"erosions" poems
It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.
A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,
And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,
Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.
How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends'
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me
As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?
Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls
The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner émigré, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne
Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;
Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet's pulsing rose.
8.1k
My head is filled with voices
Each have something to say
Telling me to make different choices
Each wants to get their way
I am trapped in a box of confusion
Inhaling water of a million oceans
My broken parts have suffered complete immersion
My heart has dealt with a thousand erosions
The voices chew through my nerves
Like acid
Their tone of voice swerves
Their faces placid
I have a gift for pretending
Keeping this smile on my face
As if my world was not ending
Even though that is the case
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
In my head
I am the Russian Roulatte
In a tee *** I beg for trust
When poured out
The foam becomes of your mouth
I do buisness in China
Shipped to Pueto Rico
Make tongues flip as sharp
as a Nurican Dominican
Jitter till hearts stop beating on top of Italian pool tables
I steal breathes from science who believe in what is not in the Bible
I am your Russian Roulette
Make a feline spray a *** spot in here ******
Make a King errect New Your late night star lights when they stu'n
Change the tune in your song
from spittin rap versus to singing to God that you was wrong
I beat the drugs
Put a end to your habbit
So when you feel you cant utter a verse I'll let you howl like a suffering rabbit
Because no one knows how to use me right
I am the only bullet tucked in to take away your life
As soon as I leap forward to your attention you will be adoment to a pension
Stire clear
I am here
No intentions but to terminate erosions
Respect what I may
Careful when you choose to play
You must reconsider the outcome
I am
The Russian Roulette.
© the Russian Roulette S.T. Rebel of Eden
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 6:58 AM UTC
i choose to be a misfit, it's part of my artistry. i choose to be a misfit, a pirate and a bandit. a slave to my ministry. i outwit your chemistry and scream from the pulpit. i awoke to explosions and time lapsed erosions. the air filled with fire and rainbow smoke. i couldn't find my breath, the bed was ablaze. i inhaled the nightmare and began to choke... just then, things went fragmentary. i was more than just a dignitary. i found myself in a cinerary, facing someone legendary, and they were me. so i looked up my apothecary, knowing that i should be wary. i quickly dispensed with commentary, avoiding all things monetary. but nothing's free. speaking briefly of the goings-on, i stopped to berate the hangers-on. my mouth wove a verbal marathon, it was a virtual phenomenon. lost in my ego. restless, like the myrmidon, i was unsure of my prolegomenon. when i heard the ringing carillon, i went for a swim in the phlegethon. like abednego.
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
I am at random,
And the lines formless
In my mind:
A lover and the pain,
A cat and a dying master,
Memories while walking
Among the tombs,
The names are faces.
And the void is a mind globe
Spreading itself into a sphere
As the sweat scourges my forehead,
I wipe my third eye:
Hours leapfrog from page
To page,
The sound of poetry is among
Everything I have known,
A dispersed word translates
Me for the verse,
But I am insubstantial,
Much as my thoughts.
In my room,
On my desk,
I brood over the wind of yesterdays
Erosions,
I am nailed to a tree,
Deep into a lifeless tree,
I am no poet saint.
I am not here nor there,
And when all the words have convened,
I will find a piece of myself
In every poem,
Though I remain incomplete.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:10 PM UTC
the creases worn upon my hands -
stretch back,
run the course of lifetime past,
others shaped as they shape me
and
contra to erosions role,
the lines, they deepen, expose the soul:
unlikeness built, carved egos sum,
a monument to blindness done.
but times advance, quells not critics eye,
erosions role resumes anigh.
and what i am, i have become
is carved away - rent to the dust
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
Even the diviner was bemused by these channels, lost in my palm
Amidst the faults and erosions the like as November
Where, banal, it caught these skipping stones, day-to-day, arranged
For the radical saccades to pass, engross, my attention through the magic,
I now stare at Delphi, what binds the assumed catches
Bound, itself, to shy
To shy away from their centers.
But, now and then, my eyes will sojourn from my wanton ways
Through terraces of an empty map,
Where, by degrees, are shown their invisibilities in place of illustrations
Accoutered as décor, but fact, hastening a spider’s game:
Fixed in a drawer, renewed, splayed, drawn at constant.
These pickings, righteous, at a nail and toying on a salty lip,
Quiver, from the rector, day and night, pronouncing
Idle me, idolatry, standing at spreading concourse,
Till, evermore, my stumbling thoughts lose themselves
In my hand.
The hand.
The palm.
Lost channels flood themselves silt-rich waters boatful and boastful
Take on the name of fjord and trinity,
At which I stand, beside myself, and him, beside himself
More engrossed by far-flung ecstasies,
Quite-clear those instabilities, reaching for liquor—mid-shelf.
I could, perhaps, blind myself to the valleys—simple marked sleight of hand
But, travail those four peaks and their straining caps of snow
Unknown, it is but the larger picture, sewn to sinew runs of hair.
Too much, I plead for direction or sign, getting lost in mirrors or rhyme
These new utterances in the back of my throat, where, precisely,
Is the seat of pride,
Each a reckless trail back to the temples of uncharted weathered skin
—The vaguenesses that she enthralled, as to what I am read
Thinking nothing at all and, he, the friend of ever
Under the same stars to the north, south, in every direction.
So helpless, cold shaking and pensions of the moon, anon,
I read as the distance, empty candescences that thirst to know
Exactly what they should have known, where clairvoyance falls short
Steps, like quite brushstrokes: one at a time, wide, unending.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
I want to drink
Until the end
Of forgotten time
Let there be
A funeral fire
Withhold the time capsule
Rustic sounds
Should accompany
Alternating live music
Wood is warping
Bathroom darkening
It all stinks
Reeking of vanilla musk
Some savage old lady
Must have been here
I continue to drink
Without expiration
Giving into temptation
Wine contains a nutty
Whimsical flavor
Reminiscent of cashews
Salted just right
Stored on time
Purity in taste
Test has been passed
No more whims
Just explanations
For why I drink
Trying to write
Avoiding sobriety
Wanting ***
Confusion of the soul
Fusion for sanity
Sunday spreads
Wicked wings
Evil erosions
Condemning my being
Into ice
Deafening to my eyes
Plastering the pole
But in suspense
Avoiding the crowd
Can I possibly contend,
with a biscuit?
Perhaps not
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
the wet summer
Crowns the head of a psalm-
Unlacing it's proverbial season
The sun adjusts it's pilgrimage
Making the images of the world:
From green to yellow to orange
In a foliage of wind and water and ice
The season begins
On the five senses;
What I see is what I feel
And the thoughts begin a momentum,
Impending dazzlement
In the erosions of trees,
Sculpting winds
Falling to the untouchable clarity,
The soul and earth join,
These endless things
At the cusp of change
With that familiar feeling.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 9:50 AM UTC
A multitude of memories
Everlasting stories
A series of episodes
Chapters in me explode
Pages after pages
Complicated thesis & stages
A book written by me
Philosophical & logical key
Spiritual & magical
Thee author & executive
The chief, captain of thee ship
Founder, astounder, I ponder
Wonder electric I thunder
Sparking in my brain
Moving rapidly insane
Above the average mind
You might say
Traveling far away
In dreams, witness screams
Beams & dynamite explosions
Erosions coming out my physical
The realm is mystical
I dream of you & the chapter
Changes the premises
Ending with hugs & kisses
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 7:13 AM UTC
The fresh wind we knew that was millions of years older than me or than you,blew
stiff against the boulders that formed padded shoulders against the grey chalk cliff.
A conservation effort by the council and crew to save for posterity,the guardian of land and of sea.
The cliff wouldn't care it would wear down in the end,erosions's a trend ,you can't stop it,just slow it and the cliff seems to know it
as it slowly slides to its mother,
the ocean.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Life has a way of leaving us with little nicks.
Points of impact left on a windshield from kicked up stones;
Strong enough to withstand the unexpected assault,
But lacking the resilience to hold its composure after years of these microscopic erosions.
And like too much pressure on a wine glass, you shatter.
The defense you had is in pieces;
You become jagged where you used to be soft.
And I understand that no one wants to carry broken shards of glass in their hands.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC