"flanged" poems
We speak a languege only we understand from the day your hand found my hand our love is not difficult to understand but cannot be explained, you know all my secrets and I know yours, no lies no secrets and no wars afraid to fall yes I am Fall for you no I am not. I explained to you my fears you comforted me assured me I had nothing to worry about she was diffrent she made no promices but her voice sounded like promice itself I flanged my insecurities hoping she would head for the heals but she stayed and she was going nowhere. She told my wounds were fresh and that they needed to heal and she would nature me through my pain and hope that one day I,ll give her a chance to prove to me she she's diffrent. She never asked me to trust her but I did She never asked me to love her yet I did And Despite all the significant others she signified me. She was my home, my nest, my den, my cradle where I found peace from the vultures who tried to devour my meat but most importantly the reason why I loved with everything I had was because she sighed when I had to go She frowned wen I left She cried when I was gone She smiled when I retured. If you find anyone who goes through this emotional rollercoaster for you grab her with both arms and never let her go..........
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
We speak a languege only we understand from the day your hand found my hand our love is not difficult to understand but cannot be explained, you know all my secrets and I know yours, no lies no secrets and no wars afraid to fall yes I am Fall for you no I am not. I explained to you my fears you comforted me assured me I had nothing to worry about she was diffrent she made no promices but her voice sounded like promice itself I flanged my insecurities hoping she would head for the heals but she stayed and she was going nowhere. She told my wounds were fresh and that they needed to heal and she would nature me through my pain and hope that one day I,ll give her a chance to prove to me she she's diffrent. She never asked me to trust her but I did She never asked me to love her yet I did And Despite all the significant others she signified me. She was my home, my nest, my den, my cradle where I found peace from the vultures who tried to devour my meat but most importantly the reason why I loved with everything I had was because she sighed when I had to go She frowned wen I left She cried when I was gone She smiled when I retured. If you find anyone who goes through this emotional rollercoaster for you grab her with both arms and never let her go..........
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
myocardial infarction Eldrich power/ed
Chosen brisk perpetuity motion machines
Pumping nodes to arterioles backwards
stenographer tap rapping webs to dull the
Stoking sin flanged might gate cell shape
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
When I came up from my sister’s basement, I might have been a ghost. Expired and void, curious and confused. Her baby’s, my niece’s toys, were rivaled on the floor, but nobody was around. The sliding glass door was open, screen still at attention interceding bugs from our living quarters, but everything was unlocked. It looked as though people had been there just seconds before and suddenly dispersed leaving it in ruin. Maybe I had died in my sleep, and can no longer see people, just the things they manipulate. Could people see me? In this strange quiet stillness?
I always think the worst when I can’t find people. Like they’re being held at gunpoint by some ski-masked kidnapper. Or that I’ll find them drowned in the bathtub after I am forced to break the door down following a few seconds of no response. Would this be reality today? I decided to wait around before abandoning the scene and going home. Swooning the mesh of the screen door aside, I squinted my eyes severely from the extraneous glint of the sun after I had been asleep for elven hours. My untidy bedhead flanged out behind me like a peacock’s feathers. I noticed this while rubbing my eyes, catching my reflection in the glass part of the door. The deck my sister’s husband built was a sunlit Mayan orange; you could smell how the wood had dried after the thunderstorm preceding my sleep in their basement. Still, not a peep of human interaction.
I trudged back down the stairs in the desolation of the lonesome and languid house. The pit of my stomach enjoyed the idea of being a ghost, feeling like I had just gone over the edge of the first obligatory drop of a rollercoaster. Wanting to gather my things, I turned the handle to the spare bedroom in which I spent last night. My body was still in bed, comatose in what I could only imagine as being Death.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
.
I remember— we loved,
In stone cottage of hours
And the birds sang so high
To eternals of new sunrise,
You were everlasted, eyed,
My beauty, ageless, in kind,
I was purely anythings thus
As we once lived in a future
Of days light, a wonderment
More than always, devoted,
Yours and mine in entwined
Direction, the flanged arrow
Of time as it thrusts, freely,
Only forwards belonging,
Where, in the our future,
There is remembering.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
I remember— we loved,
In stone cottage of hours
And the birds sang so high
To eternals of new sunrise,
You were everlasted, eyed,
My beauty, ageless, in kind,
I was purely anythings thus
As we once lived in a future
Of days light, a wonderment
More than always, devoted,
Yours and mine in entwined
Direction, the flanged arrow
Of time as it thrusts, freely,
Only forwards belonging,
Where, in the our future,
There is remembering.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
New York City is like a cobblestone symphony,
where jackhammers and footsteps form the rhythmic timpani,
sirens and honking taxis, are the cymbals, that provide sudden bursts of energy,
traffic’s hum could be the violins and pigeon squawks a chorus of industry.
The sounds of life never seem to stop because they echo around continually.
Fifth Ave is fashions seat and in every store we saw teenagers tweeting,
perfecting an offhanded pout to pair with their newest, elite treats.
Envisage a High-(snob)-society playground, a cathedral of style in concrete,
where high fashion brands compete, with glittering displays meant to tease and entreat.
Bergdorf's windows are a whimsical winter wonderland, without a single touch of green,
and Tiffany's underwater dreamscape, contends with Cartier’s minimalist sheen.
At night, the buzzy bars ignite, and laughter spills like sparkling champagne,
flanged martini glasses clink in chorus, to silly school year stories, and tipsy holiday refrains.
We all know that times like a ballet dancer, who pirouettes in increasing haste,
holidays don’t last forever, Yale’s not known for leisure and new terms must be faced.
But for now, we’ll steal kisses in Central Park, because we don’t have a second to waste.
Dec 27, 2023
Dec 27, 2023 at 10:37 AM UTC
I have been like a blacksmith
Who forges only swords,
Sharp blades of war axes
Or heavy hammers
With flanged points.
Such were my arguments,
They were my thoughts,
They were my weapons,
They were my defenses,
The aggressive growl
Of a defensive animal.
I had plenty of resources,
To do whatever I wanted,
I could put my mind
On my most cherished themes.
But I didn't.
For I was a blacksmith
Forging weapons in a war.
I felt the urge of defending myself
From what could hurt
My soft inner-self.
So vulnerable,
Building defenses,
Fighting with courage
And strength.
I know
I am not vulnerable anymore.
Still, sometimes, there is a call to arms.
Or something that feels so.
Still, sometimes, I feel that urge.
To arm myself against a threat,
That maybe it's not even there.
I look at my molten metal,
And I imagine all the weapons
That I could craft.
But from now on,
I won't.
I look at all those metal,
All those would-be weapons
In my skilled hands.
And I think differently.
I can make so much more
With those materials and these skills.
I can be an artist, not a blacksmith.
I can be a statue of a horse out of bronze.
A bronze statue.
A bronze horse.
Yes, that would be wonderful!
So wonderful would it be to craft something
Out of love, or beauty, or interest or passion.
So different than building walls to defend you
And weapons to arm yourself.
So much more serenity in the process,
So much more satisfaction in the end.
And so, now I will built weapons no more.
I will build the bronze horses,
Or any other thing
That will make me yearn for something beautiful.
Jan 9, 2020
Jan 9, 2020 at 8:02 AM UTC