"framer" poems
Russia?
will Russia spare?
will Russia spare some peace?
will Russia spare Ukraine some peace?
sorry: they are at the feast
of making Russia important and strong,
and, as some Ukrainians were wrong,
as some Ukrainians were bad
wanting to be free with the West,
Russia did its best
to take the Crimea to protect their "toungue",
and, as it appeared it was great fun
for Russians living there,
even if it wasn't fair!
and Russians opened a war against Ukraine,
as Russia's government was in pain,
that Europe would accept Ukraine,
that, be it snow or rain,
Ukrainians were sane,
so Russia got the mean aim
to ruin Ukraine
as Ukrainians wanted their language and independence,
and Russia was counting onto the dependence
to have the slaves in Ukraine,
thus, killing the soldiers, Russia wanted to tame
Ukraine
putting it in ruins and flames
to get the fame
of the framer,
while the West was talking and shaking hands
with the accompaniment of the bands.
Ivan Petryshyn
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC
Just try and hit me with
a car
a fist
or anything worse than
well
I have not been hit recently
Despite skateboarding through traffic
Maybe my tall white anger
is enough to stop
geology itself for one slow moment
Or satan is on my side
Or someone is watching me recklessly
Take on an inertial framer of the references
to all 3 azxisy
I cannot be stopped
from pretending
to be in a private universe
Publicly I may require some protection from
Hitting famously the one thing I have been trying to avoid
Selling Out
well
honesty & arrogances
I have been BOUGHT IN...
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
I’m a construct; piece-wise and bilateral
Anointed by half pieces parted from wise souls
Who sojourned to two-states America in uncertainty
Bore fruit, and I’m part of the four.
As fourth, I am the neoteny of the family
I’m this fleshy symmetry
Can barely keep track
Must remind, crafted in his Immortal Geometry.
So I must grin and bear it
It goes so fast, I remember bits and pieces
Far from wise, before neo-belief
I match left and right but inwardly, I’m not so wisely pieced.
It didn’t take long, my journey, though certainly short, by peaceable ambulation
From where I’ve been, people I’ve met with this inner asymmetry
I want to fix them; with my black hammer and white nail
With my grey, pulpy, heart.
Yet I don’t have the means.
Now I just don’t have it, I need to amble over with mine
My beloved two wise figures of geometry, please understand this
There’s more than the framer of hand or eye, our hearts form imperfect amalgam.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
Paint that peels from vaulted ceilings
a wet shirt hanging
by two pegs,
a cold wind blowing through
my feelings
rheumatism in my legs,
but I'm alive with inspiration
which is
a bit like having
constipation
(sat waiting)
Putting everything aside
I take some time
to make some time
to take time and
make things easy.
It all goes on
we all do
wherever we may be
we are the central reservation
in the movement of
a vast
eternal sea.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 5:53 AM UTC
She crosses her legs,
one leg over the other,
dividing the dressing gown,
her foot dangling,
the pink slipper,
half hanging there.
The ward light
has no shade,
the light is naked
and bare and bright.
She gazes
at her reflection
in the window pane;
outside the darkness
of late evening.
I sit beside her;
we are both
in the frame
of the window pane.
I heard of your
latest drama,
she says,
had the nurses
rushing around
like headless hens.
You know
how it gets you.
There's always
a different door,
the quack told me.
What's he know,
except what he's ******
from books?
These
are my dumb medals.
She shows me
her scars;
they are like bracelets
around her wrists
and along her arm.
Where'd you get
the cord?
she asks.
Framer had one
on his dressing gown;
they never
checked him.
Heads will roll.
Almost did it,
I say,
looking at the guy
looking at me.
So I thought
when I sliced
into my flesh
last time;
matter of time
I told the quack;
he wasn’t impressed.
I take her hand
and run a finger
along the scars.
Smooth, soft,
pinkie-white,
whiter than the rest.
She uncrosses her legs,
then crosses them again,
different leg over,
foot dangling,
slipper stained by blood
hanging half off.
Who are they?
Yiska asks
pointing to
the two reflected images
gazing back at us,
male and female.
Poor sods,
like Dante's souls
in the Second Circle,
I say.
She turns her head;
the female image
before us
turns away.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 2:17 PM UTC
*To the herdsman counting his flock in the moonlight
The plowman repairing his tractor by lantern- light
The wood splitter , the fence builder , framer and rail tender
Architects of frozen December morns
Unsung engineers , freight worker and brakemen
'Twould be a privilege indeed to sup cold beer with the countries heroes , privy to stories of hardship and raw weather days endured by these American patriots
Iron tooled with steel , the churning grist mill , diesel engine roar ,
black earth turned anew , billowing steam settled over valley floors
Masters of metal , brake and die , machine and anvil
The crack of the peen long before sunrise
'Tis the bailiwick of farmer and tradesman* ..
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
Reality spoke with word of emphasizes
As I gazed into his eyes
He looked terrified
I felt nerves inside
The next stage of history he categorizes
As humanity idols and compromised
For the humans logic and reason
Was now seasoned by the serpent poison
The foundational truth of our existence injected with corruption
The heart motivated by evil inclination
The human race, universe, and earth
Were now under a curse
Unit the promised one will come
Things will get worst
After Adam and Eve had their first two sons
It became a conversational tradition
On how to honor the God of creation
What could and could not be done
One was a framer and the other a hunter
The yearly sacrifice need to be offered
One sacrifice fruits and the other a lamb on the alter
The choices to do what is right and wrong
Was now in their hands where it belongs
Not both offerings got accepted
The one who offered the fruit got offended
His jealousy led him to **** his brother
Into the ground poured forth his blood
Crying out for justice into the ears of God
He was judged and cursed as a ****** unit his days were gone
As men and women started to multiple
Their hearts were filled with evil
Angles lusted over the women’s beauty
To them, they came to sleep
And giants they conceive
The Creator was now agree
But there was one that found favor in His eyes
To him, he would speak
Noah was his name
Times and seasons were about to change
The Creator will share with him what was to come
He told Noah to build an ark and not delay
To take two of every animal and his family he would save
It was going to rain for forty days
And forty nights
The fallen angels were put into chains
For they taught the secret arts
To all plants and stars
Humans were never the same
For those that failed to listen to Noah
And not come into the ark would pass away
To be Continued..
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 6:07 PM UTC
In a hologram illusion where the light distracts the viewer and the evening stars seemed duller when your eyes had finished feasting on the shallow beads of breath that dripped from bleeding sacrifices, and the pantograph had copied, replicated perfect clones of you, you felt the morning shatter in a hundred flakes of sunbeam and you knew that all you'd ever known had gone.
The images kept running through the breaking hearts of suitors and the girls who wore pink lipstick threw their high heels in the fountains and the
holy men who watched them from atop tall lonely pine trees, prayed salvation for the masses, playing fiddles 'til the holograms were gone.
In the middle of the middle eye, a cyclops sees what we cannot, he looks into the sacrificial lambs led to the slaughter and the daughter that he never knew stands there with laughter on her lips,
time slips that way.
What we never know is when we go where do we go to after, does the daughter with the laughter ringing bells somewhere in heaven have the answer that we're seeking, does the wild cat mind when travelling alone?
But it's always somewhere far too soon and always under a blue moon,when promises are broken by the bending of the river that runs swiftly through the veins of life to splash out on a sidewalk and a hundred flakes of sunbeam never seems enough to wake me,
I must be gone.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC