a lot like me. We feel things differently. I will post some links to some videos that will tell the safest places. The guy really seems like he knows what he is talking about, and he knows more than I do. Please, shelter the innocent from the death and mayhem.
Apr 1, 2022
Apr 1, 2022 at 5:46 AM UTC
Concrete walls
Solid foundations
High-rises
Rarefied air
Epic elevations
Cornered lives
Distant views
Modern amenities
Unaware neighbors
Plush condominiums
Soft beds
Weary eyes
Deprived of sleep
Lonely hearts
Sleeping pills
Soothes nerves
No dreams
Only hallucinations
Constant fear
Of going down
Alien grounds
Will reclaim
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
Birthed from the realms of finite
Exist the twilight purple hue
Bruised , sociocultural views
Congregated
Elevations of the so called unholy mundane , the evocative refrains of the woman's vally
Inexplicably shaped by the hands of men who can know no more what to be a woman feels and it is for a woman to feel what a man is
*** sells . *** sells. What condensed canned factory excuse is this ? *** sells , ah then we must continue to **** eah others minds - yes. That seems apt. Seems reasonable.
Oh , it makes money ? Right - quick up on the double put *** on everything ! WAIt! What is *** ? Make it taboo first , then sell it ... Openly ... Wonderful .. Wonderful.. Oh also whilst your at it ... Make sure you coin the word love ... Yes that should bring humanity to their knees... Oh no wait , haha , wait... Also coin the word God, take their faith and take thier hearts and yes make money , oh ... Oh .. No wait , one more thing ... Coin the terms right and wrong ... Stifle their imaginations with doctors notes ordering the consumption of scientific make believe ... Haha I deplore you one last thing .... Take thier children , and dictate exactly how a child enters this world... Cut open the mothers womb , tear it to shreds , call it medicine , call it anything as long as *** sells and money is made...
Do you see what I see ?
I see that this smog , this veil is very , very , very , thin .
And I've seen beyond the ingrained Pre-programmed neuron pathways that exist in sub ether relms ,these rely on the capacity for one not to notice..... Not to notice the infinite joy and beauty in the so called mundane - in the simple observation
Of the one doing the observing .
And beyond that.... Well it all crumbles away... Revealing ( at least for me) the Eden we never left....
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
I declare my home to be tucked within the wreathed *****
of the Blue Ridge Mountains,
where I know them as my silent guardians
watching over me;
til I taste saltwater on my tongue,
and find my taste buds alight
with the spread of steaming Blue *****
doused aplenty in Old Bay--
spread atop disheveled newspaper on the kitchen table.
Suddenly, water becomes "wooter,"
and wash becomes "warsh,"
and I laugh and skip rocks along the waters
that baptized me in my infancy.
That is, until the Old North State
wraps me in her misty shawl,
where I find myself barefoot on grassy acres--
wild dogs running in packs amiably--
and I race makeshift boats of sticks and water bottles
down the ole crik.
I close my eyes and feel faint and brisk breezes
caress my face like a mother's hand,
gently guiding me through dense woods
where imagination and reality forged an alliance.
So where do I call home?
Well that's entirely up to you,
whether you send my head into an ear-popping,
mind-whirling dizzy spell--
euphoric in higher elevations and getting lost in the foliage;
or you put a plate of steaming ***** before me with saltwater kisses on your lips.
