"grounding" poems
Reminisce on all the early days
Stuck inside of a drunken daze
I went based off of all your fleeting words
Couldn't begin to think it all would hurt
Back of the head
Look over shoulder
All that you've said
I go over and over
I want to believe that you're honest and true
But you held my head under water, the coldest of blue
I'm angry I'm mad I release it in tears
Nowhere near the pain I've felt all these years
I inflict on myself some sort of grounding
Body or heart I'm used to the pounding
Back of the head
Look over shoulder
All that you've said
I go over and over
I want to believe that you're honest and true
But you held my head under water
The coldest of blue
Hypnotize me with the lies
I'll listen to it all despite
Pain distracts from desire to die
Who lives through this more? You or I?
Maybe I'll take control of all you do
My fake *** puppet
Serve my desires
in the end for you
Back of the head
Look over shoulder
All that you've said
I go over and over
I want to believe that you're honest and true
But you held my head under water
The coldest of blue
It took a lie for you to show me devotion
My own ****** up version of a love potion
Treat me good so you feel secure
Accept others admiration based on a fear
Back of the head
Look over shoulder
All that you've said
I go over and over
I want to believe that you're honest and true
But you held my head under water
The coldest of blue
My makeup is running and I'm feeling so broken
Its all a ******* joke
The words you have spoken
I empty my soul all the well
For a person so ******* full of themselves
I suffer and shudder
Bury all of it under
I cant begin to imagine
Somebody other
Than you
So drown me in the blue
I'll take it for you
For the sake of something new
Back of the head
Look over shoulder
All that you've said
I go over and over
I want to believe that you're honest and true
But you held my head under water
The coldest of blue
Is it for me or is it for you?
Is it for me or is it for you?
Is it for me or is it for you?
Prove it
If only
To feel good from what you do
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 3:42 AM UTC
My parents gave me a pink childhood framed with lace and luxury--
but a black stain has spread there, deep as the amount of time
I’ve spent thinking about what people are capable of, and how they can stand
hanging a mirror in every bathroom, because water cannot clean people
of the lie they told their brother or the betrayal inflicted against their friend,
some wrongs of which may never be realized, but will always remain
in the form of a new freckle on my left cheek or shadow beneath my eye.
And I am sorry, because I should have sooner heeded my mother’s words
when she told me I was the moral compass grounding you stonedust streets.
Your childhood resembled a light bulb broken before it tasted electricity,
no one taught you North from South and how different the terrain may become
when you find yourself in the mountains with only sandals on your feet.
I had been that for you, and you told me as much every weekend we spent
riding in the bed of my father’s pickup truck and shouting against wind-gusts
that threatened to carry our voices away from one another--
I have sinced learned there are many ways to **** a person.
I killed you when I stole your sense of direction like floorboards from beneath
your cracked and bleeding feet, and allowed you to fall--who knows how far--
landing in a pile of skin-biting needles and leftover sediment,
the very bottom of brown-glass bottles strewn across the floor.
Staying would have saved you, I’m sure, and I’ll never forget that I turned away
out of fear, cowardice, because I hated the sight of your skin-and-bone crowd,
friends in name but not in heart, and left you lost among them,
And you who knew no better remained, your humanity
expelled with each smoke-laden breath and then evaporating, nonextant.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
What truly is the definition of righteousness?
Is it determined by act or by mind?
They say a good man fights for justice, peace, and prosperity.
But then, can a man of such moral truly remain so
if he turns to violence as an answer?
Does his intent to create marvels render him of moral status
though his methods may empower death and promote war?
Oh, this man is peaceful himself,
taking letters instead of bullets to battle
but his lyrics dislodge society in a manner not all approve
and so begins combat.
Can this soul carry such holy title,
if the repercussions of his strung together words are strung up necks?
Or is the good man the one who turns away from the world's fight
to be his own embodiment of ethical beauty?
For the one who remains silent causes no direct pain;
he himself is passive and tranquil
and moves to inspire such conduct in others without commanding it.
But his silence encourages fierce vehemency and wildness.
Does this fact not taint his name?
The first man had pure intent,
but with his tongue he spit sparks
which others used to ignite a fire and burn the world.
The second did not fight himself
but his chosen hush could never end the blood rain,
and so his lack of sharp verbosity allowed knives to flash and blood to spill.
So I will ask again,
what determines morality?
Though this time with a grounding response;
morals define morality.
Each man's mind renders his own flawless ideal individually,
and so one's perfection will always be another's monstrosity.
In truth? There are no good men,
or at least not one to all.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
[new moon]
Moon girl is breath and curve. She catches light and throws it back to the universe. You see her and tremble, falling, as she once must have done from some heavenly place.
[waxing crescent]
Moon girl is wild. You follow her into the forest where she steps barefoot into a stream and takes your hand, water swirling over her feet and hers. She talks about roots and branches and flight. You are in love.
[first quarter]
Moon girl is dancing. Moving her body, dynamic, unpracticed elegance, shaping space, graceful, unafraid of audience, unafraid of pause, unafraid to bend and swish and rise, flying, electric, boundless. She gets everywhere. In your morning tea, clouds, April storms, wrapped in sparkling strung-out melodies, and especially in your head. You dream of waist, skin, movement holding her and warmth, closeness, desire kissing her and your heart burns soft inside your chest, a lantern lit by lunar beams.
[waxing gibbous]
Moon girl gives you violets. You give her your hands, open; your heart, open; your soul, open. You give her everything, or you try.
[full moon]
Moon girl is with you, always, this silver fire here in the filth and blood and terror, head on your shoulder, palm on your skin, speaking to you in ways language cannot, grounding you, saving you, saying your name, holy, lifting you up, repeated tenderness, voice low, eyes deep, glorious, and she is steel, she is iron, she is endless.
[waning gibbous]
Moon girl smiling. Moon girl watching. Moon girl brave. Moon girl rough and sweet. Moon girl creating. Moon girl radiating. Moon girl moving, toward you.
Moon girl.
Moon girl.
Moon girl.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
Ears pressed cool against
glass tables and vinyl flooring
words score high drained slowly
slow like wasps caught in guttered draining
not like velvet names etched in casing, but weathered like bricked and beaten graffiti –
Waning like wax always melting
Tools: spelling and grammar – uncheck
Don’t fret too many gerunds grounding air suffocating hearing between the lines that past lower truths out straight in dirt and stinky face: eyes drawn with pensive staring
lines drawn global remains of words unused: boycott form because it isn’t daring.
Adopt sonar because it traces the smokestack between eaves drop
and scrap metal hearing like thorns prickled cut by cleaver.
Clink, clink, clank.
Unlatch cellar doors of images fixed in meaning: glances slanted
heads poked out behind legs enchanting ink under eyelids.
Clank, click, click.
Wishing: Sunday morning came to rest and the cat perched rest without the windowsill and the space between my legs lost meaning.
Forgetting: Painted houses haunting furniture misplaced, training lessons in memory fading.
Dreaming: Sounds dipped in vegetable oil, Van Morrison in teething states caring.
Still lost without my last breathe wondering…
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 1:31 PM UTC
There is something so grounding about the rumbling of a train going by,
And then the soothing, settling of the surroundings as it runs off into a whisper, escaping the reaches of your eye.
I sigh.
Another train, in opposite direction sliding by.
I see in it the line drawing my potential demise and simultaneously untangling my turmoil inside.
I am fried.
I am fine.
I am so drawn to these tracks where the machine-cars glide,
A deep-seated need to witness
Their Force, their Direction, to Feel Alive.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC
You say one thing
And demonstrate another
Most of your actions make no sense
I'm tired of your tyranny
Over my life.
I'm starting a rebellion
Against you, I'm tired of your controlling
****** behavior, yelling
And grounding me for weak reasons
You waking me up at 3 am
To complain and belittle me
Asking me questions that I'm too tired
To even comprehend
And punishing me for
Wrong answers and bad attitudes
You've taken everything from me
Through sleep deprivation and
Lack of free will, lack of privacy
you've taken from me
My sanity my kindness
My little willingness for socialization
My level headed disposition
My thirst for knowledge and reading
My creativity and imagination
You've turned me into...
I think your turning me into you
And starting today, I'm taking myself back
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
I'd never be the same to hear those lovely words,
The 3rd night the game we played,
Cupcake hearts and chocolate pies,
Snowflakes and shooting stars,
Getting lost, grounding land
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
I trace her swollen lips with my fingers, feeling the slick warmth as her wetness drips, thick and inviting. Each delicate droplet clings to her soft, plump curves, her body ripe with unspoken need. My touch lingers, savoring the weight and the heat, grounding me in the raw intimacy of the moment. Every nerve in my body hums with desire, my **** hard and aching, desperate for the warmth that only she can provide—a blanket of pure ecstasy.
Her **** glistens, kissed by my spit, a delicate pearl shimmering in the dim light. My tongue dances around her sensitive tip, teasing, tracing tiny circles that spark pleasure through her body like waves crashing against the shore. She moves with me, riding the rhythm, each flick of my tongue sending her hips into a frenzy. The heat between us is magnetic, every breath and motion charged, tantalizing and electric.
