"epicentre" poems
This day needs tomorrow
As much as
Tomorrow needs today.
Throw a stone,
Watch ripples lick the shore,
Then turn around
And ripple more;
Like magician's rings,
Smoke rings,
Wedding rings,
Entangling,
Enriching,
Intertwining,
Becoming Olympian.
At the epicentre
It's calm.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
I travelled straight west
to the epicentre of the southern wastelands
and 'twas with mind-numbing disbelief that
I found an Oak table propped upon the sands
and it was not alone either
for three beings sat it, seemingly nonplussed -
one was a skinny old man
wearing a linen suit faded and powdered with dust
his collar frayed around the edges
a moth-eaten hat sat upon his head,
he had a daisy poking from his breast pocket
so very much preserved, so very much dead,
to his left sat a one-eyed Hare
the sole eye ecstatic and wiggling -
he swore and blasphemed each time the man spoke
from a mouth toothless and dribbling,
sat to the right of the man
was absolutely (absolutely!) nothing,
however I observed with mild humour
that both man and Hare were convinced it must be something
for the man was profusely adamant
scorning the Something for dissing the Hare's hair,
although the Hare was too busy rolling around its one eye
to even notice the man, or simply give a fu- care
"Hey hey talk to I! Hath thou seen my missing eye?!"
Hare asked from a voice shrieky and shattered
saliva running in rivets
upon the table it slopped and slavered -
then suddenly the man started singing encore
his voice cringe-worthy, out of tune,
sounding like a cat back-broke and on steroids
rocking and waving like a spastic-loon;
"If Father Time has no end,
does he even have a beginning -
oh, if there's pain is there gain,
which one of us is it that's winning?"
alas, that's when my attention was brought to the mounds
of surgical needles cluttered on the ground,
feeling sickly aura lick the back of my throat
I started backing away without a sound
["Hey hey talk to I -"]
["If there's pain is there gain -"]
["Hath thou seen my missing Missing MISSING EYE?!!"]
#FLASH!#
the dystopian landscape around me melted
into a field of bloated poppies -
serene, scarlet and blinding 'neath the sun,
feasting upon our charred bodies.
AJ
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
As a maddened beast it charges
Emanating with expanse
Brute techtonic plate reaction
From the epicentre’s stance.
Huge concentric rings diverge
Expanding at horrific rate
Black, titanic, towering waters
Ploughing to a deadly fate.
*Kneeling in her bed of roses
Pollinating bees abound,
Morning sunbeams kiss her shoulders
Peaceful garden bliss surrounds.*
Surging to the coastal shelf
The black gigantis rears on high
Claws toward the placid beach
Seabirds scatter to the sky.
Tide receds to bare the reef
Stranded mackerel whitely leap,
Enormously the massive wave
Attacks the land and they who sleep.
Death comes fast to they who loiter
Violence in the tangled purge,
Massive pressures, crushing debris
Broken buildings in the surge.
Ships and cars are tossed asunder
Inexorably it slams
Far inland to slay those fleeing
Locked in highway traffic jams.
*Strange roar at the garden wall
Terrified, she finds her feet,
Roses, bees, sweet girl engulfed
As black entombedment swamps the street.*
Far inland the chaos flows
Wreaking death's destructive bands,
Halted now by highland hills
Where souls in horror, wring their hands.
Slow retraction leaving ruin
Desolation far and wide,
The smell of new death in the air,
Heartbreak in the countryside.
