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Westley Barnes Dec 2013
Bright windy November
with the slap of cold sun sending frowns
and the absent rain not beating down
choleric substitutes of alcohol withdrawal
and spatial omissions of home fires stoking
empty remembrances of faded potential and
misplaced amorous regret
Haunted by the lingering smell of the souls of
last night's GUINNESS intake staying swell in
the nostrils which is in reality the gulf breeze blowing
gullshit down the river Liffey giver of life.

...And here I am Dublin pillaged and funded
en route to the hour-rate slog
shiny white commerce bleaching out of
windowsills distracting from rooftop
Chiaroscuro  serenading a sky
which old ****** forgotten Sons and Daughters
will die under.

Boots tapping mock-goosestep to the ground
past a girl who speaks on her IPHONE to someone
who presumably not only wants to be seen speaking
to someone on their IPHONE but who also cares enough
to listen as the girl announces to all-and-sundry
human dodging on Bachelors Walk this fateful morn
that "I realised what my problem is Now! People
think i'm saying N when I'm really saying M!"

.....quite an existential crisis you got there, EH DOC?

("This girl's SITUATION belongs in a scenario in the TV show GIRLS which young
Woman Europe-wide have embraced as their spiritual saviour in an era of Consumer
impulse control. By placing the mundane generalities and perceived social failings
interpreted by young American female comediennes as instead representing a means of
self-forgiveness and attempted new-wave soft-core feminist self-celebration young American
actresses are inspiring a new generation of young woman to speak openly in a more in-depth level about everything that usually happens to themselves or some girl they know"-From "The Post-New Male Gaze: Interpreting Critiques of Stereotypically Feminized Pop Culture in Westley Barnes's "Notes on a Rant: The "Took Me Up To Dublin Where It's Famous" Notebook
:2013
)

This is the new white noise.

White Irish Male Critiques perceived socially-announced problems of White Irish Female over White Technology on a white morning in a grey city.

A grey city which subliminally stinks of shame and left-over guilt and of spending too much money on tecno-toys and new-improved nullifying debauchery and even rent during a significantly rough stretch of fiscal years. After a lot of years of white nonsense, really.

But this is where I took myself, and this is what happens once you take yourself here and this is where its famous for it.
Dublin,
Once Monto-based FUNDERLAND for the rich and royal turned over-waxie infested tenement slum district and second city of an industrialised economy waiting for the rest of the world to pay its way.
Dublin,
capital of green and squeaky saviours of the third-world who made some money and forgot about everyone else they used to know back home. Mr Poverty, Mr Humbleness, Mr Sense of Catholic Shame.
Until the rents got too high and they had to move home again.
Dublin,
no matters what it achieves, always putting itself down.

But I can adapt.
I've lived in Rathmines and Portobello before living in either was a
really hip decision to make.
I can find somewhere else before its gets gentrified
(after I find some job that's not worth complaining about
or I eventually leap into becoming to middle-class
to complain about it.)
enough that its a headache living there, too many men wearing the same winter
jackets. Too many packed restaurants and your local actually preparing the tables
in the run-up to the Rugby game on Saturday.
The less of all that, the better for me.

I used to day dream about all of the above, honestly, but I
somehow managed to regain my innocence by living through it.

As for the girl who discovered self-realisation on her (through her?) IPHONE?
She'll be alright. If that's how she starts wading through the floodwaters of relating
herself to the world, misunderstood syllables, name-fails and all, this time in twenty
years, she'll be laughing. Don't worry yourselves, she'll adapt with the times.
Sure, Dublin's famous for it.
Katie Mora May 2011
I’ve got fifteen years tied in knots
of green and brown and I have
decided that it is time for a change
of scenery. So I climb onto the roof
and pretend I am a chimney, spewing
smoke of blue and grey and lung cancer and
voggy Hilo mornings. A helicopter
circles overhead at an altitude of 805 feet, its
searchlight catching the neighborhood
lying spread-eagled on the living room
floor, brutally desecrated and left
bare-bones to die. I am a catalyst,
an instigator, a cynic with a palm tree.
Today I read an atlas and find
naught but “A Hui Hou” scrawled across
the pages in black pen. I burn the
book, the bridge, and the old tires in
the backyard.

On Saturday it rained and the floodwaters
took my bicycle.

Sometimes I sit by the roadside reading
Bukowski with hibiscus in my hair and
Indiana in my eyes. Hunting dogs
clash with rescue dogs at the house
with the stop sign. The moon falls
from the sky and engulfs the mynah
birds and the plague. The floodwaters
recede and leave a jigsaw puzzle
on the slopes of Mauna Kea. “I am not
afraid,” I say, “for I am only gravel.”
I play the eight-bar blues on Fortieth
and sing songs of drugs and missed
connections. I am hit by a truck and
a little gold car, but I proclaim myself
immortal as I am flattened to the pavement.
I am the Ki’i Pohaku beatnik, and
I write of nature and nurture and
the never-ending rain.

Someone has painted my walls blue
and my hands grey. So I pack my suitcase
and run down the highway for
seven thousand miles and all I see
are mistakenly-numbered houses and
blank maps and dead neighbors
from families I used to know.

There are torrents of rain now,
forming puddles in the forest.
I know the reason. It is twelve
in the morning.

The neighborhood grows obscure.
We are demolished.
2009
translations:
"hilo"- a town in hawaii
"a hui hou"- until we meet again
"mauna kea"- a mountain near hilo
"ki'i pohaku"- petrogylph; also refers to a rural subdivision outside of hilo
Jacob Sanders Aug 2014
There's a moment when everything accelerates
And there's no questioning, things just are.
Madly. Frantically. My mind gyrates;
Playing wildly, dancing upon each single star.
Blurred vision precipitates the tears
As I freeze, knowing in my heart of hearts
That each word falls upon belligerent ears,
And takes second place to your townhouse art.
What pain could Monet paint when floodwaters
Rise, and it becomes clear that the clearest
Understanding lies in the theatre's
Eyes? The curtains fall to the finale's dearest
Friend, and it's there I pretend that it's just a natural disaster,
That this is a craft I still find hard to master.
Sally A Bayan Aug 2022
The heavy downpour
took longer,
easily, it spread all over,
the weight of water,
drenched the ground,
the plants.....it doused
the body and
silenced the mind.

I stared
at the gloomy, grayed
horizon...while rain
poured without end.
the water level
rose...and swelled,
all active and dormant fears
lost their tethers
and darkened the floodwaters.

It seemed, the sky
really needed to cry.

and here we are, humans,
twisted...tangled up in the chaos
of a grieving universe.

With just thin raincoats
and light scarves as shields,
how do we escape the aftermath
of life's heavy downpours?


For lots of reasons, the sky
disencumbers...and cries.


sally b

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 31, 2022
...but, there is no escape,
.....just choices
........on how to cope...
It doesn’t make much sense that I love you.  I’m so wrong for you, and you so right for me.  I guess it does make sense.  But you don’t love me so don’t feel bad.  It’s okay, I understand.  I’m not a high class, well-educated girl.  I feel like you need someone more like my sister, not hot-mess me.  I never match, I’m always late, my hair is always frizzy, I can’t dress myself nice, I love you.  I ******* love you.  Why can’t it be that simple?  Why can’t it just be

I love you
I love you too
I love you more
I love you

I love you.  So completely.  So needy.  Truer than blue.  You’re just

So.

Blue.

And I love you.

Your eyes.  Your smile.  Your laugh.  The way you talk with your hands.  And slur Italian so ****. Your arms. Your muscles. Your skin. Your sweat. Your spit.  Your feet. Your chest. Your strut, hips swaying. Your hips, those hip bones.  My mouth is watering. I want you.

I love your anger.  I love your jealousy.  I love your stubbornness.  I love your cockiness.  Your ****, too.

I love your hangovers.  I love your attitude problem, the way you talk down to me and ruffle my hair.  And tease me and talk to me and you don’t love me.

And it breaks me so violently, snaps every single one of my ribs, one at a time.

Crack. Crack. Crrrrrackkk-kah.

It hurts me.  It will **** me.  But it’s so true.  Because you are so completely and fully

Blue.

You consume me, floodwaters breaking the gates in my mind, leaking into every cavern, swimming debris of you slicing my brain, shallow cuts bleeding into the blue.

You move me, an ocean untamed, your waves thrash against my sanity, turn switches all the way ON.

But you go through me, you don’t see me.  You are this endless, perfect, vibrant, enormousity of sky and I am a bird, mesmerized by your beauty.  

I’m not Old enough
Smart enough
Wise enough
**** enough
Charming enough
Graceful enough
Clever enough
Fast enough
Strong enough
Tall enough
Skinny enough
Crazy enough
Impressive enough
Bodacious enough
Perfect enough

To ever win you.

How is it possible for one person to make you feel so absolutely wonderful and absolutely awful at the same time?  Even now I feel self-conscious writing these words, as if you are somehow perched behind me silently dotting i’s and crossing t’s.  I wish I could be prettier about this.

For you.

I ******* love you.

And I can’t say a word.  I’m afraid to inconvenience you.  I don’t want to make you feel anything but bliss. Part of me wishes you could just feed off my rich, sweet, sticky love for you.  And you could live forever.  But part of me knows you don’t want to sip from my overflowing cup.

And
You
Come
First

So I’ve sewn my mouth shut and fed you the key.  I only hope you’ll reject it, throw up stinky bile all over me.  It’s the only love from you I even deserve.

I love the way you touched my thigh.  Your fingers just barely grazed it, as if sitting next to me was so natural you forgot I wasn’t a continuation of you.  I only wish your lips had followed.

Sometimes I imagine myself getting drowned deranged drunk and spilling my thoughts all over you, a slimy shower of emotion you would rub all over that ******* chest and your heart would pound so loudly veins would rip.  But then I snap back into reality when I bump into a pole.

You smell like Italy, summer, on the beach, with an ice cold fruity drink in my hand.  White white teeth, smiling around an orange wedge.

Whenever we talk I secretly reread our conversations and overanalyze and morph and mold them into the perfect love.  You and me.  I think you are pounding at the door ten flights down screaming my name.  But it’s just all the stupid drunk druggy college kids.

Am I a stupid drunk druggy college kid

To you?

I remember when you hit me in the foot with a door and I yelped “ow” and crouched to the ground. And you crouched down and said, “Are you okay?”  But you looked right into me, into my muddy eyes, and you were

Soooooooooooo thisthisthisthisthisthis close to me.

And I got angry.  And said, “Yeah, I’m fine, ****, calm down.”  Why did I do that?

I told you I have a bad memory.  I don’t.

Have you ever lied to me?

I’ve been writing so much all I can smell is the tangy bitter smell of ink.  And it’s sad that that’s the only sensation I’ll ever know when it comes to you.  

Unless you want ***.  And you might.  I could give myself too, let you use this mint-condition waterbag shell.  You could use me ‘till I wear down to bone and my organs look like rotten vegetables.  But it would **** me faster.

I will be your *******.  You can cheat on me and hate me.  And chew my nails.  Eat my skin.  You already set me on fire.  I’m just gonna burn out, anyway.

I want to look in the dictionary and write down every single word that belongs to you.

I want to write you suicide notes.

Every time I eat an apple, I think of the time you let me take a bite of your forbidden fruit.  And you bit right on top of my saliva and teeth marks.  Like nothing.

Because you are everything.  And I am everything else, nothing.

Soulmates.  So you say.  Why do you tease me?  You hang yourself right above me, a shiny, round, juicy, tender, tempting, sweet nectarine without a single bruise, just out of my reach.

I howl my rage at the moon every night, for tattooing your contagious inferno across my throbbing chest.

You make me cry.  Did you know that?  I cry into my pillow so it stifles my whimpers.  I sound like a choking, sputtering, snot-filled dog.  And I can never swim to the surface of the loneliness that is drowning me.

Sometimes, I just wanna ******* punch you.  And knock all your teeth out.  Stab you up the nose so the whole **** thing falls off in a gurgling, bubbling, ****** mess.  Because

Well I don’t know

You make me mad

But that made me think of you dying and the jolt that just went through my body was so searing I pray you’re immortal.

And I never pray.
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2023
Everything is BIG here.

Meals are big, bums are big, cars are huge and the skies are a million miles wide.

Janet and I are travelling in the Northwest of the United States of America, spending time with Boaz and Lisa in Idaho, Steve Yocum in Oregon and Greg and Linda in Washington State.

The trip is a "quickie" in that we are fitting one helluva lot into just three weeks duration.
Never in all my days have I seen such huge quantities of food served up in restaurant meals, plastic bags discarded, American flags fluttering and all the young, blonde girls in tattered, impossibly short cut offs and sleeveless tops talking loudly, incomprehensibly at a million miles an hour ......Just blows you away!!
Monstrous pickup trucks, Rams, Broncos, big V8s travelling the freeways continuously. Sheriffs, troopers and Road cops all wearing firearms on the hip, in their souped up pursuit vehicles parked on the roadside shoulder, eyeballing everyone as they pass, with a mean, accusatory glare.
Out on the range there is a million square miles of nothing but sage brush and basalt rock....and searing, baking heat.
114 degrees in the painted desert of Moab. Beautiful though with vaulting red sandstone cliffs and rearing stone arches against the blue-est of blue skies.
Standing pillars of ancient sedimentary rock born in depositions laid down in vast oceans of bygone eras, millions of years ago.

History is painted vast in this immensity. The gigantic and abrupt catastrophic inundation of a vast and deep inland sea, swelled suddenly by floodwaters of rivers diverted by lava flows from subterranean fissures....Unimaginable torrents abruptly released, gouging out ancient lava beds to create gigantic waterfalls and deep, sheer sided chasms.

Cascades that constituted the biggest river flow ever known in the history of the planet, washing away everything from the epicentre of the continent in Utah through Idaho to the Pacific ocean in the rugged coast of Oregon. Such was the Bonneville flood of 12,000 years ago illustrated today by the gigantic chasms created in the beds of basalt and rhyolitic larva throughout Idaho and the fields of massive, round, house sized boulders strewn from the floods origin near what is now, Salt Lake City in Utah to the coast in Oregon, a thousand kilometers away.

The two weeks stay with Boaz and Lisa just disappeared in a flash. They took us down to Moab painted desert, Zion National park, the Craters of the Moon, Monument National Park and up to Stanley and the Sawtooth mountains by the mighty Salmon river. Janet and I took advantage of a couple of push bikes hanging in the garage and spent most days cycling the local trails and visiting Starbucks for a celebratory cappuccino or two....Those bikes saved our bacon, walking trails in that heat was ******. Great hospitality enjoyed here. watched reruns of Sopranos on Boaz's 70 " SmartScreen TV and enjoyed Arnie's escape from postwar Austria to Mr Universe and fame and fortune @ Hollywood with Boaz whilst enjoying chilled margaritas in the hot tub.

The camaraderie of meeting an old mate of 45 years past, Steve Yocum of Oregon  a fellow writer and author. Both of us intent on shooting the breeze, putting the world to right. In some ways a sad exercise in that no longer can either of us make things right for with age upon us, neither has influence. We can huff n puff n blow the house down....but it seems, nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. The penalty of age is invisibility. The relief in it all is that, really, nobody actually gives a hoot!

Just two Old Dogs letting off steam..... it's rather cathartic actually! Thanks to Stevo, Ian and lovely Heidi for the accommodation, great hospitality and warmth.

The cool atmospheric relief of the serene and calm, Puget Sound in Seattle, Washington state gave welcome respite from the intense heat of the interior and the serenity of our cottage accommodations and startlingly beautiful garden surrounds. A forest of conifers and deciduous trees harboured gardens of blooming roses, hollyhocks and multihued cone flowers, emerald lawns carve swarths of sunlight in avenues of deep, green shade....a delight for the sunburnt brows of yesterday's heat.
Woken by the bassoon blast of the passing early morning ferry out in the waterway, to stroll out to sit at the very edge of the sandy, pebble beach and gentle surge of the deep, clear saline waters of the magnificent Puget Sound.
The peace of early morning crisp cool air, a seascape of moored fishing boats on mirrored waters, the distant Olympic range rearing to its' full 7,000 ft against a powder blue sky left us quite breathless with the utter beauty of it all....add to that a lovely breakfast offering of fresh berries, kiwifruit slices and yogurt and a chilled glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...and we absolutely, couldn't want for anything more. To Greg and Linda our love and thanks for giving up your beautiful bed, travelling us around beautiful Seattle and being our airline coach to and from Portland. We shall return the warm hospitality next time you hit NZ and Taranaki.

Vulcanism has dominated the terrain in Idaho, Montana, and Utah. Continental drift westward of the land mass has brought about a steady transference eastward of the massive geothermal hot spot which currently lies in Yellowstone park and which is the source of all volcanic activity within the park..
Idaho, in ancient times, wore the volcanic mantle of the region in having truly gigantic rhyolitic ash and magmatic eruptions. These cataclysmic eruptions emptied deep cavernous, subterranean magma chambers which collapsed under their own weight leaving vast circular calderas in the landscape. Subsequent plate tectonic activity caused deep faulting allowing huge flows of sticky magma to surge to the surface like searing hot black toothpaste, spreading across the plains obliterating all evidence of the rhyolite caulderas, surfacing the state, to this day, with millions of acres of hard black basaltic rock.
Here and there, rhyolite has wormed its way to the surface building gigantic domes, over the centuries these have weathered leaving statuesque, dramatic flat-topped mesa scattered across the landscape.
Altogether a truly unique and enthralling terrain for visitors to behold and one which reveals a dramatic insight to the volcanic and tectonic violence of the recent past and gives a definite air of mystique to the beholder.

In a land of 360 million people, supermarkets are downright huge...and they contain the spoils of the nation's plenty.
Acres of dazzling variety... and cheap by international standards. The very best of prime beefsteak, sides of pork, Alaskan cod freshly caught and displayed in rows of chilled enticing exhibit. Every possible vegetable and fresh picked fruit known to man in piled pyramids of brilliant, colourful display. Beautiful ornate furniture, beds, mattresses, tiers of car tyres of every conceivable brand and size, wheelbarrows, fertilizer, fresh flowers in mountainous display, ***** in barnlike chillers. Supermarket trolleys for giants..... and gird yourself for a marathon hike in collecting your basket of groceries...and give yourself half a day....you'll need it!

America has momentum, huge momentum. Across vast tracts of country lie networks of highway. Multilane concrete that tracks mile after mile carrying huge trucks with 40 tonne loads. Incessant trucks, one after another,  thundering along carrying the lifeblood of America, merchandise,  machinery, infrastructure, steel, timber and technology. Gigantic mobile freezers hauling food from the grower to the markets. Hauling excavators, harvesters,  bulldozers and giant Agricultural tractors. Night and day this massive source of production careers across the nation transporting the promise of America, the momentum which drives the Stars and Stripes onward, ever onward.

On the margins of the cities of Portland and Salem the unhoused gathered in squalid tent communities. In the beautiful city of Seattle I saw many down and out unshaven, untidy individuals with hopelessness in their eyes, pushing supermarket trolleys containing their sparse possessions. I drove through rural communities, some of which, reflected hardship and an air of despair. Run down dwellings in need of maintenance and repair, derelict rusty vehicles adorning the **** strewn frontages.
Not 20 kilometers away in Ketchum and Sun Valley Idaho the homes were palatial in grounds tended by gardeners and viticulturalists. Porsches and Range Rovers graced the ornate, rusticated porticoes. Wealth and privilege in evidence in every nuanced nook and cranny.
America is, indeed, a land of contrasts, a land of wealth, privilege, and plenty..... and yet a land that, somehow, tolerates and abides a fragile paucity which emblazons itself, embarrassingly, within the national profile.

On a hot day in Twin Falls, Idaho, I walked into a huge air-conditioned sporting goods store specifically to look at guns....and in the long glass cases there were hundreds of them. From snub nosed revolvers to Glocks, 38s, 45 caliber even western style Colt 45s and the ***** Harry Magnum with the long, blue gun barrel and classic, prominent foresight.
In the racks behind the counter are hung fully and semi-automatic rifles of myriad types...all available for sale providing the buyer has appropriate licensing.
In a land where mass shootings proliferate weekly, I ask myself....does this availability of lethal weaponry make sense?

The aching beauty of the mountain country in Northern Idaho, Oregon and Washington state cannot be overstated. The Sawtooth mountains, the Cascades, Mt Ranier, Mt Hood and the Olympic range. Ridgelines of towering conifers as far as the eye can see, waves of green deciduous running down to soft grassy clearings with boulder strewn, rushing streams and the cascade of plunging waterfalls. The magnificence of the natural beauty of this rugged, heavily timbered mountain country just defies description being far, far isolated from the attentions of man.

To happen upon this country from the far distant reaches of the South Pacific is a culture shock, to be suddenly exposed to the extreme largess. It is difficult to calibrate, hard to encompass, impossible to assimilate....but the people encountered warmed us with their generosity of spirit, their willingness to welcome travelling strangers into their homes....and, of course the invaluable time we spent with our family….and for these factors alone together with the huge magnificence that is this........
GRAND AMERICA.
We are truly, truly grateful.

Janet & Marshal
Foxglove@Taranaki.NZ
ottaross Dec 2014
A slow-rising migraine seeps into my head
As toxic floodwaters that fill the rooms of my home,
Seeping into my skull with powerful fingers
Like heat-seeking needles to pierce the calm quiet
Of a relaxed and peaceful reverie.
Fah Sep 2013
With distance
the distaste only grew ,
with time and foreign lands my tree of wisdom only grew
from the confines of meditational winter sprung forth with the seasons change a fresh spring
that led to summers bloom and now with autumns orange face upon us i find myself back where i began ,

where i ran , it seems i was running back
where i thought i had no map , there was something pulling me to a home of sorts
more than one , too many to name , in people who live and in places that breathe
where i roamed , where i broke down walls triumphantly pulling the bricks and letting the river flow through the once more
no more ****** damns to hold back the floodwaters

i had an inkling i was running off borrowed time
or at least credit
death on credit
death in reverse
birthed rebirth
again and again

yet here i am still in deaths ruptured flow -
the unconditional love ran out mother ,
it ran out and you used it up
you used it so , i know you needed it
so from my child’s heart uninteruppted i let that one go
i held it aloft so you would know that no matter what you do , you are loves loved love

you are loves , loved love
but , it all came crashing down around my ears and around my throat a noose with no name
but a holy ghost escaped my lips in angry overtones = this argument for arguments sake
and tears hot on my cheeks filling up my mouth with anti-septic salt water drops
that doused my locks and you said “come back to me when you can speak without crying”

tears are but distilled wisdom and i am your teacher
i am your child - for a reason , i learnt much from you but how much more can you learn from me..
for i am not you - but a part - apart
and the smoke fills my eyes blurring the lines between reality

but i had enough , respect is intended - always
but i have respect in myself and that’s what you taught me.

That’s why i smile at people on the bus and talk to strangers ; because
everyone is reaching their own goals, shining their own light and love is shared , mother , love is shared.
and i try to love
but love seems to be distant
i love

four men

one - island man
two - island man
three- island man
four - out way somewhere i don’t know , never have graced , hope to grace and maybe touch his face ,

is this wrong? is this why i sit up at night with restless dreams
because whenever i see any one of them my heart turns to shreds
and i recall what that love is one more time
one more time
on more time

one - touches and lunch
two - dinner without touches, yet.
three - cheesy beans and laughter lines
four - astral planes baby ,

it’s raining again .
i’m siting under a tree in holloway
next to a knoll with hot chocolate , passport photos and cigarettes

are they not all one and the same
whom would i devote my entirety to , would you take it?
would you take it?
could you take it?

where do we stop?
why not stop..why stop. stop. what? stop loves riptide ?
not likely , not by chance , but by simplistic design
no i will not go
i will stay

please, please.. please.

i want to dance , with you who are you?
an enigma of epic proportions

i read somewhere that if a poet falls in love with you then you will never be forgotten
forever imortalized in their sonnets
and yes , it is true

lover why so shy? why so elusive , who is your soul
won’t you quietly tell me of the bruises won’t you tell me your secrets
and let me smooth down your shorn hair

two.

this world was made to share
and so is my love
so it is my love ,

we are wounded healers
and my , have i never heard anything as poetic as that.

but i cannot stay lone with all this love as it burst forth because it is mine. mother .
it is mine.

so.

dinner.
i am back again , and it's stared to rain again
but i see blue skies clear
Carl D'Souza Jul 2019
A father carries on his shoulders
his 3 year old son,
as the father walks waist deep in
monsoon floodwaters
seeking to escape the floods
and carry his child to safety.

Monsoon floods
happen every year in India
and every year people are in flood-distress.
I wonder
what is the solution to flood-distress?
Better infrastructure like concrete drains
linked to concrete waterways
linked to reservoirs
which save water for the dry season?
I wonder
who will build this infrastructure?
How will this infrastructure be built?
Who will pay for this infrastructure?
The development of poor nations
like India
is a mystery to me.
I wonder
how poor flood-prone villages in India
will develop the needed infrastructure
to prevent monsoon flooding?
Dandy Nov 2013
All I want
is to dig you up
Push you out of my skin like oozing
pus, watch with intent and disgust as you
slither away from my desiccated corpse
I want you out of my head, I want you out of my
heart; I can feel the home I made for you in them
and that’s just it, it’s all my fault
I wanted this

It all flooded at me
and the floodwaters never fell away
Never ceased, constantly rising within my bones
Growing, reaching outward, mighty waves built
only to crash down upon a wavering shoreline
I did this all to myself in the end and you were just a part

This mess
is all mine to mop up,
so, I still cannot find all the words
to mend my own scars and I still
pick at the scabs and I still have not
found the right way to dispose of your dying memory
but it’s a start, a step that I’m taking to kick up some dust

I'm sorry
I just don’t think I can live with a definite noose around my neck
Ready to step off some creaky chair at every notion of
the lack of your affection

DDD
*(11/9/2013)
Steven Hutchison Sep 2013
We the people,
floodwaters rising over Kansas City banks
and marketplace levies,
are channeled into rooms
the size and shape of shadows
to be given direction,
to give direction;
waiting our turn to be
churned through turbines.
Our mass is growing stagnant
by this massive
****; This feels like surrogate thinking.
Our water is wasted on greco-roman men
chopping up districts into blues and reds
dividing and conquering the ocean.
Kay-Rosa May 2019
You call and say I'm aberrant
You don't wanna be stuck indoors deviating
I don't like your storms
I miss your floodwaters
I need an affectional sleet
I miss your earthquakes
Then you came with all your quaking
You must think I'm an aftershock
You must think I'm abnormal
Now I can't find the volcanism without you
Volcanism without you
Queer and two
Like the ingenue over slew
Subthalamic and cuckoo
And I'm dancing because you're undue
Twisters ain't nothing when I'm betraying with ya
Gay
Do you mind if I steal a permafrost?
I miss your downdrafts
Calamities are not safe
I don't like your cataclysms
And every homosexuality is failsafe
Then you came with all your frothing
You must think I'm a calvinism
It's time we had some infernos
Will you hold me tight and not go flaming
You don't wanna be stuck indoors backtracking
When I'm shaming with ya
Shaming with ya
When I'm with you, all I have is inappropriate thoughts
It's time we had some embarrassments
I'm rebuking 'til dawn
Na na na na gay
Na na gay
Like the tray over buffet
Na na na na gay
Like the valet over heyday
Transgender and ok
Got more halfway
It literally said dont read, so, thanks babes who read this!
Erasure & Found Poem from
"On Photography By Teju Cole in april 16th new york times magazine

--

You were The fast moving disaster of a tsunami
added to the slow motion disaster
of a nuclear calamity

Towns flooded
Infrastructure wrecked
Forests splintered
more than 15,000 people dead.
earthquake cut off
my external power supply
Floodwaters damaged my backup generators
Disabled it's cooling system
Overheating ensued
Fuel in three reactor cores melted
Releasing radiation

Everyone saw The water coming in
The roads swept away
Towns and harbors destroyed

Extensive documentary work
was undertaken by photographers
Of the ruins,
Debris,
Cleanup and relief operations

The gut-wrentching scale of destruction
The professionalism of the emergency crews
The fortitude of the survivers

The extreme uncertainty I feel
in our current political moment
helps me understand for the first time
the curious twinship
of mourning and premonition.

Information
about the tragedy
Sorrow for the suffering it caused
Gratitude for the work
that makes sorrow visible
Foreboding about the future.

An alert flashes
your phone
Something terrible has happened
Far away, a flood, an airstrike,
Soon, there's footage of people picking through wreckage
what used to be their homes

It is easy to pity them
Difficult to imagine this will be you
Suddenly bereft of a solid place in the world.

Listening to anything
that touches on the sublime
makes me apprehensive.

Like The silence that greets us
waking in the middle of the night
Donall Dempsey May 2015
"She...she. . .
loves me!

He says it just
- like that!

As if he had practiced it
and had got it

- down pat!

Or as if he were saying:
"Pass the coffee ***."

Or as if...
...I didn't!

I watch him
distorted in the coffee pat

a short stout man
a little man with a long face.

I want to laugh but
I have lost my laughter.

"My...sister! My...twin!...The *****!"

"Go!" I tell him "...just: go!"

He: went.

She felt like an android
or replicant rather..

She thought of her
self now

in the( "Absurd!" )3rd
person singular

as if she had fallen
out of her self.

He: gone.

All those moments
lost in time

making love to Wagner's
Tannhäuser

( screaming the house down )

always his laughter
her music

stars dancing over
the Bridge of Sighs.

A Santa incredulously
in a gondola

singing Santa Lucia.

"So...
me d'oh!"
she hummed.

This the little song
of her self.

"So mi doh!"

trying to keep its head
above the floodwaters

of belief.

Bladerunner rewound 99 times
to that END.

All those moments
...lost in time

like( cough)tears

in a glass of
red wine.
Lost in my Head Dec 2020
Dam
There’s so much I wish I could say
But as the dam holds the floodwaters
It shall cease till the day breaks
And the waves finally crash down below
Quick and ***** one
Holly Salvatore Mar 2012
Every night I have dreams
Of storms
Savage
And ravaging
Everything I love
Tornadoes carrying off my mother
Baby bobbing in the floodwaters
Dad
Under the logs of the house
Calling out to me
And I’m searching frantically
Eyes on the sky
All the time tasting the salt
Of the rain
The sting
Of the cuts in my lips
But there is no lightning
In the storms in my mind
Did I ever tell you I got struck by lightning
Seven times?
Once
On the couch at your parents house
The first time
I felt your heart beat
Next to mine
Twice
Fogging up the windows
On a December night
My tears on your shoulder
Your kiss on my forehead
The third time
So far from home
Wrapped in your jacket
Smelling you on my skin
As I fell asleep that night
Four
We were saying goodbye
Without saying anything
And two hours away
I was thinking your name
Five and six
You pulled me out of mom’s car
Took the keys
Awake in the spare room
All night long
Braiding my hair
Feeling my collarbones
On New Year’s Eve
You brought me home
From St. Anthony’s
Like nothing was wrong
I was still beautiful in your eyes
So you carried me upstairs
Tucked me in
Whispered love
And it was only eleven
Central time
Then the seventh time I got struck by lightning
My heart stopped beating
I stopped breathing
I said “yes”
Imagining the day I’d say
“I do”
And designing my new tattoo
You looked into my eyes
Took my hand
And said “I’m going to take care of you”
“you don’t have to worry ever again”
But now old fears come flooding back
Love washed away like debris
In the scenes from my dreams
I’m looking for lightning
And getting soaked
On my porch in North Carolina
Knowing I’ll dream of storms
Again tonight
Praying I’ll feel a little jolt
From the dark beside me
The voltage running through my skin
Is the same as yours
500 miles away
Asleep in Missouri
j carroll Jun 2015
my feet had barely greeted california
when my face matched the new summer,
cheeks blooming uneven,
eyes green as moss
and every face i glared upon
avoided looking too long.

walking through my least favorite airport
chin high, silent and ugly and wet,
i grieved for myself, i pitied my future, and mourned my past.
something lodged in my throat screamed with more assurance
and clarity and confidence than i have ever known
"this is not where i belong!"

i cried for my feet no longer squishing silica on white beaches
old skin disappearing in tiny fish
or kissing rainforest mulch, under-dressed in flipflops
taunting flora and fauna and fate

i cried for my skin, abused and bronzed
exfoliated in world heritage parks, the first shower in days
and oiled from water crossings in a run-down four wheel drive
a beard of blemishes i didn't bother to hide.

i cried for my ears, robbed of every accent,
of the crashing waves and roar of waterfalls,
or the same six songs played in every club in cairns
and the pterodactyl screech of flying foxes.

i cried for my hair, for my hands, for my nose.
i cried for my mouth and my tongue and my legs.

mostly, i cried for the death of laughter that started in the
pit of my stomach and rose up like carbonation
to my chest and my lungs and my neck and burst
like floodwaters in dorrigo
the elation and exhilaration and euphoria of being alive
that spilled out of me in screams and shrieks
and bubbled and flushed and insisted
so fiercely so strongly so urgently
that to relent was not even a choice but a right

and then half a year later
i sat dully in a fluorescent corridor at my transfer terminal
feeling my heart retreat, defeated
dreading the long months ahead
promising nothing but drudgery and boredom
letting the tears drip onto my boarding pass
black ink lamenting, too
and not a single person approached
or spoke to me
until i asked to wash away the moment
with a diminutive bottle of ***
a mile from the surface.
Gabriel Dec 2013
Capitalizing on the cuts, Trench deep, hiding painful emotions as they seep. Playing peekaboo with blood that seems to trickle through veins, wishing only for it to course like the floodwaters of torrential rains. A noose tightly wrapped with imaginary hate, contemplating as a never blunted edge waits. Wanting only to release what cannot escape from inside, slowly deciding if it's worth it to.......try.
Ylzm May 2019
There is a time to Reveal,
There is a time to Conceal.
There is a time to Stand in the Light,
There is a time to Search in the Darkness.

There is a time to Will as we know how,
and to Work with all the Might in our Arms.
There is a time to Yield to the Storms and Floodwaters,
and Surrender to the Thrills and Joys of the Fearsome Whirlwind.

There is a time to be Silent and Distanced,
and be Disciplined by Patience and Perseverance.

But there will be a time when Perfection is Restored,
Forgotten the Impossible Chasm
between the Glimpses and Glances
of the Desire for Oneness
in the Eyes of All Given Us,
And a Chorus of a Myriad upon Myriad of Angels shall Sing,
And Life shall be truly Life.
Joe Satkowski Nov 2014
Imagine yourself knee deep in floodwaters. Imagine yourself rescuing an old lady and her cat from a burning building. Imagine yourself actually living in a gutter.

Imagine a plane with no pilots. Imagine the moon, both sides. Imagine everything had changed; realize all of it has stayed the same. Imagine being drafted. Imagine war. Imagine the warmth of a room after coming in from the snow.

Imagine a grave, a shallow one, for me, or you, or no one. Imagine health. Imagine longevity. Imagine vanity.

With a knife to my throat, you ask my to say the alphabet from Z to A
With a gun to the head, you ask me to count the productive conversations between the two of us
Being that this hole belongs to me, imagine me lowered. Imagine dirt. On me. Worms, in my skin. Out of empty sockets and back in again through my ears. Forming a circle. Imagine me pounding, screaming to escape. Imagine red, blood. Imagine the end of the world.
Joe Satkowski Jan 2014
angles of presupposed superiority
in floodwaters i am thrown to you

torched the abandoned barn in the middle of the woods with you last night
you said you'd never forget it but you'd try and i said nothing to you
demosofpyr Aug 2017
There's a limit to your love  |  There's no limit to my love
Like a waterfall in slow motion  |  Like the floodwaters in motion, or
Like a map with no ocean  |  A vast and placid ocean
There's a limit to your love  |  There's no limit to my love
Your love, your love, your love  |  My love, my love, my love

There's a limit to your care  |  There's a limit to your care
So carelessly there, is it truth or dare  |  I thought it was there, is it truth or dare
There's a limit to your care  |  There's a limit to your care
There's a limit to your love  |  There's no limit to my love
Like a waterfall in slow motion  |  Like the tidewater in motion
Like a map with no ocean  |  Adrift on this calm ocean
There's a limit to your love  |  There's no limit to my love
Your love, your love, your love  |  My love, my love, my love

There's a limit to your love  |  There's no limit to my love
So carelessly there, is it truth or dare  |  You had it for years, these are my worst fears
There's a limit to your care  |  There's a limit to your care
Modification of James Blake's song.  Needed a retort from the other side.
Ashari Ty Oct 2018
All these thunderclaps
Yet all I applaud for is you

All these floodwaters
And my overflowing emotions

All these rain noises
Yet all I hear is your name
Cliff Perkins Sep 2018
Good for Nothing

I have been up for an hour now
And I haven’t done anything constructive
I threw on some ***** clothes
Made coffee
Took a walk

When I got back, I turned my computer on
It flashed its reminders and appointments
“Do this. Do that.”
Deadlines and commitments
I clicked the little button that says
“I’ll be there”

But I’m not there
I’m still here

Guilt inexorably and surreptitiously
Seeps through my defenses
Like floodwaters through sandbags
Showing me its mirror
With its version
Of who I should be

But the dogs lie peaceful at my feet.
The cool morning air caresses my cheek.
The sun proclaims that the new leaves
are a thousand shades of green.
The birds scold me
for sitting too close to their food.
PERTINAX May 2017
The sky was foreboding as we set sail
Dark tendrils dominated the horizon
And the telltale BOOM of distant thunder
Predicated a storm we will never forget

In defiance of mother natures fury
We pushed on
Uncaring and willing to face whatever
Obstacles she dared throw our way
Be it hell or high water
We would not quit

Neither the first disrupting sprinkle
Nor the darkening gloom could dissuade
The course we had set
As a cool chill began to soak to the bone

We yelled at the doom:

"Is this all you have to offer?
Nothing easy is ever good!
This temporary drizzle
Will never sour our mood!"

As if in response a thunderclap rose
And white lightning lit up the riverbank
Illuminating the disappearing islands
We had so stubbornly named
Engulfed by the swell of oncoming
Floodwaters filling the river to the brink
Pushing us ever onwards towards
Bank after bank
Hoping to capsize or submerge our hubris
For a monument to all who dared challenge
Her wrath

We yelled at the monsoon:

"We see you there
In the miniature big bangs
And the millions of bouncing diamonds!
We see you there
In the rising depths of oblivion
And the countless tons of tears!
We see you there behind it all
And we still love you
Mother nature dear!"

We yelled until we were mute
We rowed until our hands seized
We shivered until we were frozen
We pushed on never to be seen
Samuel Alexander Jun 2017
Abandoned,
Stranded on my own,
The pressure kept building,
The floodwaters rose,
You went and left me on my own,
Fled this mortal coil,
Now I'm broken, rust eternal,
I'm corroding in my mind,
You ******* left me stranded,
I might have done the same,
But this life held me like a briar,
Hooked into my flesh,
I could never escape,
Though the hooks are falling out,
Rotten just as I,
Never could come soon,
I'm doing in with doubt,
I'm scared for my friends,
Terrified for Family,
This thing that I could do,
The same as done to me,
You ******* left me,
Went without a word,
I told you I cared,
A brother you were,
To more than your blood,
A brother to me,
Tears came as a flood,
Now I'm a canyon,
Empty and dry,
I'm ******* empty and the alcohol isn't enough anymore,
All of these memories,
Would I be better without?
I miss you so much,
So very ******* much,
I ask why but you could never answer,
I can't answer,
All I can say is I'm fine and I'm not,
I lie with a smile,
I hide all the rot.
Sally A Bayan Nov 2018
Maybe, we're just walking...or working,
merely going through our daily grind,
suddenly, the unexpected pops up,
something hard to ignore...we react...

when circumstances call for it,
mothers and fathers become doctors,
other times, to  plumbers, or carpenters,
even ministers of the church...

some folks, after their nine to five stints,
volunteer....to mingle with despondent
souls, like prisoners... reach out to them,
as priests or trusted friends do......
some swim, or paddle through floodwaters
to give food and supplies to flood victims,
others cross through fires to save lives,
others care for orphaned, or abandoned kids...
nurses, doctors,  even ordinary citizens,
walk the extra mile...help those lost in their
own illnesses.....to find themselves back.
............................the list never ends...

"mysteries" always unfold before us,
their purposes are incomprehensible, but,
they turn us into healers, therapists, carers,
we, at times become miracle workers...

even cold-hearted people were born
with seeds of love embedded within them
in some mysterious ways, the willingness
to change hats occurs, when the need arises...


Sally

Copyright Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
October 29, 2018
Leah Oviedo Aug 2018
Today, I hope you realize how much you are loved
And it sets off a spark inside of you that burns brighter each minute
A spark that turns into a fiery warmth from the inside out to warm your hands and melt your pain into a wax candle of memories
A fiery warmth that never goes out
Not even when floodwaters rise to your chest
Today, I hope you realize how much you are loved.
I wrote this for my friends who feel so unworthy, suicide feels like an option. I love them and they are so fantastic, but they can't believe it.
Sally A Bayan Oct 2017
(Candles)

A different kind of wind murmurs
a humming repeatedly echoes
restless birds fly round and round
a ball bounces up, down...back and forth
all of these, amassed in one's awareness
like an itchy patch on the skin,
...nagging...

there're many reasons for sobbing
but few are heard,
cries of discontent, of despair,
of mourning, from waves of violence
man-made, and natural disasters...

babies are born under the sun, 'neath
bridges...growing up, bathing, under the
falling rain, in floodwaters of many seasons,
in rivers without warmth and passion...
they get older...get used to those waters,
becoming dark-skinned...red-skinned,
some remain fair-skinned, with disheveled hair
faces aren't smiling...not all are willing
to share their questions...just their needs...
they need plenty....they seek free time
free knowledge, especially food and shelter,
whatever could be spared...and shared
for them to survive...
the world needs new avenues, new routes
for those reaching out, but could not...

a spark...is where it all starts...
the world needs candles to light
keep them burning bright,
flames, be enforced...empowered
protected from being blown...to resolve
even a bit, of the nagging itch...

one would think...it's kinda impossible
yet the thought is countered right there and then

    with God...nothing is impossible!


Sally

Copyright October 7,  2017
rrab
Sophiea Jul 2013
12.
I wrote down words and folded them into paper boats.
Music and memories tucked away in fragile constructs.
I set them a-sail in floodwaters,
their voyages doomed, with my approval.
I wanted to forget you.
I still do.
winter sakuras Aug 2016
Why there are such things as drugs for pleasure
I will never understand
for at some point in life
we are all high
peering down and hollering from the peak
of the mountain
whether with fear or anger or love
or life's great psychotic events
Then we are low and empty
as a hollow oil drum
swaying in the darkness and savoring
the bits of peace
or bitterness
or sourness
or life

A being might seem
as if it can it be heartless
cold and empty
undesirable and unforgiving
but at some point in life
it will locate the sturdy
undisturbed dark metal gate
and the floodwaters will
discover their massive and livid strength
and flood until
the being can decide
whether it wants to feel or not

There will be some point in life
that our suppressed souls
our anguished minds
our lives in secret unexpressed turmoil
will make itself suddenly known
whether it be the decision to
****
hate
love
live
die
for we all happen to be the ones
with scarred upbringings
blurred lines and dark pathways
the shoulder to be leaned on
the mind to be lashed at
the eyes to stare coldly at
the heart to be stabbed at

We will all at some point
flood the gates and
let the world
acknowledge us
as the beings
whether great
horrid
dead
or alive
it has made us turn out to be.
It's not your fault.
Michael Marchese Jan 2017
Strengthened by our family ties
Yet wrapped-up in the week
Despite our peachy states of mind
Tomorrow looked like rain
Treading in the floodwaters
Of one more hurricane

Yet we serve to feel their pain
And share it as a team
For divided we will fall
But together we will rise
Beyond the tempests of ourselves
To clarify the skies

From the blue and grey disguise
Behind the clouds we hid the sun
Shining through the open doors
To meet their needs we must restore
The broken home communications
Starting at the corps

Lest we forget that we're the tide
The constant force of change
We ebb and flow in harmony
Or crash upon the sand
No disasters come between us
Or the oceans that we've spanned

And I have been at your command
To guide you through the storm
A drifting captain's leadership
Found purpose in his crew
The cargo beating in my heart
That ever carries on for you
Ari Apr 2020
When the floodwaters withdrew, he emerged naked
and raw.  He trod alone on sodden ground, *******
in air at the sight of a cloud.  
Yet he went nowhere.  There was no one.  
Finally, the Oracle took pity
and came to him.  While you walk, she said, throw
the bones of your mother behind you.  So he gouged
at the earth.  
With his hands.  With a *****.  With a plow.
But all he found was stone.
"This story was already ancient when it was adapted for the biblical text—which is to say, it records a very old fear. Like all old fears, it has the uncanny feel of a vivid memory. It may be a memory of an actual flood in an actual Sumerian city, Shurrupal, ca 2800 B.C.E. In fact, it may be even older than that. Perhaps it’s a fear that lingers from our earliest memories as a species: that the waters from which we escaped will one day come back for us, reclaim us. This perhaps is why, in a later Greek version of the flood saga (Plato mentions it, and it was in pretty wide circulation in the classical Greek world), the goddess took pity on Deucalion and Pyrrha, and offered them some survivor therapy: walk forward, she said, and throw the bones of your mother behind you. Deucalion correctly interprets the oracle to mean that they should throw stones—i.e. the bones of their earth mother—behind them as they walk. These stones turn into people and, thus, humans reclaim earth. We post-Freudians can’t help but hear a developmental insight in this oracle: excavate the bones of your past, your trauma, but put them behind you, proceed forward. The water didn’t consume you, says the goddess, but do not let the traumatic memory of it stunt you, either."
Tatiana Mar 2019
I've always found fast floods to be rather grand.
See how quickly they wash away the land.
I would never hide my heart there;
     I fear it would be swept away.
     I don't trust the rising waters today.

Though I'm impressed with how it takes over lives.
I stand just below the gloried sunrise
and watch the floodwaters slide.
     Moving quickly, yet looking sluggish.
     With an effect that's rather druggish.

The heart beats wildly at this concerning commotion
and it's a deceptively strong emotion.
Or so I've heard it said.
     I've watched many floods approach myself
     and I've left for higher ground each time for help.

There is a bridge - I think - it won't last long,
as it is no longer rooted; no longer strong.
It quakes, like I, as the waters approach.
     It will get swept away without its support.
     I feel I have nothing left to report.
A poem I wrote in December 2018

— The End —