"girder" poems
He thought that he had been evicted like a raucous Irishman, late once again on the rent, his belongings and furniture strewn on the lawn
His cold, deadly stare and ruffled red, said the same, with haughty indignation written all over him
As could be expected with any eviction, belongings strewn to the street, it started to rain; large splattering drops falling from the sky with an audible impact, adding insult to the injury
But he was just a child, set free and off to learn on his own, his perch and roost along with his chair, moved to his new home
He had outgrown the large screen porch, which was such a ridiculous place for an Owl anyway
Wood and glen gone, surrounded by girder and screen, locked into the realm of old peoples coffee and cigarettes
Tucked up into the eaves ignominiously, or sitting on the lamp, grooming flesh from his over large and taloned feet
He would sit silhouetted by the dim red glow of the bulb, relaxing, until a noise would spin his head and he would become hooded and glaring death
The lamp added a glow to his eyes, which already burned with a raptors fire and he would become the personification of evil to the world of prey
Low and crouched, wings slightly spread; he would become the terrifying story that small warm animals tell their children at night to keep them in line and safe
But now he has been moved outside and all of his familiar belongings with him, or most anyways
Now he perches outside, either on the rough, twisted branches near his roost, or his favorite chair, and contemplates late into the night
But it seems that he prefers the comfort of his living room and he rests on the arm of the chair, quiet and pensive in the still and humid darkness
He stares at me while I smoke; the white plumes drifting like iridescent fog into the moonlight, while I observe him from his former home, illuminated by the dim lamp light
His saffron eyes gleam in the darkness, his dark form robed in that of the raptor, wings held down, with the tips outstretched like fingers
He stares at the lamp, standing like a pedestal against the wall and I wonder to myself
Does he want his ****** lamp moved out there too?
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
These streets knew feet in days gone by,
bustling sidewalks, crowded storefronts,
laughter, light and dancers leaking
out of smoke-filled bars.
Cars would wind through intersections,
blood cells between neighborhoods.
From The Corner came The Roar.
He remembers how the Autumn sounded
back in '84
when Alan Trammell brought The Series home,
the arcing shot off Gibson's bat,
the rolling wave of soaring voices.
Old English
"D"
tattooed on the hearts
of a city
who's been hurting since the 50's.
Bless You Boys.
Ya did it--
went and Sparked up Michigan
and lit a dimming town again
in Corktown's widening eyes.
In 20 years, though, losses pile up.
55 and starved for signs
of trends reversing, luck upending,
impending relief or just some kind of
something.
Sickening, cloying rapid decay
as neighborhoods die.
These streets know crumbling cinderblock
walls and blistered paint coats don't
cover ribcages starting to show--
steel girder bones--and windows blown
out, like teeth lost from a well-spoken mouth,
allow the Lake Michigan wind to howl
out the tale--
through oxidized bones--
of just what it looks like
when economic war hits home.
Heartbeats still find footing
in Motor City streets, beneath
the Old English "D,"
but mind the scoreboard smart;
the Tigers lost a hundred games
in 2003.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
My mind should strive if it claim the sole cure
To eternal joy for which I am due.
Though others prefer I give in the lure
My claim won't for 'tis foolish to be few.
To stay thus, would render only suffrage,
Though not a matter whilst I've my good teas.
Should my tourniquet no more bandage,
'T means it must hath be infested of fleas.
Thus I must claim the illness in form same
For though indeed I might cure my soul, I can ******
How shall my heart dirtless be; it hath blame!
The heat serves simply to aid this girder.
For that sole moment, I am that healing
Which can only be seen with fine loathing.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 7:37 AM UTC
There was once a world,
That did see no death.
It was so pure,
No one dared take a breath.
It was so perfect,
So bright and serene,
It was never depressing,
And it was never once seen.
The obvious truth is,
That it may have been pure,
And it may have been smooth,
Of that, I'm sure,
But nothing existed,
No life,
And no love.
No bullets and rifles,
Or pretty white dove.
No ******
No Stalin,
No pistols,
No pollen.
No Jewish,
Or German,
No you,
And no vermin.
No mean men,
Or ******
Just the ground,
And a twisted, old girder.
There was also no conflict,
No disagreement or strife.
No good men lay dying,
Yet sadly, no fife.
The truth is,
That as long as mankind exists,
There will always be anger,
And ignorance will always mean bliss.
As long as men walk the Earth,
Men will continue to hate.
At the same time they'll love,
And they'll count on that trait.
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won't
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.
Someone has to get mired
in **** and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and ****** rags.
Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall,
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.
Photogenic it's not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.
We'll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.
From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.
In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.
—Wisława Szymborska
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
for some two-hundred-something
arcing feet/provides
a girder for the lake;
grey bank with roots that leap from earth
to water
and under them myriad fish
bob in the current & snap up
those smaller than themselves.
Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
i don't spit it down the throat of every
girl who makes me feel less dead.. even
if death inside is a starred little sidenote
in the CIA World Factbook, it's some
-thing sacred in my jeans and undershirt
heart-pang-thump boombox screams for
help. I read deep into the books and so arrange
the angry letters to live again inside the head of
someone else who is 'out-there' in the letter-fed
litterbox of word salad, doused in the vinaigrette
of mossy, ancient, cradle-laden sadness. I wonder
if the world is made of sadness and my pain is just
a girder-- I wonder if the world is made of loss and
my heartache just a brick all sunset-red forever within
the orangey dusks of Eastern London urban suburb
industry-- and yet it couldn't be as loss implies an absence--
yet an absence might be matter in the vein of metaphysics
as metaphysicality.. all of it blaring sirens and quiet nights
alone in frothy evening heat, not enough aesthetic to this
new bedroom, lacking dresser-drawers desktop for god
-sakes you still live outta your suitcase ready to **** yourself
and bring your clothing with you like the pharaohs of Giza--
whoever left you stranded on this planet must've taken one
last glance on backwards to whisper rather sympathetically
'good luck' before the tryptamine caused him or her or 'it' to
fade back into the radiowave of the grave with life so condemned
to speech and distinction, you would never be lost in the fade...
what was there to 'say' anymore, except "hey everyone watch
my scars start to bleed *** they're scars we keep cutting on
sharp little ridges pretending they're gonna get better and
better and better again-- hey everyone pay attention to my
pain *** I'm not waving ********* I'm drowning.. I'm not
waving ********* I'm DROWNING"
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
Age 5, your my world I love you baby girl.
Age 7, Baby I want you to be careful this world is cruel.
Age 9, Your getting older but no boys okay?
Age 11, See boys break hearts please just sit and stay.
Age 13 (you realize everything you start to self harm), your to old or your not that old.
Age 15 (you run away things get worse and you have suicide attempts) Your just a bad child I wish you were gone your not good enough, you should have been sold.
What happened to me being your babygirl...
What happened? I guess your right this world is cruel.
I was so happy then I felt alone.
I know I did bad things but so did you when you were grown.
Hey daddy, Hey mommy... Look at my wrist.
I ripped a blade across it feeling Bliss.
You should have seen it, it looked like there was a ******
The boy I loved left me, he was my only girder.
Nothing ever lasts...
Im only reminded of my past.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
My trust is left as fragile as a spider web,
Yet, my love was as strong as a single thread,
As strong as a steel girder in one of your buildings.
When you hurt me, it seemed that the dark night
Would never stop trembling within me.
I was left to sleep outdoors with our children.
My heart lay in my chest bruised and wounded.
For a while it was black and putrid with hatred.
This was not the man that I knew so well,
Fell in love with, happily married. No, some
Evil "other" put poison into the vein to overpower.
As the fang bites deeper and they secure the grip.
The bite perfected with each attempt, at first
That which was only a snag of a fang held until
Both fangs could drip a poisonous brew into you.
Threads of the web slowly broken by her design
To envenomate and poison a "forever-bound" love.
She said, "Let me free you from the web.
Here, taste this."
Oct 26, 2023
Oct 26, 2023 at 12:08 PM UTC
Love is the girder that binds the Heart,
Builds the framework of happiness like a stalwart.
~
©Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 8:26 AM UTC
“Today I thought of you I wailed afore thee,
It was like large weight girder upon me,
The beating of my heart paused in submission,
The slabs before my life became to a blur,
The balmy breezes shed before the archipelago,
That beauty that piqued at my heart and soul,
I have searched for her this one I wish to adore,
You are the one I will never separate my heart,
Raging Waves of the sea froth out their own remorse,
Wandering stars to whom is served in eternal obscurity,
I shall give you my heart you are my craving libido,
As I lay beside thee we embrace like shifting sand,
Fervency on every part of your furrowed crevasse,
Nowadays there is no value for true love and honesty,
As any man I gather my strength from within my soul,
As a tireless sea that their strength from the deep,
One clings to the past because afore is not accepted,
Times preserving their former deep cold originality,
Forlorn I shall reach my quest to keep me safe.
The quest of the sea again my impending destiny”
By Andrew Guzaldo 08/30/2018 ©
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 9:55 PM UTC