Marshalg
For Nippon
18 March 2011
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 4:44 PM UTC
*I suddenly don't know who my friends are anymore
But I know who has never been,isn't and never will
You're not my friend if you think our whimpers propaganda
You're not my friend if you're not in support of a proper Uganda
You're not my friend if you opposed our
struggle till its seemingly dead end
You're not my friend if you think we shouldn't grieve
You're not my friend if in yellow rule you still believe
you're not my friend if you're still blinded
even after so many are hurt and lives ended
you're not my friend if you sung a song in praise
of he who won't our teacher's salary raise
you're not my friend if I reminded you of the Hospital
and you said them sick suffer for the love of free things with no remorse at all
you're not my friend if you've stuck to his support
simply because he fills your wallet while the rest are emptied,
you're not my friend if in this sad time you feel relief
you're not my friend if you forgot about the *** holes
the uncertainty that characterises the air all over the country,
you're not my friend if in your heart melancholy isn't,the despair
you're not my friend if you don't mind the pauper on the street
the emptiness of our capital competing with that in our hearts
you're not my friend if you don't think it badly hurts
you're not my friend if as long as your Porsche you drive
you don't mind about the state of a country
whether your neighbour's child is dead or alive
you're are not my friend if everything you wish for you have
and you don't give a **** if others starve
you're not my friend if you're contented with the shaky epicentre
forgetting that when the centre is shaky things fall apart
you're not my friend even if the politics ended
for my friend you weren't right from the start
you're not my friend if you've played part in steering us to a wrong course
against the pleas and cries of the despairing concourse
you're not my friend if you're the reason country man lies in a casket
in exchange for a piece of the national cake in your basket
you're not my friend if you believe in steady progress
even if you're my brother,whilst rest of the country lies in regrets
you're not my friend if you are against the people's choice
for the people's choice is the people's voice
You're not my friend if your government military deploys
dubbing the shout of our plight unnecessary noise
You're not my friend if you're smiling while we cry
in darkness as sunshine lights your home for you own our sky
you're not my friend if you forgot about those studying under a tree
you're not my friend if you still think we're free
You're my enemy if you're an enemy to my friend
You've wounded this nation by standing by the olden trend
you're an enemy to the state and so you're my enemy
you're not my friend, for God and my country
you're not my friend and that I will never forget traitor
no,I will remember through every January to December
I will remember even after you forget,centuries later*
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC
Give me a smile, that I may build on your assurance,
Kiss me, that I may have to thy kind heart entrance,
Love me less, and see how tumultuous life could be,
Give thy command, and see my loyalty to thee.
In thine absence, mine heart cannot from thee depart;
A moment's departure would rend my world apart.
I recall that very day I beheld thy face;
A lasting memory I will forever retrace.
That Sunday when thine eyes did my emotions disarm;
The day mine heart responded to thy Love's alarm,
The day you sat upon mine heart's epicentre,
To govern my feelings from their very centre.
Josephine my love, I bequeath my self-will to thee,
Let me thy world share, and make thine own tumults mine,
And come in to my own world, for all I have is thine.
Dec 15, 2022
Dec 15, 2022 at 4:56 PM UTC
Epicentre of destruction, now Nepal
Chosen by destiny, very brutally
Terrains blew, and maps deformed
Lives lost, people slayed by almighty Lord
Not one, two, or three, plenty of them
Shot one after another, from below
Shaking and trembling, structures fall
Amassed devastation, no one can stop
In a time of need like this, for humanity
To help and console, Nepal community
Every soul prays for them
May all those are lost, rest in peace, Amen
|AB|
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 10:32 AM UTC
One white page.
One black dot.
One white page
with one black dot.
That is all.
You see it.
Good.
Now wiggle that dot.
Just a tad.
Watch it shake.
A single vibrating cell.
A fly in the wind.
Trembling up. And down.
And down and up and right and left.
It's a ***** smudge
ruining your clean page.
So rub it out .
With your pencil thin rubber.
But it dodges like a boxer's head.
A darting fish.
You want to get rid of it.
You want a clean white page.
Plant your rubber down.
A dramatic staff in the ground
cracks the white soil.
But it circles you.
That fly, that fish,
that blurred boxer.
That singular cell.
It circles your staff.
Your statement.
Magnetically.
A metal ball.
Orbiting your invisible eraser.
To erase the invisible dot.
But it is there.
Circling faster.
Wider.
Angrier.
Leaving a trail behind.
Too fast for the eye.
The sultry smoke of speed.
The slipstream of a cannonball.
The page is warped.
Earthquake epicentre on the A4.
Shook by the fault lines.
Jutting canyons drop down.
Ledges crumble and crash.
Sugared pie crust
hit with a hammer.
Everything collapses.
Invisible things are also under
the spell spell of gravity.
Hit on the head by invisible apples.
But it's not invisible.
It's not a cell.
A fly or smudge.
An agile boxing fish head.
A cannonballing canyon pie.
It's not even a white page.
Nevermind the black dot.
It's nothing.
Not a thing.
Not invisible,
but the kind of nothing
that can't be seen.
Yet there it is.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 7:29 PM UTC
Have you ever tided upon tsunamis?
Indeed, these giant brooms clean everything in its wake.
This is the only time you are glad to have resisted
transforming someone into poetry,
as the waves sweep ink and paper off your desk.
They kissed the shores too passionately this time around.
Have you ever fuelled a fire in the woods?
Eyes burning brighter than old flames.
Exchanging breaths of smoke and dust,
and feeding what has already been strangled dry
To red and orange and blue tongues.
Have you ever triggered an avalanche?
It's a ride that gets faster and faster and faster.
The world spins around you,
And you still hear your echoes
Albeit in the end,
it still is all white and
nothing else.
Have you ever clapped alongside thunderstorms?
Fight poison with poison, they say.
So I shouted your name,
and the storms are singing along.
Up till now,
I still wonder if you could build homes
out of ruins.
Have you ever stood in the eye of the hurricane?
There's a weird kind of serenity in that.
As though you could halt the whirlwind and the cold and its monstrous roar in their tracks
With your bare hands,
and place them where they ought to be.
Have you ever buried yourself in the epicentre of earthquakes?
The earth spins on its axis;
your consciousness hinges on your emotions.
Hold on to the loose gravel around you-
it's the closest you can get to
the warmth of someone safe.
The debris destroys both you and the haven.
Have you ever counted flames, cinders and lava that leaves a crater?
An eruption of falling stars;
home is where they return.
There is always a takeaway
from tragedy it seems.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
The epicentre of my pain ,indeed
Lives kilometres apart ,in plains
While my energy does not coherent to his
He denies as well
I wonder if he needs much of it or lesser a bit
Do I love much fiercer
Forever he jilts
Until the day I would to him
For no more would I resonate
I promise still,
I am going to miss the bond ,saturated
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 12:55 PM UTC
To what shall I liken thee?
An angel in realms above,
a mermaid in Oceans beneath,
a costly stone in the fiercest
contention sought for,
or even a costly diamond in the
earth's elusive epicentre buried?
Your beauty is a turning point
reference in your amazing book
of chronicles.
Napoleon Bonaparte
Oct 2, 2021
Oct 2, 2021 at 10:04 AM UTC
Every time I feel myself falling, I try to grab onto you.
Slipping my arm through yours, hand locking around your waist.
Broadcasting your warmth from every pore - I relent, knots unwinding
for that second before you steel up tall, lock your chin, and frown.
Then you shake me loose. I can see on your face that you don’t want to push me away
Which is why you’re not. You’re shaking me over the centre of the earth
But it is my gravity that will claw me down and **** me.
This is your epicentre. The point where all your earthquakes start:
You did not push me down the hole. You merely shook me loose over it. Differentiation.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 9:49 AM UTC
Softly child softly
Skitter through the fields to the ruined city
Stand on the outskirts and wonder
Who could have destroyed this?
Wonder
Who could have torn down these arches?
On tiny feet approach
Tread softly child, softly
Over the red dust
Across the desolate plains
Toward the hint of the fallen city.
Foot falls like gentle rain
Wonder mixing with innocence and love
Softly, child
Skip around the rim
Dance with the choice of stepping where none have
On bold feet; Be courageous..
But curiously, child. Softly
Step inside the bounds
Find its dark destroyed corners, and
marvel at the wear of time
Wonder, child
In the epicentre
From which the salt earth extends
A small circle of pearls
Plant a seed
child, thoughtfully
Water it with your tears
Shelter with body and belief
And watch as this seed take
Tend the vines, then
Cultivate the ground with your love
Softly, child
Now sit..
Sit, child
And weep.
Not in shame
Nor sorrow, despair or anguish at loss
Let the marvel of your hands very creation
Fuel your tears
Weep for the subtle nature
Weep for the one who came before
My beautiful child
Now smile
As eyes slowly cloud
As memory finally becomes sight
And lungs now strive for air
Let go
And be at rest, finally as all things
Sleep child.
Peace.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
you are made up of everyone you've loved
they live inside your capillaries
ride your blood river
in tiny canoes
made up of wood
and memories
you notice them sometimes
the canoe attempts the impossible
and traverses through the aorta
that epicentre
of blood and feeling
it rides rough rapids
of turmoil
and regret
sometimes, longing
that terrible longing
the most wretched rapid of all
when your skin itches
that is them expanding
and contracting
touching your epidermis
to remind you they’re alive
and still a part of you
we are made up of everyone
everyone we've ever loved
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
how it feels
returning to the suburbia,
walking past couples
eating chilly popsicles
from each other’s hands,
while kids fall on the pavements —
not a worry, not a melee —
as the first full moon,
overlooking us,
beyond the double pulses
built at the epicentre,
witnesses all the
wild, harsh river flows
that taught us life.
I am not the melodramatic aristocrat;
you are the forgetful, envious plutocrat.
will you make it through January
when I still linger with December?
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 11:12 PM UTC
Mountains moved with thoughts
We stood still as the land shook
Handshakes won't break our cause
I see through those crimson gloves,
That velvet touch won't fool us all.