Jan 2, 2025
Jan 2, 2025 at 4:55 PM UTC
You are me
A diamond in the rough
and an unpolished gem
Rough around the edges:
sparkles hidden by worn
patches of life
Lost in the hum drum
of broken hopes and dreams
separated by stretches of land;
yet somehow, united on a whim
You are me
A mixture of soils and faiths
A terra cotta ***
planted with seeds of hope
You are the stem
to my blooming petals
Grounding me, nourishing me
together we are the Earth's rose
You are me
Hummingbirds of hope
and lovebirds in the spring
We are a paradise of believes
in an ocean sparkling blue
filled with all our
dreams come true
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC
aboriginal
pre-literate
innocent and forever renewed
(as if flash flashing
back and forth to heaven)
one hundred trillion cells of me
notice i am noticing them
i send them
all my love
grounding
i am walking tree
with fibrous light as root
grounding
i am sitting stone
galaxy within galaxies
infinitum spinning
my body
the dance of the universe
do you tell me i am anything less?
do you tell yourself
you are anything less?
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
in this
pocketful
of limbo
the distance rises
in curls of smoke
a prairie fire
siphoning into
crisp edge
of forest
Inside my
uncloaked ventricle
primeval forces
turn my blood into
dusted gold
as they pump
sacred texts
into my oxygen
They roll your quintessence
upon my fingers,
playing inside
my psyche's
wild ache
a spread of orifice
in spellbound mantra,
as I spit out
the
hairy thorns,
a holy purge of
internal
engravings
Somehow ---
like a miracle,
I grow ripe seedlings
from deep within
my womb
as I trip into
a universe rising
I take wisps
of your grace
as it brushes
the jut of my
astral collarbone
You are always
grounding me
like this,
my tongue
tripping
over velvet
stance of warrior
assuaged into silk
Without you,
I might be
whisked off into
the periphery
of chaos
but instead
I am simply
tied to
the urgency
of the little novas
about to
explode
While I wait
I tend to
the wildfires.
to make sure they
are still burning
I keep my honey
wet and fresh
upon your
lips,
let my pores
drip moonpools
into your glistening
wet of mouth
and only when
it is time
I let the whole of
me burst
into the
fire -wrapped
tips of
stars
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:56 AM UTC
Beneath my covers in the
dark of night,
I felt pulled tight.
My pajamas and
underthings finding all
the wrong places.
At my time of change,
I was gifted a bed.
I felt freedom.
A space of my own, finally alone.
The eldest, released from the pack.
Revelation of delight,
naked under soft sheets.
I felt the coolness.
My skin alive, fresh from a
warm bath. Feet wrapped safe,
deep within layers.
The Dreams came then...
I felt their calling.
Whispers beckoning me
into flight,
to float above,
observe my simple beauty
Gently slipping towards the galaxy,
I felt no weight.
Nebula's Helix, Saturn and Orion,
their colors became the
pallet of My mind.
Able to soar with the eagles,
into the depths of the oceans.
The whales called for me to follow.
Walking within the beam of
light, I felt warmth.
Crystalline aquifers quenched
my thirst. Grounding me to the
center of our Earth.
Of an age now,
that comfort has settled in,
I feel whole within.
Naked with my soul.
The sheets still cool
after a long warm bath.
Copyright © May 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
At top of the hill
A fragrant hill
Stands the blue windmill.
It has bricks of gold
from the Cotswolds.
It stands lonely, cold and still.
No wind to blow here anymore.
Blood sweat and many tears
once lined the dusty, white floor.
Now ivy of green hugs the door.
No stones turn
no fire burns
grounding flour to make a pound.
Every hour, each second counted.
Hands of the brave
that made a mark to engrave
their time on the hill
where now time stands still.
A Raven who calls to the midnight air
His wings as blue as the blades
His body as deep as the ace of spades.
As old as this story has been told
new hope is about to unfold.
The Raven is about to learn
as once more the blue blades turn
Through the yellow window
a farmer's wife
begins her new life.
Her golden apron, her new dreams
the sparkle in her blue eyes
whips up a wind like never before.
The generator stirs, the life uncurls
like tail from a happy cat.
Except this is tale that is about to begin.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 5:11 AM UTC
My brain is a finely tuned A string
Plucking and picking itself out of tune
And though out of tune itself
Molds and bends to be in tune
Relative to others.
My skin like a mahogany fingerboard
Is constantly pressed
And squeezed and slapped
—Abused by my own hand.
My mouth and tongue are f-holes
Through which my inner vibrations
Are released into the air.
My heart is a bridge
Keeping my thoughts
In their rightful place
But also connecting
My body and mind.
My bones make up my sound-post
Holding me together
And providing the structure
Necessary to speak.
My feet are an endpin
Grounding me
And connecting me
To my surroundings.
Occasionally a bow comes along
Forcing me to do or say
The opposite of my desires
Moving me
And playing me
Like an instrument,
A toy.
I am a cello
Here to say what I want
How I want.
Though my strings need occasional tuning,
I decide how they sound
And when they sound.
Although I am sometimes used by others
For their gain
I am always in control of my expression.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 9:36 PM UTC
All too often the view is bleak,
generations under scrutiny and constant critique.
When all that lies within is misery,
all it might take is a tweak.
A new perspective.
A new technique.
To open the mind and think.
All too often we're blind to the beauty surrounding,
it can enlighten and be astounding.
Your spirit begins grounding.
A different view that seems to be organically compounding,
and tears fall as life's true nature becomes clear and resounding.
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 4:11 PM UTC
My life pressed like those perfect folded sheets. Married in steam and good intentions of having life together.
Of course, that always starts with making your bed in the morning and filling the days with things you ought to do.
I'd spent my whole life trying to be this person....
I can't but help miss the stain on my coffee table and my linen sheets sprawled across my floor waiting for my return.
The chaos in my life felt like a harmony of bethovan's seventh symphony. A beautiful orchestrarted master piece I could only make the sense of.
I was an absolutist. Completely content with the messiness of it all. Entirely captivated by the beauty and desire with urge to succumb to it all.
The unequivocal grounding of not giving a **** at all if at least felt good.
I can't help but wonder if the person I'm unbecoming is the person I should be saving.
Jan 13, 2023
Jan 13, 2023 at 1:36 AM UTC
In the moonlight,
I place my face on the cool hard wood floor,
in a futile attempt to feel grounded.
But my roots do not take easily
and I continue to wither,
awake on my bedroom floor.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 1:12 PM UTC
Five for fighting
hands to the face
personal foul
player disgrace
Illegal contact
leap in the fray
willful head shot
leg astray
Encroachment defense
mouth guard out
roughing the passer
back field bout
Grounding the pigskin
mis-aligned
horse collar tackle
clip from behind
Knee on knee
offside end
unnecessary roughness
too many men
Gross misconduct
poke in the eye
hooking the shooter
sticks up high
Match ejection
over the top
face off folly
penalty shot
Unsportsmanlike conduct
chopping the block
slew foot infraction
hammer lock
Stick to the head
kick in the crotch
**** end jab
adhering the watch
Slashing the d-man
spearing the wing
running the keeper
back checking
Intentional grounding
stoppage in play
punching and hacking
delay of the game
Striking the ref
aggressor in fight
obstructing the line out
ear in a bite
Loss of downs
hands in the ruck
pinching and boarding
illegal upchuck
Rules of the battle
by the bye
pushing the limits
with a wink of an eye
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!
to think, is to not narrate,
much of what is regarded as
"thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
hands with a tongue...
hence: idle speech,
hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
(tongue)...
but most people don't think,
because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
their day-to-day...
and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
i really do...
how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
really bothers me...
the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
(iberian inverted questioning
¿ ? that's the first step toward
an iberian existentialism)
said the third person,
with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
of the writer's original testimony?
if northern existentialism (french / german...
the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
encompasses the tool that's " "
then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e. ¿ ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
but aphorism 285: "worldview",
"grounding", "configuring"...
i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
aren't all the three descriptive elements /
adjectives the purposive sentiments for
originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
found in the existential tool of double-ditto " "
or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
from passing the judgement...
they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
The days ticked by like the audible second hand of her watch. A quick and halting surge and pause.Each one unique holding for the next.
She lived the moment
She loved the lights.
Breathing in love, exhaling
Hope.tomorrows stuck to the refigerator door with doctors appointments
Prescriptions and pills and potions.
Still there
Yellowed paper now
Reminders of her before the grounding.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
The mind, it is a funny thing you see,
The o rgan with possibly the most ability,
Tricks us into believing the false to be true,
Often it points out the worst about you,
Increases your self doubt , your panic, your stress,
Even on days when you've been feeling your best,
Brings up some issues which are hard to push through,
Where do the thoughts come from? I haven't a clue!,
The anxiety arises out of nowhere,
With nobody else these thoughts you really want to share,
Will they think you are crazy, a bit mad or a mess?
Even this will bring about more stress,
"Take a deep breath and practice grounding" ,
The words you hear no matter what surrounding,
Can we explain our feelings , what's going on inside,
When we ourselves have no understanding of these lies?
Never shutting off , laying awake late at night replaying every detail until morning light,
With anxiety comes insomnia , more issues which occur,
The mind, the greatest o rgan.. are we really sure?
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 7:31 PM UTC
the coffee's too bitter
and i'm losing sight
of a rose-colored dream
that tethers me to actuality.
i wish i could sleep but
the acridness permeates,
feeding my mind with a thought
that runs, and falls,
and caves in—
like a dying star,
devouring any hope of
a good morning's delight.
the unwelcome has now stirred awake,
so i hide between these words
and wait for salvation to
take me under its wing.
alas, the clock keeps on ticking.
maybe peace never visits at night.
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 1:23 AM UTC