"eying" poems
My narrow cave is zero colour
a thousand winds that blow over
only blow kohl yet to see an eye.
The sunrise beams out in the morning's hush
as do the sun basks in the swift uplifting rush.
Ah, only to miss out again like yesterday,
there was a cave it tried to highlight.
Then lost me in the dark found a Moon
heavily tilted yet over a shady turf.
Every star eying upon it knows that
tomorrow again, this will host the sunrise!
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 11:40 PM UTC
This was just published so it is copyright 2015 by Holy Cow Press ~ mce
Poverty is the fence around your life. Poverty wakes you up at 4 AM only to whisper meaningless slogans in your ear. It is the school of Piranha nibbling at the back of your brain. It is two hours waiting in the anteroom of despair for $22 worth of food stamps and being glad to be there. It is changing your phone number frequently because bill collectors are such boring conversationalists. It is the empty space your heels used to fill. It is letting your hair grow long and scraggly and your grizzled beard sprout because you know that although you sleep in rented rooms tonight, the street is not far off, and you want to fit in when you arrive. Poverty scalds the lint from your pockets. It is your private Treblinka within which you rage but are crushed. It is desperate prayers against dental catastrophes, blown tires, surprises of any sort. Poverty is when everything you own is frayed including your nerves from sleepless moments spent trying to solve the equation that will make X number of dollars cover X + ? number of bills, knowing that such math would defeat Newton or Einstein. Poverty is eying the cat's kibble imagining that with a bit of sugar and a splash of milk it might be fine and then eyeballing the cat himself thinking of protein of last resort and trying not to measure him against the microwave door. You ration your cigarettes; whiskey is a fading memory. Passing a diner on the street, you catch a whiff of burgers too expensive to consider and experience a Pavlovian moment. Poverty is trying to keep your head up and then remembering you pawned your neck. Poverty is watching the needle eat your last few gallons of gas. Poverty is the archeology of despair. It portends the death of irony. There is nothing ironic about a car with 217,000 miles and no insurance on it. Facts are facts in the world of poverty. Poverty is the last quarter reclaimed from beneath the cushions. It is too much time and not enough quarters. It is the specious logic of the self-righteous proclaiming that you deserve to be poor because you are, which in Amerika passes for wisdom. Poverty makes each day like the next because nothing does not vary. It is who you are and where you are going, although you won't get far. It is the life you lead inside the fence. It is the sum of what you lack. It just is.
- mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
Everyone talks about depression as if they know it.
They talk about it as if depression sweeps them in its arms that they are so used to it.
They talk about it, but never realise that they have mistaken their sadness for depression.
But don’t they know that depression is not sadness? Depression is not crying?
Depression is that shadow that only sticks to you when you are happy and in a bright place, and would refuse to let go of you until you are in the dark, embracing it.
Depression is that hard smack you get across the face when you are laughing with your friends, that leaves you in shock for a few seconds until you realise that no matter how hard you laugh and no matter how many happy tears you have shed, you are still empty. You are still a mess.
Depression is that anaesthetic you get when you are in pain, that leaves you in a ***** tub facing a hateful mirror eying that razor and begging God that you have the strength to feel, only to be able to move a limb and make your delicate skin meet the crude razor. But you still fail. Because you aren’t sad. You aren’t wretched. You are empty. You are numb.
Depression is that exhaustion that is in love with your body and jealous of your anxiety so it always picks a fight with it. When you are spending time with anxiety and trying your best to get your work done but feeling as if it is not good enough so you try and try, depression bursts in and pleads that you come with it. And you do. You go back to bed, wrap your cold blanket around you and trace the cracks in your gloomy ceiling, watching your life flash right in front of you and you can’t do anything about it.
Depression is that smile that is planted on your face when you have written a perfect ****** poem on your skin using your favourite razor, that makes you trace your shaking fingers over it feeling so proud of your poem. Feeling so proud because your blood that is seeping out is applauding you and telling you that you wrote a perfect piece.
Depression is getting into an argument with the one you love the most but once they reach the edge and start saying what is meant to be hurtful words, your only response is silence because you know your feelings are not valid and your words are full of ******** So you keep it in. You never open up and you never let them know how hurtful they could be.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 2:36 AM UTC
I am ashamed to admit you were right
A picture does tell a thousand tales
Though eying you in person creates a thousand tales
Envisioning your touch comes as close as the moon to the wolf
Yet feeling it in person feels fuller than the air in my lungs.
This space in between is vast I fear to breath
Please don’t turn blue - I plead to my reflection
To you; keep my pen inked, don’t let it run dry
Jan 8, 2024
Jan 8, 2024 at 6:46 PM UTC
*the state or quality of being elastic.
flexibility; resilience; adaptability: a statement with a great elasticity of meaning.
buoyancy; ability to resist or overcome depression.
Physics. the property of a substance that enables it to change its length, volume, or shape in direct response to a force effecting such a change and to recover its original form upon the removal of the force.*
are you ready?
here it comes!
Slap!
having slapped you
with, to kind attention,
you may now recover
your original form,
when there was
no grief, no distress,
the great clarity
of eying the day's birth,
sweetly and innocently.
once again, you are
buoyant,
molecules of polluted memories,
erased.
wind scattered, gone,
blackboard erased,
whiteboard replaced.
you have been reminded,
even reprimanded,
for forgetting your
elasticity.
life, what ever that be,
is constant motion,
a reshaping of the heart,
for the heart has
no unique shape.
it's adaptation,
it's elasticity,
it's genetic forgive and forget ability,
is legend, is you,
you are legend,
You are elastic.
the human hallmark impressed
in the palms of your hands,
that cannot be erased
by time, fatigue, failure, or anger,
the hands that mold,
re-form for every need,
for every handhold,
for different are:
The hands that open closed fists
The hands that wave hi
The hands that are first to touch
and the last to leave,
waving goodbye,
elastic - tender when tender needed,
strong when strength essences.
so be elastic,
remember to be
ecstatic
remember
when you do,
you need show proofs.
Prove it to me.
Prove it to yourself.
shake, kiss, dare hug,
the one who needs reminding
that life is elastic,
even more than you.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
At the end, will it be brandy-wine or mescaline to sugar coat
enlightenment, the purpose,
the omnipotent influence?
Some live to make a whirling dervish swoon.
Some pray to Love, composing sonnets for the moon.
Some find themselves floating, bloated lungs with lazy currents,
mourning free-will.
With questions perched atop your windowsill,
do decomposing wings pull with yearning to wake
in dawn's warning? Your beak,
a rattling, pneumonic drill.
It's a dead end,
fear and adrenaline.
Invite me in
to ostracizing nuisances.
Therefore,
I may imprison myself in cylindrical cells,
pop out wisdom like bubble-wrap,
fight the mighty ocean swells,
or shimmy up the lobster trap,
With inevitable siege by buzzards eying wildly,
shedding sea-salt feathers that won't be washed for weeks.
Still, the mad-hatter trades me one more spill for spill.
And I taste the honesty we sip for swollen memories
whose frantic bodies let fists fly on flushed faces
that we never truly see.
In profound confusion we stumble, blind.
Then, we all forget so blissfully,
once we reach the rainbow's end.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
Wish I have that
raised brow.
Let alone eying
the moon on the highs
but up to your eyes.
Neither do you
let me down.
You touch down the abyss
seal the bottom of the sea
before my teardrop falls down!
Mar 10, 2022
Mar 10, 2022 at 12:40 AM UTC
Billy arrived when the
sky was all ******
"Sailors take warn
Red sky at dawn."
He never was a sailor
and he never awakened so early.
He stopped for a coffee
at a Brew and Blue
This is when he met
Rainbow - a hippie child
all stunted and rude.
"Enlightenment will never be mine"
Billy muttered as he climbed into the orange booth.
Eying Rainbow's *****
Rainbow looked him over
she had seen one too many
dusty would be sailors.
But something about his
manner-gave her hope
for something that mattered.
They looked into each
other's eyes to find
two companions without
disguise.
This rather shocked them
into disbelief but
life takes twists and
turns definitely different
than whatever we expect.
Billy was a screenwriter's
son with wealth and
health
Abandoning all fantasy
he claimed he rode
the rails in order to be free.
Rainbow raised by a bipolar
soul, who claimed never to know,
wandered aimlessly
with no where to go -
she had slept in stairwells
of stranger's homes - till
mother's flip was over
and she was taken to the car -
her new home, again.
Billy and Rainbow, as ridiculous
as it comes, tried to deny it,
but knew they had already begun.
It has slipped their minds
they were lovers from kingdom come.
Billy left and went
searching for other scars.
Rainbow sat on her
porch and searched the stars.
The train blew its whistle
at the crossing
and the rains began to come.
A week later, Billy was
back setting up a home,
waiting to find Rainbow
who had hit the road
searching for Billy,
that lost soul.
They both remembered
what had slipped their minds
being together was one
moment when life was
kind.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
There he sat
All dark unsaddled
Brains quite addled
From the blow
Brigands laughing
All about him
There to clout him
Should he run
From his good eye
Squinting sneaky
Peeking out
From swollen brow
Primrose Pete
Considered options
Acquiesce
Or fight or flee
Counting up
The five marauders
Such close quarters
Peter smiled
In a wink
The first two fell
Hellbound from
Pete's shining blade
One was cut
From prow-to-keel
Didn't feel
The lightening slash
Two was dead but
Still a-stagger
From Pete's dagger
Through the throat
Pete then turned
His one good eye
Upon the three
Left standing there
"Knock ME from
My gentle ride!"
He chided them
And took a step
In a flash
The third man died
His manhood hung
From Peter's blade
Number four
Jumped up in-close
They danced a rosy
Final step
"One last waltz"
Said Primrose Pete
And short and sweet
The blood ran hot
Last of all
The Highwaymen
The fifth of five
The last alive
A tall man
Taller quite than most
With ghostly eyes
And hammer hands
A man who felt
That pain was fun
This one-on-one
Was just a tryst
So they stood there
Eying up
While trying not
To give a tell
Of their planned
Last brave attack
While Pete held back
To catch a breath
All at once
The fight was on
That bloodied lawn
Would find no peace
Both men fought
With all their might
From Noon til Night
On into dark
No Moon sang
The stars shone mute
A suit of cloud
Hung o'er the fray
Blood and dark
With ought a sound
Save the pounding
Steel on steel
Come the Sun
There on that field
Without yield
For Honor's sake
Cut for cut
Both men held true
And on into
A second night
A third then
Into a fourth
A fifth of course
They battled on
It's said that
Both men died that day
T'was slay for slay
Though neither fell
He fights on
Old Primrose Pete
His ghosted feet
Still dancing true
With his blade
Of shadow pure
Against a worried
******* dark
And it's said
On summer nights
When the wind
Is right and odd
One can hear
Old Pete's mare
Out there braying
On the moor
And beneath
The old hag's whinny
If you skinny
Up your ear
You can catch
Old Primrose Pete
Sweetly dancing
With his sword.
Jun 9, 2011
Jun 9, 2011 at 12:30 PM UTC
'You look like someone I know'
Heard that line a thousand times
Guess I'm scattered round the globe
Like farmers planting seeds serpentine
Have you heard the front-page news
Eden lives far underground
And God is just a hidden camera
Making sure the lost stay found
Big games of the life-sized kids
You were 'not It' by a hair
Fingers on a Ouija board
**** the truth just give me dare
Tweedles are now stalking triplets
Killing riddles, sinking ships with
Everything but the black lipstick
Crooked smile and rusted toothpick
Every friend is a stepmother
Eying you with pools of dead fire
As she sticks her acid tongue
In the mouth of your pure desire
Walking blind and blurry-eyed
With two chambers in each hand
Each are ****** tame and wild
Beyond these walls, beyond these lands
Only fools know the true score
Cause they've locked the exit-sign door
You were almost worth dying for
Now it's the ninth circle of this war
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 5:27 PM UTC
The thistledown’s flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a ***
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from **** unto ****
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
2.1k
'You look like someone I know'
Heard that line a thousand times
Guess I'm scattered round the globe
Like farmers planting seeds serpentine
Have you heard the front-page news
Eden lives far underground
And God is just a hidden camera
Making sure the lost stay found
Big games of the life-sized kids
You were 'not It' by a hair
Fingers on a Ouija board
**** the truth just give me dare
Tweedles are now stalking triplets
Killing riddles, sinking ships with
Everything but the black lipstick
Crooked smile and rusted toothpick
Every friend is a stepmother
Eying you with pools of dead fire
As she sticks her acid tongue
In the mouth of your pure desire
Walking blind and blurry-eyed
With two chambers in each hand
Each are ****** tame and wild
Beyond these walls, beyond these lands
Only fools know the true score
Cause they've locked the exit-sign door
You were almost worth dying for
Now it's the ninth circle of this war
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 7:15 PM UTC
I can feel the pain
growing higher.
Growing like a monster
to the heat of the fire.
Its a beautiful kinda of pain
broken shattered glass.
This ****** rain
of tears and pain.
Washing away who I was.
I draw ragged breath
from the depths of my shattered heart.
I fill my lungs one last time
with the putrid air.
As I feel my spirit crumple
under this heavy despair.
The lost cry in the night,
the eerie screams.
The watchful eye
eying the pain
of my waking dreams.
Beautiful this pain is to him;
that eye so cold,
so very cold.
Shivering bleak depths,
staring straight through my torn apart soul.
Fear dripping down my spine
like melting ice
my heart it surely shall find.
Hopeless underneath
that wretched black gaze.
I fall into the depths one very last time.
In spite of him that horrid eye,
I rid myself of all fear,
I choke him of his life source
I fill my heart with joy and blessings.
I rid myself of him.
The beautiful pain,
my darkness agony.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
It’s almost 6, and the night is fighting with the last rays of sun,
Its armor and sword are both stronger the glow of sun, Stars comes out like your eyes, breathing down my neck,
Sitting across the Chinese restaurant in, with a cigarette dangling in your fingers blazing as harshly as bitumen laying on road as your skin on my skin was last night
You have been constantly eying me like I am breast of the freshly cut chicken,
I take slow sips of my beer, opening and reopening my fortune cookie, but it’s already been cracked and my fate has been sealed,
I pity the planets and us, we all are stuck in our orbits, and we always talk about the corruption in Russia and about pirates in Somalia,
We take detour of this city, and only this one, driving circles around the Wal-Mart, buying coffee beans and condoms,
I quiet my raging mind, which writes essays about the Greek gods and Atlantis; it fights with the night, but night plays word-games,
It twists its words into lyrics of lovers and pours them in my mouth, and twists its fingers in my ******
Its, almost 8, there are two bottles on the table, emptied like my heart, your ash tray full like your lungs with smoke and lust
Its 8, and sky is cobalt with streaks of lighter shades passing through like the Helicopters on Independence Day and I take this as my sign, and leave 20 dollar bill and a letter which screams “I’m gone”,
Bustling street and a Vegas sky welcomes my heart to the possibility of finding Atlantis.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 5:32 AM UTC
Alyssa moves like she’s being watched
and watching me,
but the white-walled room, despite her husband’s presence
is empty.
Everything echoes.
Alyssa and I have serenaded the dead and dying weekly.
Today is no exception.
She performs, I just sing–
are my songs really any emptier than hers?
We and the dying clasp hands in a circle
and mimic a psychic raising of the dead.
Alyssa and I have sat through the same
cut-and-dry
hour-long condemnations
all our lives,
but she bought in and now moves
like she’s being watched,
at which I scoff.
Alyssa is not allowed into Business Meetings
because of sexist Paul,
and I make this known to a friend
I trust now more than Alyssa,
now happily chatting with the guy I was eying.
Alyssa’s father takes me aside
for inquisition.
I confess of my sin, but I do not repent.
Alyssa found out, and now my existence is ***********
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
So I'm looking at my city
In pity
Being lured by these celebrities
That don't give a **** bout thee
They only doing it
Because they were told
Them challenges growing old
I challenge them to put up a real price
But if they did it'll cost them their life
So back up unto my bayonet knife
You fools so trife
Thinking you got me fool
But your merely a tool
Them secret societies
Gotta keep eying thee
Cuz you'll never bite the hands
That feeds
Say it's from the heart
But behind closed doors Its really greed
Since we can't seem to stop the corruption
Know that hurricane Harvey was planned for abruption
Out the blue gas prices blew
At the time of a crisis
Now I bet they'll somehow
Link it to Isis
From the megachurch
To the where the hobos lurk
It was a disaster
But tell how they became sword masters
Words that is magic being done
And nobody seems stunned
Its all a game and we the pieces on the chess board
Controlled weather
To bring us together
Millions of homes damages
Only to find out
You got no flood insurance
Another way to pay
a tax
Willfully without a say
Then they say
The american peeps wanted it that way
And who are these people's
They them the ones who control
The spoils of the earth
Who put you in debt before your natural birth
Cursed a demonized monetized
Right before your eyes
Hopefully you'll realize
They visualize your capital lives
Wake up and read in between the lines
Because our souls are on the dotted lines
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
With so little time I could not decide.
Shelf after shelf filled with book upon book.
The likes I've dreamed of reading.
Most bookstores have there signs posted.
Opening and closing time.
But this, this was something out of the ordinary.
Not a soul wandering through the isles.
No checkout line.
It was intimate.
Being here alone surrounded by book after book.
Each with a cover beautifully drawn.
Genres of insecurities, dreams, ambitions.
Love.
Any spot on the floor felt like home.
Addressing myself in total seclusion.
Mornings spent in thought embraced by the cold air flowing through the vents.
Afternoons spent without a thing to do.
The nights when a pillow was the only comfort, drifting off to sleep.
Slow rather than fast.
I flipped through page after page.
Wandering from isle to isle undecided in which book I wanted to read first.
Eying the shelves one at a time.
Finding the beauty in what makes you, you.
The marked on pages.
The distraught covers.
With so little time I didn't want to spend every second over-thinking.
Analyzing exactly which stood out the most.
When in actuality.
They all are a part of you
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
Born into this carnival of rust
Fancying for your touch
Fancying for your love
All I see around is dancing to the rhythms of lust
Blown away by the winds of infernal heat
Colors bleed in the rain of angst
Desiring for your touch
Desiring for your love
Emptiness fills the vacuum created by life
When life was swept away by the waves of gust.
In the chaos, eying the gates of carnival of rust.
Drenched in the muddy slush of pain
Thirsting for your touch
Thirsting for your love
Caught up in the maze of a cruel game
At the end of which stands the gate.
Walls of vast abysmal expanse of mind, closing in
Encumbered by the dust of fears
vision blinded by the smog of illusions
ears assaulted by jarring sounds of confusion
Craving for your touch
Craving for your love
Don’t turn away.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
The devil walked into a store
Eying the clearance rack.
He made eye contact with the cashier
Walking towards the half priced jackets
Flannels & boots.
At that moment he saw something that
became his whole world.
His fingers wild with excitement
passing through all the colors
The hangers clanging against metal feverishly
to find that they didn't have his size.
He thumbed back through the sizes
as though something would have changed
Checking then double checking.
He asked the cashier if they had anymore
in the back,
much to his dismay
to receive the same answer.
He saw a cardigan in his size but hated the way
it looked.
Flapping the hood up and down.
He circled the store
Looking up & down the isles.
Until he noticed the buttons.
Those big wooden buttons
Memories of a different time & place
How fast time slips away.
All that's left;
Shoes to match
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
*In the crowded platform
he sure was the dancing peacock
in his heart was blowing a storm
he feigned though looking at the station clock.*
Not the clock he was eying that one lovely girl
her face storm gatherer like her hair's black curl
he blushed every time she would catch his eyes
stealing her a look in indifference's disguise.
He was within enjoying this farcical foreplay
didn't know her train his was an hour away
imagined she too was singling him out
from the flock of men his contenders no doubt.
Did a wispy smile float on her cherry lip
few moments' encounter could it be that deep
still in his wondrous thought the girl he did own
on that absurd stage for her his love was grown.
One could not tell what was going within her
her eyes were they touched shone there a star
was she too mindful of him held him once in gaze
or her mind was too far away on a different page.
The hour passed quick in the young man's trance
between changing trains with the peacock's dance
when chugged in her train flew away the butterfly
the whistles of his train drowned his rending sigh.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
She twists and turns under sheets and covers.
Sleep evades her as fire burns her cold skin.
Darkness shrouds like tapestries of terror
Warding off consoling light –
“Let me in… let me in.”
Boards creak and nails scratch the walls
Inching its way towards its fidgeting prey.
A monstrosity stands before her eying the
Trembling body –
“Let me play…let me play.”
It leans forward to her ear and whispers,
“I know what you’ve done, what a shame,”
Its serpentine tongue licks her cheek.
“I thought you were better, free from blame.
But you’re like the rest, foul and unclean,
A lump of mass and unfit to live.
Unworthy of redemption, so obscene –
Let me give… let me give.”
Sobs erupt from her quivering lips and gasps
For air from the weight of her filthy sin.
It caressed her hair with its skeletal, scaly
Hands, and kindly asked to
“Let me win… let me win.”
But a streak of light from the rising morning
Sun sent Guilt back into the dark.
A new day, a new beginning, an
Opportunity for a fresh start.
But from the depths of what has been,
There it waits for you to
Let it in… let it in
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 10:35 AM UTC
I will walk blindfolded
towards you.
I will forget I am walking
down the full moon.
One that's painstakingly alluring
so pure mesmerising beautiful.
Any star gets a glimpse of it
loses its sleep keeps eying on it
waking all night and it witnesses:
'The cutie is shining over my head'.
I will still keep it shut
I will let my sea sighs in the dark
while keep walking on my way.
Until you say so your sweet word:
'Now you do, open your eyes'!
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
In living flesh
there she lays on the desk
eying me like a piece of meat
her collar and hair, so proper and neat
we lock eyes, I succumb to her seducing stare
I start to pet her body almost naked and bare
she sees my crab cakes and eats them like a beggar ever so poor
she stares back at me as she cat walks to the door
her tail, wagging, her hair still proper and neat
that's exactly how she is, my cat Mrs. Keats
Sep 4, 2011
Sep 4, 2011 at 10:17 PM UTC
Seems like the only breaks we catch are the ones that follow hearts
We’ve known little glory and volumes of disappointment so far
Every time it seems happiness is within our grasp
Some external forces continue our beleaguered past
We’ve been the best, only to finish second
Held defeat in our hands when it seemed victory beckoned
And the moments may be few, but we’ll hold them tightly
Packing the Ralph by day, and HSBC nightly.
Jimmy Hoffa, Legion of doom and scary good
Reliving those moments as much as we could
Building houses in Pominville, brick by brick
Hoping to bring home the Cup for Rick
Remembering when RJ cried, “Who Else?”
Briere eying the cookie jar on that uppermost shelf
And with Vanek and Roy and Sekera and Weber
We’ll say our chances look better than ever
We are one, we are many, we are young, we are old
We are still believing, because We Are Buffalo
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 12:34 PM UTC