We move in crevasses,
We'll never fit into those confined environments
End it all, end it all before the earth rips us apart,
Craters remain where we once stood fingertips glanced, fleeting moments,
Give me one last chance.
We told them we were protected,
Projected on to those fallen walls,
Broken bricks and misplaced concrete tricks,
We're stronger than them all,
We told them we won't fall,
As we looked to the stars,
It was only then we realised our backs were perpendicular to the floor,
Alas, I couldn't wait there anymore - but for you I'd spent eternity beneath those dark clouds amongst strangers and go to war.
Again.
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
Is your life an epicentre for death when two of your best friends, mother and brother, are dead before you can grow a beard.
What if you add the mothers of two more best friends, followed by your own grandmother?
It's the thoughts like these that lead to the bottle or the nearest crutch.
What if the crutch you seek was the cause of half those tragedies?
Should you look elsewhere even if it holds you up?
You were always happier than me, but maybe you had help.
Maybe this help numbed instead of soothed.
And maybe I shouldn't have been sleeping when you needed to talk.
But maybe now the crutch that let you fall is the only thing helping me walk.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 3:14 AM UTC
a trail of
kisses starting
north on
your eyelids
down your
sullen face
with empty
breaths that
trace my
collarbones
you beg me
to travel
south with
rushed hands
and quick lips
yet i don't
want to rush,
my love
let me
trace my
hands down
the source
of your quivers
let me ****
in the warm
chopped air
you release
allow me
every pleasure
to cherish
the sweetness
of your
pink lips
unleash your
asteroid words
your infinite
galaxies of
nail scratches
in this moment
let me feel
the planets
within you
implode
let me be
the reason,
the epicentre of
your uncontrollable
tremors
release your
stars on me
make a
constellation
in your mind
of the times
i shook
your universe
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
She makes a home for children to be free
it's built with love, it is a sanctuary
where nurturing is paramount
life breathing in it's walls
she is the epicentre
her tune becomes their call
for she is their Mother
giving her last breath
to save her children
from any kind of death
she'd sacrifice her life
for her little chicks
an instinct born within
no one can predict
An everlasting love story
from the moment of it's birth
an overwhelming glory
this is Mother earth.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
She's a newspaper.
There's her headline bold and brash;
But read the small print and she becomes a 5,000 piece jigsaw puzzle.
The words are memories which moulded her, the pictures are dreams, aspirations and fears.
Her paper pages may be thin but each is woven with lines of strength.
Her heart lies at the epicentre of the fold in the pages and it's the most wonderful thing.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
Rose,
The morn is bright
and fair,
and so art thou.
Good Lord! when
shall my envy
cease, for he that loveth thee?
My convincing love words
will never be exhausted
until your highly sought
after hand in marriage I have won.
Contenders from the east, west,
north and south of France
line up by day just for your
consent to seek.
But just as dauntless, relentless
and resilient in battle I have been,
so will I be in my struggle
with these contenders
for your heart's epicentre.
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 1:22 PM UTC
The cracking of your bones,
sounds you hear when you crouch.
Trying to protect yourself from whom?
Your spine can bend
and extend
no further, protruding out
ready to snap, you twist and you moan and you groan
when will this stop?
You feel as frail as a bird
One that has fallen after its very first flight
The cracks are what you hear
when hope is lost.
You feel like your weakening will
can weaken
no further.
stop
just stop.
Listen here
Don’t listen to yourself breaking
Don’t slip through these cracks
Standing up is now your cause
Hope is not lost
So sit up and straighten your back
The more you crouch, the more it hurts
That corner you’re attached to is not your solace
or quiet place
you crouch there, only in the cold embrace
of your crumpled shirt
Corners don’t shelter you from your fears;
they cage you in with them.
They widen and stretch the cracks on your skin
Allowing pain and judgement to seep in
Cracks are gateways letting the water in…
Water that dampens your flame, your fire
and Hope
a precious thing
You’re hidden yet left wide open
Stuck in purgatory
This liminal hell
You hear the tolling of your own death knell
Are these cracks the
pain before your rebirth
the shedding and flaking
of your skin
which will leave you behind, a rejuvenated being?
You decide if these cracks will only exist
as a reminiscence of the passing pains
or will your thoughts dictate
that these cracks originate
from the epicentre of who you are?
Will you let this cancer-like spreading of the cracks continue?
Or will you stand up and straighten your back
To close up the cracks
and save you from You
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 2:46 PM UTC
Its Louder in the centre,
Enter my nucleus centre,
Blood soak soul with graffiti on its wall,
A wall of sound,
A beat so neat with some emptiness that quakers a note hard to speak.
Whether loud or clear it sometimes shows its neatness, its politeness silences its weakness like war is about to begin.
But louder in the centre come closer, Sense its bullet proof soul listening out for a linking which way road out where.
How dare these intrepid molecules of sound bite words blood flow soak and leak my outer shield,
If all things hidden surely they won't get far but mainly quietly written with out a doubt coming louder from the centre.
Oh but when's this circus to commence?
This circle of life drowned from each day without a change,
No need to sit and crumble no calls for sin.
But louder from the centre you will hear the echo's of its sitting begin.
Not leaving yet no faith from a patriot
A divided wall of large and small, good versus evil with some sort of escape from it all.
Louder from the centre words fog form from a vice versa,
Forming this epicentre a true understanding copied from whatever is on the agenda.
Small leaf's clover covers it all gathering its mud blood dust from this voluminous mess,
Louder in the centre.
Sweet eyes ride upon these lines,
Providing its goodness re energised its epicentre which comes from within to be
Louder in the centre.
O'Reily@22082014
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
Sharpen the knife by whetstone,
walk to the shore, hold the blade
perpendicular to the fat belly
blanketed with tiny mirrors glinting
sun into your eyes
Find the bridge decorated in promise locks
cast a net,
prime your tongue
squeeze air from your lungs into
gurgling words decorating her ears,
be impossible
be the everything
lock yourself inside as a habit
as the indispensable limb
Scrape scales with the cutting edge,
send them flying in the air
landing like lily-pads
breaking the surface of salt-water
Touch your roughest hand to the softest
palette of the face with knuckles
first tenderly like a mother
and then violate in flight,
land harshly
crush the rosy palette into a
cacophony of betrayal on the
cheek, corrupt the soft curve of the lip
decorate the chest in crimson,
cut out trust from deep inside her
womb
Bathe the memory in a white tub
kissed by carmine, let it flow down the
hypnotizing hurricane drain
through hair-matted pipes.
His after-shave knuckle tenderness
will perfume the steam,
permeate your memories
make home deep inside capillaries
Wash the fish in the Atlantic – let it
kiss its forehead, puncture the gut
with the ****** end, pull back,
let crimson blood and iron
perfume spill in globules onto emptying
tides washing out to sea
Dawn crab will come to the shallows,
eat the scraps with their pincers.
In the morning gulls recognize backs
hunched over by the water, swoop down
Pull out the curved hook from your cheek
dragging you in matrimony
drop the shredded robe of sinew and worth,
leave the tatters on the bathroom floor
Go to her in the evening
sew the pretty back together into a quilt,
stain it with ****** knuckles and
kiss her goodnight into resentment
Others will come into your life,
one will recognize the perpetual
circling in the epicentre,
swing prayers into your centrifuge of
consequence and
pull out the spears from
your chest, mend broken hopes
straighten the shattered
bones into a home indispensable to him
and show you simply, Love
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
In 2006 I ventured into an old abandoned libary, being an urban explorer I wanted to see first hand the haunting tales of what occured inside one's of occultism, satanic rituals and the paranormal.
I don't remember much of the trip but I can recall I heard a scream that sounded very familiar.
The year is 2016 and I have decided to return. This place so beautiful on my first visit now appears like the tales I was told those years ago. I open the main door now screeching due to the rust that covered the metal.
I make my way through a darkened hall, dimmly lit bulbs blinking providing the limited light. Bleak and the sudden pungent smell of decay, the brick walls once filled with warmth are now wet and cold.
Something is here.
The overbearing smell of rot and death lingers in the already thin air. Gulping....I stop....then proceed forwards. I feel the warmth of a stagnant breath on my back and turn a quick 90 degrees.
Nothing
Turning back to the direction I was originally heading, goosebumps adorn my being. Shaking and saying to myself. GET THE **** OUT GET THE **** OUT GET. THE. **** OUT... I ignore my better judgement, I'm here to stay.
So I press on determined. I hear the buzzing of flies and I know I'm at the epicentre of the stench.
Bookshelves thrown askew, pentagrams and other ****** graffiti adorn the walls. I look around the room and then I see it...
A foot, I glide over to the foot and proceed from the blooded body stabbed in several places multiple times from the torso all the way to the face.
I stop...frozen in shock
I gasp...
It's not just any face
It is mine.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 7:21 PM UTC