"frighten" poems
They say home is wherever you lay your head at night
That must be true
because my former house has a lock on the door now;
a lock to keep me out.
I never realized this is how it is to be homeless,
the endless wandering of a place to rest at night
the endless cycle of hunger and
thirst and
protection
I walk out of work with not a place to be in the world
and if I’m being honest it should frighten me.
I am a wanderer.
I have no sense of direction,
no moral pull,
nothing to lose and everything to gain.
I have this endless feeling of discomfort and
an airy breeze where the good in my heart and soul should be.
I am a girl, not a very beautiful or talented one.
I belong to anyone who belongs to everyone.
Home is where I rest my head for a night.
Home is a backseat
Home is a smoke filled room at 2 am
Home is a parking garage
Home is a strangers bedroom
Home is a feeling rather than a location,
but those who have a lock and key and
a mortgage fee will never understand.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
Pretty for a black girl?
Does that mean I’m pretty at all?
When you look at me
Is it only a pigment you see?
Pretty for a black girl?
What does my skin tone
have to do with the beauty
In me?
Pretty for a black girl?
Why is beauty only found if i'm fair?
Is my complexion the first thing you compare?
Pretty for a black girl?
Is that all I am?
Why must I be less than
the rest of them.
Pretty for a black girl?
Is a compliment that's cruel
I don't care what you say,
you're a part of the kingdom I shall rule.
Pretty for a black girl?
Do you say it to be mean?
Regardless, I remain the queen.
I am aware my coiling curls
or my tangled locks
may frighten you too,
that's good, they weren't created to impress you
Pretty for a black girl?
Don’t hate because my flawless color doesn’t need adjustments,
It is you that must alter tones to achieve approval.
Pretty for a black girl?
Approval is something I do not need,
Compliment as you please,
But my beauty grows quicker than you breath
While you flip your hair and tan your skin,
Watch me wink and grin,
because my confidence is the only style that's in.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
this door exists,
stately and staunchly it stands,
disheartening and terrifying it remains.
the door is unlocked, yet cannot be opened,
for in it, a path in time...
one decision that can affect everything
[such as my choice to wear the necklace you adore,
which lead to you noticing me for the very first time,
or my idea to play you the song that you fell in love with,
which i can no longer listen to]
...for in this door, one path
is intimidatingly located.
every bone in my body,
every last muscle, tendon, ligament
each artery, each vein, each capillary
every single nerve,
even each microscopic cell,
implores me not to open this tempting door...
[it is almost as if my hand refuses to grasp the handle,
to unleash the unknown upon me,
the colossal chain of events that would ensue]
the immensity of the unfamiliar,
the unexplored,
tends to perturb me.
change is unnerving
and is almost as chilling
as an abandoned graveyard at midnight.
but i bring my mind back to the door,
yes! this preposterous door that i have contrived for myself.
why is the **** so easily turned?
why does it not put up somewhat of a fight,
at least jolt me suddenly,
as to frighten my curious heart?
it is a constant battle between my body
my mind
and my heart
as to which doors to open
and which ones to leave ever so steadfastly closed.
but never once has there been such a struggle
for them to reach an understanding.
somehow my heart,
[even though a fraction of me,
a fist, dripping in blood]
is prevailing for the moment.
my heart reaches for the handle,
attempts to unclose the door...
yet, with the best of its ability,
withstanding my strong-willed
and obstinate heart,
my powerful body and commanding mind
overcome this hostile takeover,
and the door remains shut.
it is my body,
my skillful mouth,
my soft, rose lips,
my elegant tongue,
and my vocal chords...
all of these pieces must
contrive the words,
conceive the change,
which will unveil the path that will forever alter us...
slowly, opening the door.
being as in love with you as i am,
i will not let you slip away from my arms right now.
but when we are not together
[*i wish you’d have been there,
i needed you there*]
i stare at this humbling door.
if i wait too long, i’ll forever lose you;
for it is you who will make this choice for me,
opening your own door, fearless and dauntless.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
Don't approach a dog unknown to you
Holding out your hand, making eye contact
You may frighten him
Let him come to you
Don't write a poem uninspired
It won't work out
In good time
Let it come to you
Don't go out there seeking love
Like a child with a butterfly net
Live your life
Let it come to you
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
Electric sun twirls its lava skirt.
Slammed woks.
Peanuts, chilli, limes and oil
Feeding him its lunch.
Shelter to chilli cheeks and peppercorn faces.
The air can't move its obese body to the rivers for a dip.
Darkness is hard with sturdy edges.
Curtains made of invisible beads and threads hang over the night in silence.
They spill against the concrete under rough hooves and feet
For the night falls like tight heavy lids.
Dusk is a bruised tunnel of vision.
Candlelit giants blinking rapidly.
You don't speak
For the night is never empty
The silence never lonely
Stampede of restlessness surrounding
Grinning from squint to squint
Raising embraces and chance encounters
They scream loudly to frighten the dawn.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 2:14 AM UTC
HERE IS WISHING EVERY INDIAN A
HAPPY DIWALI
On a dark no-moon day, comes Diwali.
Sing children joyfully, "aali re aali, Diwali aali".
Tiny lamps, make this dark no-moon night bright.
Indeed this is a beautiful, eye-pleasing sight.
Children, I know, crackers you love to burst.
But kindly a minute spare, n listen to me first.
Minutes few of fun, cause problems very big n grave.
People many, suffocated feel; n pollution we pave.
Frighten we, little babies n of course, dogs too.
In future, about our actions insane, we will rue.
Celebrate let us Diwali, with beautiful, colourful Rangolis n lights.
Share sweets special; homemade n healthy.
Helping moms to them make, even if you are wealthy.
Let's a portion small of these goodies, with the less fortunate share.
Prove let us to ourselves, that we really n truly care.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:20 AM UTC
It's a still morning, quiet and cloudy
the kind of grey day I like best;
they'll be here soon, the little kids first,
creeping up to try and frighten me,
then the tall young men, the slim boy
with the marvellous smile, the dark girl
subtle and secret; and the others,
the parents, my children, my friends —
and I think: these truly are my weather
my grey mornings and my rain at night,
my sparkling afternoons and my birdcall at daylight;
they are my game of hide and seek, my song
that flies from a high window. They are
my dragonflies dancing on silver water.
Without them I cannot move forward, I am
a broken signpost, a train fetched up on
a small siding, a dry voice buzzing in the ears;
for they are also my blunders
and my forgiveness for blundering,
my road to the stars and my seagrass chair
in the sun. They fly where I cannot follow
and I — I am their branch, their tree.
My song is of the generations, it echoes
the old dialogue of the years; it is the tribal
chorus that no one may sing alone.
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You challenge my mind like no other man has
My thoughts are racing like a speeding car ready to run out of gas.
You frighten me in so many ways
My mind craves your attention and my body wants you for days.
A song says “I want to keep it like it is, so you can’t say how it used to be.”
I close my eyes so that you can’t see all the pleasure I feel when you’re deep in me.
I want to strive to make it better then it is, so you’d never be able to compare us to the past,
Rest assure my Dom you are the first and will be the last.
People seem to think that some things are too good to be true
My Dom I’ve found an extraordinary thing in you.
So the next time you put your lips on mine,
Just think to yourself that this sub is all mine!
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
Being lonely
He beats the gong again
The guard of kabiya.
* kabiya: cabin in which kabi (fire to frighten noxious animals like stags and wild boars) is made in autumn.
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On a dark no-moon day, comes Diwali.
Sing children joyfully, "aali re aali, Diwali aali".
Tiny lamps, make this dark no-moon night bright.
Indeed this is a beautiful, eye-pleasing sight.
Children, I know, crackers you love to burst.
But kindly a minute spare, n listen to me first.
Minutes few of fun, cause problems very big n grave.
People many, suffocated feel; n pollution we pave.
Frighten we, little babies n of course, dogs too.
In future, about our actions insane, we will rue.
Celebrate let us Diwali, with beautiful, colourful Rangolis n lights.
Share sweets special; homemade n healthy.
Helping moms to them make, even if you are wealthy.
Let's a portion small of these goodies, with the less fortunate share.
Prove let us to ourselves, that we really n truly care.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
But can you love me in the deep? In the dark? In the thick of it?
Can you love me when I drink from the wrong bottle and slip through the crack in the floorboard?
Can you love me when I’m bigger than you, when my presence blazes like the sun does, when it hurts to look directly at me?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me under the starry sky, shaved and smooth, my skin like liquid moonlight?
Can you love me when I am howling and furry, standing on my haunches, my lower lip stained with the blood of my last ****
When I call down the lightning, when the sidewalks are singed by the soles of my feet, can you still love me then?
What happens when I freeze the land, and cause the dirt to harden over all the pomegranate seeds we’ve planted?
Will you trust that Spring will return?
Will you still believe me when I tell you I will become a raging river, and spill myself upon your dreams and call them to the surface of your life?
Can you trust me, even though you cannot tame me?
Can you love me, even though I am all that you fear and admire?
Will you fear my shifting shape?
Does it frighten you, when my eyes flash like your camera does?
Do you fear they will capture your soul?
Are you afraid to step into me?
The meat-eating plants and flowers armed with poisonous darts are not in my jungle to stop you from coming. Not you.
So do not worry. They belong to me, and I have invited you here.
Stay to the path revealed in the moonlight and arrive safely to the hut of Baba Yaga: the wild old wise one… she will not lead you astray if you are pure of heart.
You cannot be with the wild one if you fear the rumbling of the ground, the roar of a cascading river, the startling clap of thunder in the sky.
If you want to be safe, go back to your tiny room — the night sky is not for you.
If you want to be torn apart, come in. Be broken open and devoured. Be set ablaze in my fire.
I will not leave you as you have come: well dressed, in finely-threaded sweaters that keep out the cold.
I will leave you naked and biting. Leave you clawing at the sheets. Leave you surrounded by owls and hawks and flowers that only bloom when no one is watching.
So, come to me, and be healed in the unbearable lightness and darkness of all that you are.
There is nothing in you that can scare me. Nothing in you I will not use to make you great.
A wild woman is not a girlfriend. She is a relationship with nature. She is the source of all your primal desires, and she is the wild whipping wind that uproots the poisonous corn stalks on your neatly tilled farm.
She will plant pear trees in the wake of your disaster.
She will see to it that you shall rise again.
She is the lover who restores you to your own wild nature.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
Maybe I should give up?
Maybe I should stop?
Maybe I should let go?
Or maybe its just a small hiccup?
I see things I worry about,
Or at least I think I should,
But who knows what will happen
Anything could.
So do I sit here and worry?
Sit here in fear?
Or get over it?
letting the chance of pain draw near.
Of course I'm afraid,
Who wouldn't be?
he thought of losing a loved one
It doesn't frighten only me.
So I guess I should figure it out,
one way or the other,
But I hope my fears are wrong,
Because I don't want to lose another...
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
Hello swans with your brown signets
On the near edges where the weeds blend
And the green meets the trusted stoney bed
You frighten a little with those huge wings
The strength to **** if fear struck an orange eye.
The ducks and drakes trailing fluffy ducklings
So linger daring the hands of bread and biscuits
A continuity of return until fat and bloated, stop.
Their tail feathers sharing a twitching line march
As they swim back to the safety of the reed beds.
Love Mary
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
A secret society founded as a dark, heavy rainstorm
loomed menacingly one night in November of 1888
over Boston University; Sarah Ida Shaw,
Eleanor Dorcas Pond, Isabel Morgan Breed
& Florence Isabelle Stewart sneaking in their
nightgowns into the dusty attic where Florence
swore she had seen three black cats sitting
in the rocking chairs talking; to humor their friend,
the others followed her up into the dark attic:
meaning only to frighten Florence, Eleanor
pulled a kitchen knife; the uncomprehending
Isabel & Sarah forcing the terrified [so they thought]
Florence to her knees; while there, eating the *****
of the knife-wielding Eleanor, who raising her stiff
nightgown told the others to do likewise until they all
were satisfied, shouting - meow meow meow meow -
old lady Murphy hollering up the attic steps: 'who's up there?'
the three girl giggling their little heads off running
past her down the stairs; Florence nearly tripping,
coming down a few moments later, also grinning
but silently to herself.
'what are u girls doing up there?' -
'playing w/ the cats,' said Flo, slipping past her;
'Cats! Cats!' shouted the old witch, rushing up the
stairs raising her broom [from that evening Delta Delta Delta (ΔΔΔ)
has met to lick talking black cats in secret college sorority rituals]
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
The lustful gleaming of the ocean sky,
Keeps me walking in a nice delight.
I am high on the river top,
Like a kite trying to dress up the light.
My fears, dreads, and tears,
Are washed away so tremendously,
That my hearts begins to beat with frequency.
I am no longer the naïve, too scared to live child,
That enveloped me into a cradle of sheets.
My freedom came about,
And my life has just rose to a shout.
The people that I find,
No longer frighten me,
Because I am changed, positively.
No longer do I hide inside my windows, you see.
I ride on to the risks that were forbidden to me.
I conquered my rules I made,
And find that connection is key to fate.
Black and white, was so last year;
I am now a full blown rainbow who dares,
To be strong, intelligent, and keen.
For my confidence is finally in place,
Where it should have been years ago.
I know I can, and I know I will,
Be the shining star, I didn’t know to be.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
Today is the anniversary of another trip around the sun for the woman I love more than any other.
Happy Birthday to my mother, Elise
who drew me a picture of the female reproductive system
and labeled the parts
and explained the process
of ************
before my body ever had a chance to frighten me
who taught me the word
******
and taught me that there was nothing silly, or shameful, or icky
about the word
or having one.
who taught me
that people are inherently the same
and humans are valuable
and the meaning of the word
humanity
and the value of justice
and the meaning of the word
"injustice"
and consistently confronted it
often uncomfortably
but un-apologetically
whenever we found ourselves in its presence
Who responded to compliments
about my appearance as a child
with humble disinterested grace
and taught me with intention
in everything she said and did
that what is valuable about me
is my mind
and my heart
kindness
spirit
ethics
righteousness
some may say too much of the latter
who taught me about Janis, and Sylvia, and Frida
and Roe v Wade
and punctuation and articulation and diction
and the Serenity Prayer, and that Galway Kinnel poem about what is still possible...
I love you Mom. I could go on forever. My love and my gratitude for you - and what you have gifted and instilled in me - is bigger than the universe and eternity and possibility.
So glad you are with the sweetest child in the whole wide world this evening.
Loving and sending you love and bright light so hard.
Micah Haverly 2015
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, not thinking anything and just staring. A few minutes later she took a deep breath and opened the drawer. Took out a box and observed it for quite long.
She took out a blood red lip colour and began to apply. While applying the lipstick she remembered how exciting was dressing up was to her when she was a child. This red colour was much brighter to her than now. These bangles were much more fascinating than what they are now. She recalled the days when she uses to stole her mother's makeup kit, She recalled how her mother used to beat up as if she had committed any sin.
Her eyes were much sparkling when she was a little kid, Now even the coal pencil cannot bring that shine again.
She stood up without any emotions, She was as blank as a white paper.
The beautiful red lehnga with golden embroidery suits her perfectly, Her long black hair and wide eyes compliment her outfit completely. Oh, how beautiful she looks but something is missing. There is no happiness on the face of the girl who always loved to look pretty. She was living the nightmare of every girl of her age. How ominous her life is she wondered, with this thought tear rolled down.
Took a deep breath and controlled her emotions. Wore her dupatta and came to a room, Decorated with roses and candles and bloom.
It was perfectly decorated like every girl fascinates. But for her, this was nothing of value here it is reflected by her face. This room was decorated for her like this every day, someone waits for her in the room every day.
Nights haunt her, the moon scares her. Men frighten her. Now she knows why her mother used to stop her whenever she said she wants to be like her, Now she knows why her mother cried whenever she hugged her.
These bangles are fetters to her, All the colours are not so happy for her. Her innocence is lost somewhere, she doesn't even remember when she laughed last without faking.
She is like a body without the soul. She is like a night with no moon.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
Firecrackers to frighten the animals.
Shadows of mountains run
On the surface of the fords.
3.9k
Shoefly don't bother me
Shoefly don't bother me
Shoefly don't bother me
Or I'll begin to frighten thee
Laces on leather sneaks
Laces on leather sneaks
Laces on leather sneaks
Make a loop then round the tree.
Tall boots up to the knee
Tall boots up to the knee
Tall boots up to the knee
Come here and get in bed with me.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 2:39 PM UTC
In this evil year, autumn comes early...
I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,
The wind on my hat...And you? And you, my friend?
You are standing--maybe--and seeing the sickle moon
Move in a small arc over the forests
And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.
You are lying--maybe--in a straw field and sleeping
And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.
It's possible tonight you're on horseback,
The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,
Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.
Maybe--I keep imagining--you are spending the night
As a guest in a strange castle with a park
And writing a letter by candlelight, and tapping
On the piano keys by the window,
Groping for a sound...
--And maybe
You are already silent, already dead, and the day
Will shine no longer into your beloved
Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,
And your white forehead split open--Oh, if only,
If only, just once, that last day, I had shown you, told you
Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!
But you know me, you know...and, smiling, you nod
Tonight in front of your strange castle,
And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,
And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,
And think about me, and smile.
And maybe,
Maybe some day you will come back from the war,
and take a walk with me some evening,
And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch,
And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,
And no one will speak a word of his worry,
Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,
Of his love. And with a single joke
You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,
The summer lightning of shy human friendship,
Into the cool past that will never come back.
3.8k
I cry, I frown, I aggravate, I shout
She laughs, she smiles, she simplifies and rejoices aloud
She is totally different from me
Se lives in me but is always free
When I frighten, she enlighten
with every step she brighten
she is a child in me
full of glee
when I become quiet in sadness
she does all work in quite Madness
what I deceive, is her believe
This bond is what makes us unique
We take different trains from the same station
My every work is a subject to her allegation
our roads don't match, but our destinations do
I don't know why her clumsiness is better than my neatness to
We both are one unit
I am a misfit, she is a nit wit
But, I lack the charisma she has
yet I am learning the way she act as
So what, we take different paths
we reach the same parks
Hurry up, I need to end this poem
to stop her playing from a toy lion...
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 1:55 AM UTC
With an azure drinking cup studded with lapis, wait for her
In the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses, wait for her
With the patience of a horse trained for mountains, wait for her
With the distinctive, aesthetic taste of a prince, wait for her
With seven pillows stuffed with light clouds, wait for her
With strands of womanly incense wafting, wait for her
With the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback, wait for her
Wait for her and do not rush.
If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.
Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair.
Wait for her to sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering.
Wait for her so that she may breathe this air, so strange to her heart.
Wait for her to lift her garment from her calf, cloud by cloud.
And wait for her.
Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk.
Wait for her and offer her water before wine.
Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest.
Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble.
As if you are carrying the dew for her, wait.
Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string,
as if you knew what tomorrow would bring.
Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring.
Wait for her until Night speaks to you thus:
There is no one alive but the two of you.
So take her gently to the death you so desire,
and wait.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
the moving shadows of
the men gathering
flicker in my vision
cause me to ponder the moment
in a way i had not seen before
cause me to fracture the vision
to decode the meanings in
each mans motion
each mans meaning
her long black hair entangles my head
as dose her deep long looking
her neat clean eyes frighten me
with their possibilitys
with their depth
with their hot beauty
it is not my place to find
a place in this womans life
i am but a distraction to her
somthing to occupy the moment
to phish for lost keys
in sections of some dreadlock music
she erased poems to fit onto the kindle
she removes her shirt
to rinse out the sweat
in the tidal pool
a young woman nearby stops
and stares
smiles when they meet eyes
and i am surfing my beach bike alone
walking it
home?
where am I
where am i going?
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
One day, two incidents, one enemy; we’ll never forget,
A day which changed map projection,
Which apart the hearts,
Extirpate many dreams,
Floating bodies in the river,
Conjoin pain and frighten memories,
Memories which we would recall on 16th December,
When we were recalling the memories of severance with Dhaka,
Woe was in the breeze,
But an enemy afar from all emotions,
Bloodthirsty souls; Extirpate many dreams,
Dreams of to become a pilot, doctor and a responsible citizen,
One day, two incidents, one enemy; we’ll never forget,
We’ll never forget,
One enemy but two faces,
First Dhaka than Peshawar,
But they did not knew,
Events of dolorous conjoined the nations!
By: Nida Mahmoed
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
I wish I was a big fat brown furry squirrel
Up in the walnut trees I'd scamper and twirl
Collect my delicious nuts for the frigid winter time
Invite squirrl friends over to party and dine
Take sweltering summer days to run, jump and play
Frighten some silly song birds along the way
No worries of the coming days
No bill collectors at the door to pay
To just live wildly free
Like nature was ment to be
Live out my life in a comfy hole I made in that old walnut tree
That tree was here in my grandpa's days, it's as sturdy as can be
In the winter curl into a warm ball and try to remember
Of where I hid my stash of nuts, come December
I want to be a big fat happy squirrel
Never angain a sad woman-girl
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC