"exposures" poems
This Gen Z Kid..
This teen of mine..
This Young Man I'm reminded..He's my final Son.
This fast growing radiant dark horse
runnin around under the blaze of the hot sun.
Now He's grown into this tall knight champion.
Radiant chilled dark stallion.
He is unique admired and I'm in awe of His Being.
@Times I'd call him the hurricane..
Inwardly lays talents that can become gifted fame.
I believe He hears.. That voice of God.
When God calls his name.
This new kinda techno son.. Video emerged.. Youtube is his tv..
This son is Gen Z!
The cusp of millennials the beginnings of Generation Z.
Our Norms and traditions bothers them none. Open free and caring emotional nomes..
In the virtual reality chemistry..
Chilling inside their rooms in the safety of homes.
My Sons a precious commodity.
What technology wiz will he turn out to be.
Gaming entertaining.. mental challenging.
The Sons who'll be parents to the next Generation of Alpha's..
Babies entertained by notebooks of cellphone tablets.
More then societies adopted habits.
Babes that are digital natives on cellphones genetic cultures.
Terminology texted media exposures.
Data and gigabytes.. downloads and high speeds.
Swiping before being taught a first school lesson.
This is the generation..Z The Digital Sons.
Written by [email protected] (C)2018
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
human revelations in our sleep poses
she sleeps with both arms back, murmuring,
flung over her hearing head,
as if she is surrendering
nightly
me slip away for a few, only to find
her left hand ****** by her arm crook'd,
fit to her temple, as if to bear the weighty weight
of a heavy head plein des thoughts, dream-mares, tales and talks,
too dense to contemplate
without assistance,
armed support to hold on, hold up,
fighting/ accepting as a unwanted outcomes
or retrying old misdeeds
(no, no, oops, that’s me)
stirring,
she swift motions/crisscrosses her arms into an X,
a human parts tiara atop, on blond tresses, that fully messes
any remaining daytime efforts and her nighttime wild dancing^
no one reveals me,
none inform on me what positions
my containership adapts, adopts when my woke-guards
are dismissed/released and
lay unprepared to disguise my innermosts exposures
ow, early am resting comfortable with a six poem-pack of
slept hours on my tool belt,
so far this weekend one shot fired before the day officially
is belle rung and these poses thoughts
are upon what my eyes alight
can’t decide if knowing how I dance in the bed at night,
reflationary, deflationary, worth fact facing,
for this is no secret
*my sleep hours are colored,
admixture of moving pictures,
punctuated with
stills of past and future,
the poses
of how to greet, were greeted,
withstood upheld ran from wept, murdered,
faced up, faced down, go unrecorded
and the
poems residuals
and the
poem prophesying-
both!
fearful confessions for acts
committed and foretold*
Decision: I don’t want to know
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
waiting outside of the recording studio
near the train tracks and the tall buildings
running out of time.
an old gypsy woman
wearing magenta rubber boots
and riding a stained crimson fixed gear
passes me, trains come and go billowing
their impatient whistles
as I take double exposures of them and the sky
with my lomo 35mm.
Ate nothing but six shots
of espresso
and a pack of cigarettes last night, with
a side of liquor which
reminded me too much of memories too good
to be worth remembered .
Best advice I've read in three months;
wear sunscreen, and realize that
good advice is wasted on the young,
advice is also a form of nostalgia,
the givers of it reach out to the dirtier parts
of their memories, clean it up into something
hopefully worth salvaging.
another train passes and I start to grow
impatient myself, a long day of work
ahead of me.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
~
*Desert pond,
idle sun.
Salt, shadow,
and the revealing light of midday.
She traipses from
the safety of the car
to the danger at the water's edge.
One hand shielding her eyes,
the other,
her over-exposures.
Discomfited by a lack
of self-confidence.
Loving the water,
hating her thighs.*
~
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 11:54 AM UTC
Leave aside your spiritual hunger,
There’s enough wisdom in generational ideals.
Leave aside your worldly exposures,
There’s enough comfort in familial misery.
Leave aside your vindictive allergies,
You’ll crawl for societal acceptance anyway.
Leave aside dark undertones & this poetic licence,
In spite, light breeds light every single day.
Jun 5, 2023
Jun 5, 2023 at 10:56 AM UTC
I've been dreaming of memory losses or i really am losing sense of self
A painting on the room, a girl sits like an ant, three straight haired girls laughing like nothing is happening, another thinking about *** all the time; a boy in a frame, all boys watching **** all boys eating their own toes;
A tree, a whole tree in your stomach
"Your tongue is going to be enoki farm, that's what i think," he said to a carefully moonlit ice cube, he said that to his mother too, he said that to the taxi driver; now he is becoming lunatic, he wants lake, he wants paper, he wants to drown in the sky
Now is the time, now is not the time, please do not stop, oh, please stop
"Sorry i yelled, i was on my period," a boy says sorry to his grandfather, his grandfather died a year before his adolescence, his grandfather had no ears before he was buried, his grandfather was a bunny, he used to eat carrots a lot that's why a boy sees you with different eyes, that's why a boy sees you with clearer sight
You judge me unfair, but i don't care, it's better than you knowing what i really am
So we are competing, so we want to see who is more terrible at being liar, so we try to hide things in exposures, but you lose, but i also do
So we are objectifying ourselves and we don't want to stop
We love the smell, we long for the reeks, we want hurt, we want the thing they do to sinners, we want fire, we want the burns, we want the pain but we run
And no one thinks of coming back
"A year from now we will become strangers," oh, to shooting stars
But heart isn't the only thing that beats, but heart isn't the only thing that draws blood to your head
I am, i am, i am, losing my legs!
It was another way of saying i love you but you don't understand my stomach is growing, my stomach is alive, my stomach is going to **** me at midnight so i won't sleep, i won't feel sleepy at all, i will see the sun rises, and i won't fear when she is here, i won't fear even when she is outside; she exists and she proves it-
Why can't anyone do the same?
Life does not go that way, it does not go any way; life is stomachache, life is ************ and marital rapes, life is what your country does to separatists-
"I've been dreaming of wide windows," says the moon, "but there's
None wide enough for me."
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
days and nights and days
all melding into one
a temporary escape lies
at the bottom of a bottle.
in ash-blackened mountains,
white soldiers in crumbling helmets
crowd glass barracks to the brim
as they burn in embers of regret.
awake, arise and stumble;
residual drunken stupor;
rehydrate as hungry stomach grumbles;
flip through blurred snapshots
of the night before.
double, over-exposures
forever lost in your strobe-light mind.
massaging temples, rubbing eyes,
you let slip this futile plight.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
lets write poems under the sky
about intimacy and anatomy
adorned in sheets and flesh
lets take photographs in the dark
exposures of pale faces on black
adorned in mittens and sweaters
lets break our fingers off the piano
crying melodies and harmony
adorned in disappointment and blood
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 6:19 AM UTC
Oh, to feel safe in our borderline exposures.
Please understand that there is no threat.
I know that you maintain empty perceptions of mere existence.
However, let us be mindfully intentional in the moment of flourishing foliage, and never dismiss equations where cottage cheese is extremely tasty on a plain *******
How much have you paid? And have you surrendered to protestant refusals?
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Listen to the motion of the waves
and be not afraid
of the oncoming torrent.
We’ll just grow larger lungs,
our fingers and toes will web,
we will develop a vernacular
of the likeness of whales, dolphins
and other mammals of the sea.
But do not worry, when the torrent does come,
we may be far away.
For now let us partake in hallucinogenics
in the tall forest at night,
and take long exposures of the stars
with our cameras,
and then after take long exposure of each other
with our eyes
and we will see movement.
We will see the frozen waves of the campfire
And our eyes will burn,
And it will make us feel alive
to be next to each other.
And we will travel together to that Great City
of monuments and people and concrete
where people wear their bones on the outside
Wearing rags or the highest end fashion
(lately the two are one in the same)
We can travel the city for miles on foot
eating at the strangest of places
and being able to feel art;
feel the art of the city of the movement
you will find it only aesthetically different from
the Ocean or Forest
it is one, part of this place.
and it is our place,
even if you have not
found it.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
Gulf winds , carve thy signature across the open plains ...
Unto granite exposures , across the mighty Water Oaks of antiquity ..
Carry thy burden across Appalachian hills , over sandstone shore
and cotton field ...
Hold rare flocks of Starling in thy sured grasp and nurturing ways , usher the cool winds of Autumn on brilliant October days ...
Bring forth the scented air of Gardenia and Magnolia , the pollen of Chestnut Tree and Peach blossom ...
Calm the farm fires of November with captaincy and vigor , return Mother Georgia in May to her lush , Summer splendor ....
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
to the managers of hello poetry.....
to whom it may concern
i would like another exposure
more than one i think i have earned
i've used up the ones you gave me
but have published other poems for sure
i have commented on writers who inspired
and for my comments you've promised me more
to others i have given my mouthful
but for exposures you can count me poor
how do i get an exposure
when i think i've done all i can
i just want my poems read by others
read once and again and again
please hold up your part of the bargain
and read the fine print too
for it says that you'll help expose me
so others can comment too....
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 10:23 AM UTC
On my way to teaching my lovely yoga class this paradoxical poem:✍️
We Die When We’re Supposed To
We die when we’re supposed to,
Karma chained in cause/effect.
One eve I lay there,
Sorry, sad and full of fear
When of a sudden, shocked, aware,
The snare of truth, as clear as day,
Told me that we pass away
From causes self-created
From our characters, our choices,
Gene pushed, situation fated…
You know, when you get these flashes,
(call them insights, revelations, mind disclosures)
You can sense veracity’s exposures crashing in
And you’ve no choice
But to believe
What mind and thought receive,
In this case this:
Death comes when it will,
And it is up
To us to give this hidden ‘reasoning’ a whirl
And take the pill
However bad the taste.
We Die When We’re Supposed To 9.18.2012/8.16.2018 Birth, Death & In Between II; Arlene Nover Corwin
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 4:14 AM UTC
This life
This second
Pases by like fraight trains over never ending tracks;
and the endless miles of big rigs on the interstate
This life
This minute
Dwindles away like the drop of rain off a leaf right after the rain
And the harsh realization
That this is'nt home- It's not even close
Home was better; Much warmer despite all the negative exposures of the past
every moment every ounce of emotion
burrows within
like the rats in your wall.
and the coldness in your soul.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 12:19 AM UTC
The ice became a reflection of how I treat every moment of my past
Frozen in time
An ice cap to place on the emotions I refuse to deal with
Some way to construct a barrier between myself and reality
I've sent out to sea
The functioning parts of my interior that are no longer needed here
I have found replacements
I would feed you to the wolves
Mirrors of the land would prove too many theories correct
In search for pressured cracked exposures
I found longing
A feeling measured by regret laced with muted passion
There on the ice, miles at sea
I found myself digging up parts of me
I was bound to forget
As the temperature began to rise
Separating the ice I have hidden upon
Falling deeply immersed
Into a sea of decisions constructed by the lack of oxygen in my blood
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
Sing in the brittle tree tops my despair
making sweet your melody to winter's song
try to be hard at the spring of March
make stupor merry to your seasons end
Fantastic your endeavours turn mild winds
all you did makes us more sullenly pure
they know, I know you really hate that
and in your reality death comes once every year
Make blooms the crescent of despair
be sure that the most in northern exposures
wish that they never had the bite of you
even the back lands Kind Town, Nova Scotia
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
She dances as the sun creeps from behind the sea, a ghostly sequence follows each movement. I know I'll never forget her smiling face.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
in the photograph from the wildlife camera
she appears at dusk, side-on
her full tail in the air: the big ginger cat
from the farm next door
she is one of those puzzles you find
in newsprint books at the tobacconists
— which one of these doesn’t belong? —
because before and after her on the camera
were a mountain lion and a red fox
*Film ain’t dead yet.
We brought three
disposables to festival,
the ones that whirr up, do thirty
exposures and flash so bright they blind you.
Immortalize the medium, the moments
are secondary.
I remember Dad, toes in the sand,
shorts and his eczema legs, with the camera,
you were building castles –
the photos are somewhere. Shining
millennial baby then,
ringing me now, drunk, crying.*
i thought of the two bobcats who came
to the picture window on St. Stephen’s Day
at three o’clock in the morning
looking intently in
and the man in Finland whose dog got out:
the wolves at the forest fringe
were calling it to come and play
there was no blood, he said
the dog just disappeared into their jaws
*There was more blood, this time,
the third time, third time, that you had tried to
excommunicate
yourself from this life without consulting me.
You know, when I tried that nonsense
they dragged me
kicking and screaming to the clinic.*
still she comes around:
again this morning on the deer trail
where she sat gazing up
the jays and the blackbirds with new hatchlings
diving, exploding into the air
and her
wearing their worry and disapproval
— even, you think
their appetites and their hatred
like a bright blessing
the urgent chatter of the birds an electric hum
almost to the horizon
*Here you are again.
This last time past you were probably on drugs,
you were
vomiting adoration down the phone. Reborn?
You’re seventeen,
the black dog keeps going for your throat
but lifts you by the scruff.
I’m watching you fly up in a spray of wings,
loose feathers, high heels and lamentation.
I’m no lioness –
I’m just a fat, cool cat you think is mighty.
I surrendered to the mice though, when I
was your age.*
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 7:56 PM UTC
Lily magnolia
written November 29th, 2020
I walked by you this summer
dressed in all your green finery.
If I thought anything
it was, "what a nice little tree."
I am sorry to say
I did not look close enough
to form much of an impression.
Now fall has come
you have shivered most of your leaves off
a few hold on tenaciously
trying in vain to cover your virtues.
I look at you and am I ever surprised!
Your branches are craggy and twisted
displaying the lovely complexity of advanced age
result of many exposures to the storms of life.
The tips of your branches
hold fuzzy little nubs
that remind me of ***** willows.
I stand near and marvel
at the aching tenderness of your womanhood
kept hidden until now
under your leafy raiment.
I look but I do not touch
I have not asked permission
and I will not.
I hope the world
continues to pass you by
leaving you unmolested.
It is not easy to be so revealed.
I look forward
to seeing you next summer
all dressed up again.
I will smile and nod
as I pass by
knowing what your verdant covering
hides beneath it.
Nov 29, 2020
Nov 29, 2020 at 6:05 AM UTC
Here born a princess
Without titles or castles or jewels
With no crowns nor grounds nor lands
With no treasures nor exposures
With no prestige nor heritage nor lineage
Not even a silver spoon in her mouth she should’ve brag about
Not one subject or object
But all the same, with a name as grand
A celebration as loud
She’ll have the state-of-the-art carriages out of old tires
The best ball gowns from the best-deal market fares
She’ll have the best accessible education
And only the kindest words spoken
But she’s a princess only in his mind
And she should’ve known firsthand
Because there’s an invisible ladder she must climb
Not any elegant staircases she can glide down from
When the real world greets her unceremoniously
One amongst the rest
One among the many
Ranked in between the real deal the richest the smartest and the fairest
Fairly
As should be…
Because she’s a princess only in his mind
And she should’ve known firsthand
The hidden danger of a love bind
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC
Halloween of 2016
5th cigarette of the night
vanilla lattes from noble tea
instant film with double exposures
fishnets and all red
I remember you still
and I wish we could be in your house with cluttered feet
Handing out candy to the children dressed up as angels and demons
giving us breaks so you could put your arms around me
and I am not shivering in a cold car without you
this is what I want
from somebody
and I go to the front porch
Cigarette number six is now hanging limp from my mouth
and I pull out a ****** dating app and swipe
my self hatred grows.
I throw my phone across the street.
somehow the screen does not shatter
i try to find something hidden
the children are dressed up as demons
and i ache for more
I see you in them.
I miss the angels
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 12:16 PM UTC
Life is stacking boxes,
Keeping your head on straight, Soldier -
Top of your shoulders.
Whatever Perfection is
the Average will do just great
When finally you get to that place...
The Long Haul is over.
Looking back and seeing the climb,
All the people and faces
Are just Time exposures - That's okay, Soldier.
And it's okay now, to bask in the applause,
Take the bows and be center-stage,
Dare the spotlight, stop turning the pages...
The Long Haul is over.
There are always moments
When a joke is Not the answer,
But we choose it anyway
For the craic and for the banter.
Put that change in your pocket now, Soldier
Leave the Bar and walk quietly away...
The Long Haul is over.
A pint of Guinness for a Tune,
A Poem, or a Story for the ever after?
This Life is never a journey,
This Death is not a closure, but
There are only so many hours in a day, so
No, no more stacking boxes today, Soldier...
The Long Haul is over.
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 6:45 PM UTC
I have witnessed unsolicited exposures
And revisited old faults without closure –
This painted ceiling, slowly stripping off its finishing
To bare its defects, begets nostalgia over
How your name is still a byword for frustration,
Shelved within my innermost synapses;
Like a dog-eared page in an Asian
**** magazine, sound & stiff as an equation.
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 6:43 PM UTC