I am the Oriole of the Blue Ridge,
and the Cardinal of the Chesapeake:
The White Oak and the Longleaf Pine.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 6:38 PM UTC
She is the living embodiment of the cliché,
The song where the male sub-lead
Returns from some second shift, some third drink
To find she has gone, leaving some scrap-paper note,
Hastily scribbled and wholly incomplete,
Some variation upon Don’t try and find me,
And so she is suitably unfound herself,
As she has given great thought to her froms,
But rather short shrift to her tos,
Finding herself north of the Thruway,
Looking for somewhere to spend the night
(The twin motors of adrenaline and anxiety running on fumes)
Happening upon, as if almost by some beneficent magic,
A Travelodge bordered by an expanse of cornfield
(Long since gone to seed, the stalks bowed and spent,
Waiting for the patently overdue cob harvester)
And after she is checked in and somewhat unpacked
(The bored, bemused woman who slumps about the front desk
Mercifully sparing with the small talk)
The skies, which had been late-October slate blur-gray,
Slightly malevolent but only implicit in their threats,
Open up in a cold and unwelcome drizzle,
And, whys and wherefores being things for a later date,
She runs outside and begins dancing in the parking lot,
Unseen and unremarked upon,
And even though the rain is cold, soaking, grim in portent
(The forecast dourly noting the possibility of wet snow,
Nattering that accumulation is possible at higher elevations.)
She is seemingly unaware and unconcerned
As to the upshot of this drenching,
Any whispers of the two or three other occupants of the motel,
Any judgments passed upon her mad danse pour un,
As she has passed beyond any notion of admonition.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
I have a problem with people that don't put enough trust in me,
When I'm loyal,
When I'm steady,
Won't cheat you out of your money,
But still thinking its funny,
That I won't meet up to you expectations,
Man I'm smarter than I look,
With your sarcastic elevations,
I don't trust you either............ Da ***
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
The rhythm of his firm body
excites my brown eyes, his
curly afro running through
my mind, his forehead full
of lustrous designs, his cheeks
a glorious valley of bright hues,
the poetry inside my soul that
shines across the vivid oceans.
I love the depth in his words,
how his soft languages of love
curl in the air and illuminate
in the midnight. His ******
appeal entices my dreams,
the shimmer and flowing
creations of soft melodies
over nighttime chemistry,
taking his clothes off
piece by piece, embracing
the magic in his dynasty –
the late-night sensual vibes
hovering in the jazzy
sky, the bopping beats
pounding inside his chests,
the blazing blunts and
hypnotic Cîroc. Ice Cube's
song, Today was a good day,
circling the stars above.
The stroking fascinations,
the vivid vibrations, the
immense elevations, the
amazing equations of
escape captivating his
heart.
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
The wood chimes are clunking
with each sweep of breeze,
lending melody in this space.
This is where I dig,
dividing root from soil,
time from life, and us
from everybody else.
Squirrel scampers the border,
raising hackles and creating a
two-legged dog and mayhem.
This must be his habitat,
passed down through generations
until the brick and concrete conspired
to break the oak stronghold.
The view from the decking
throws itself through other gardens
to the far distant fast lane.
Noiseless here, with only
the high haunting whistle
of the slow circling
red kite.
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 11:46 PM UTC
I feel like a brick God puts under his foot
to reach higher elevations.
He is reaching for books that will teach
him how to make things unlike this brick.
Things that will alight and make bright
sun in the dark.
It’s hard to be heard,
being a brick under God’ s foot.
Such heavy things do not fit into sound.
But you help. You always help.
You pen your strings to my words
and they make delivered sound that creates space.
You lift my heaviness with God-given hands,
and God-given lips,
and God-given eyes.
I have been told of God-given life,
and God-given greatness.
So what is God trying to teach this brick?
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 5:06 AM UTC
Pretty wings
You have pretty wings
So use them
Spread them to the greatest span
And let no man abuse them
Even if that mean I have to let you go
I want you to fly away and free yourself of all repression
Become smaller and smaller to every person of bad intentions
As you rise higher and higher
Spread your wings wider
Flap ferociously
Soar hopefully
My eyes will be following you emotionally
The translucency of your wings
And the colorfulness of your feathers
Amuses me
But sometimes we all take you for granted so without panic
Reach your own pinnacle
We will come to realization when you exceed your culmination
Use your pretty wings to fly away
Because accepting someone who's is unacceptable
Is like clipping your primary flight feathers
You will always be too chicken to reach high elevations
Pretty wings
And fluffy clouds
You're gonna feel turbulence leaving us behind
But don't come down
Pretty wings
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
Henry Kissinger
is a man
of great diplomatic skills
he could quite easily
obtain a job
working in them there
rancorous hills
with Henry doing
the negotiations
there would be
an outbreak of peace
within those hilly
elevations
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
This girl?
She’s So **** fine.
I mean so **** fine. And
This girl knows I'm bad with words
So
this will probably
Sound like ****
But here's what it is –
Right before I saw you
Someone threw a dart
I didn't see where it landed
I didn't want to
Your hands were in your pockets
You turned and I felt the dart hit
somewhere
near
the center
And I thought - ****
I gotta stop finding girls
Who got such good aim
So I opened my cabinets
And I started reciting all the foods
You're supposed to call lovers
Sugar honey flour
Why do I want to call you things
I could bake into a cake
Maybe it's cuz I want to eat you up
and eat you out
you know I didn't have a sweettoothe until
I met you
And now I've got these
cavities
Deep dark pits
of her
and Grand Canyons behind my canines
And swelling seas and saltmines…
You know that
I grew up in a valley
So when I run my hands down the slope
Of her thighs
It's a little like going home
I've found myself staring at maps
Books on geography
Cartography
Elevations
Latitude and longitude
How can I navigate
When her hips
are my east and west
but the roadsigns say
thank you for visiting
when I swear I just got here
And so I'm driving down your interstate veins
And I'm speeding, babe
I'm going way too fast
And –
At stop signs I think of you
I think of you I think of heavy blankets
cutting hair like snipping sorrows
pruning back bad days
kissing pretty little words into my mouth
Like candy hearts with pink letters
You buy for novelty
This girl knows I'm bad with words
So this will probably
Sound like ****
But that's what it is
And that's what she is -
She’s **** fine.
**** fine.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Systematically, we are looking for truth in all falsehoods.
Never fear the pursuit of knowledge or that of reason.
Spite such hard times; we need to fall back on art.
Only in such equity can we measure tranquility.
Singular as inquired, some traits are more bold.
Inspirations of love, politics, and freedom are not found-
in the classroom; only through art, culture, and equality
can this be achieved.
Educate and inform our youth; as they our greatest aspiration.
Build into them, culture and love; make sure it becomes habituated.
The dreams of prophets defeat the minds of oppression.
Break this mold supporting a slave mind if we seek progression.
May they bring us justification, and flourish our culture.
May they be wise, and hold back the elevations of tyranny.
May they be able to grow into philosophers, painters, and prophets.
May conquest not be for world ********** but of peace and knowledge.
Our past father's will sleep gently, to know no war drums.
In the age of total enlightenment we cannot be alone.
Sharing is our greatest gift to the world, we need teachers.
May we foster those who seek it, and educate those who love it.
Never should we shy away from the prospect that is our youth.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
the trees swaying towards the direction
locals say "yankees" descend from.
Like yankees, I too hail from the North.
Where trees can do a similar dance
to its sisters in the South.
They are not black-eyed Susans,
but these wildflowers are just fine.
And here, I have an abundance of time to observe the wildflowers and find them greater than such
as a day down here is three up there.
Yet even with a generous sun,
a myopic perception seems to allow me to do otherwise.
How come I find myself displeased to hear that the tune of the oriole has been replaced by a red bird?
Or that I am fatigued from running over endless hilltops instead of straight into the horizon?
This overwhelming amount of green is immaterial to the prodigious beds of sunflower yellow I once explored in.
Perhaps I need to do something about this myopia.
Higher elevations do make it harder to breathe
for I am a creature accustomed to salt air filling its lungs.
But just before my lungs give out
and my breathe gone with the breeze of the trees,
I am reassured by my kind company of the mountains
that I am right where I need to be.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC