"hallowing" poems
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Lean incandescent
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
18k
Excuse me Miss, the test results are back.
We’ve spoken to your family, and we are
Sad to say that you are numb.
You will start your treatment tomorrow.
I’m
So
Sorry
I’ve been numb for some weeks now
It started at my toes
It nibbled on my legs
It flirted with my head
Slowly but surely tiptoeing in
Numbness is a silent killer
It plays nice and deceives you
Creeping through my body
Then it took my heart
For numbness is a backstabber
It is not what it seems
It uses other emotions to find you
It is covered by fear, for they are good friends
It hides under sadness’s billowing cloak.
And it is smuggled through the heart’s border by anger
But now it’s in my heart
For the soldiers have come out of the Trojan horse
They pillage and take
For numbness is greedy
They start at interests and the hobbies
It makes them seem boring and not worth while
See numbness is tactful, precise, and deadly
It plays with your mind, and slowly eats away at your heart
Hallowing it out, emptying you
Numbness is always hungry
And now I don’t know what I have left that it could take.
Do not worry, for this illness you have, this plague, it is not deadly
And while the treatment we have prepared for you will not change you back
Because once numbness steals, It does not give back easily
It taints your mind, and like wine on a white tablecloth
It does not fade easily
Numbness scars the mind
It leaves its signature with a heart
You will not be who you used to be
You will be faded version of yourself
And a talkative young girl like your self should not be worried
For those who come into our hospital as vibrant and colorful as you
Don’t fade as much as the quieter ones
See you were stronger than them
Your mind did not give up as easily as theirs
But we are treating you early
And you will be fixed, not to worry
Our results of this treatment are stellar
See you will not be fully put back together
Just a little shattered
Not as broken
Mar 14, 2011
Mar 14, 2011 at 9:03 PM UTC
Total me a dream
Find me, a corner of an eye
Save me, the turn of chaste, in whim
And poise, me is a reason to be why
A house...
A character of decency, we delve long and tight
A stirring hour, we hope is beyond a days shroud
Taken with the memory, of sincerity to share might...?
A place...
Found with the eyes of wonder, we make for ourselves
Chance heiring, in the name of a vice's pace
Of coping how, and the semblance of seclusion, a wealth?
A room...
For sign's of witness, particular to shadows of change
Wealth is to be the common, the thought to let liberty mushroom
And become a friend, of worth in loyal sates; however strange...
A step...
Forward with communion to entail even the solitude, we meant
For a night's angel, and the demands of couth we select for wit?
See the composed guide me to the strength I know, is more sent...
A stone we should know...
Passing all to follow the method of our following
Promise and privilege, in the seem, to wish once upon a time to owe
Swept away with the today we accept, is a now in the hallowing...
Jun 28, 2023
Jun 28, 2023 at 8:50 PM UTC
The cat lies on the table. She is keeping her own council, a philosophical feline. It is mid afternoon, an hour before the possibility of tea and cake. Already the room is retreating from the lamp's light into a dusky gloom. Outside the winter garden lies still, damp and cold and still.
Rain comes. A winter rain, almost snow, spreads itself across the window. Ice-full it is a drum with tiny particles rolling across a taut skin of glass. The cat stirs, turns on his side exposing a tummy of white fur. An old cat this, a silent presence now, hardly a purr on a waiting lap.
Books. Piles of books. A book open to reveal pencilled annotations. Several arrangements of papers paper-clipped together, colourfully highlighted. There's a scholarly journal 'borrowed' with a concert programme marking a ‘required’ read. Telemann and Bach infiltrate an investigation of Jewishness in George Eliot's Daniel Deronda.
A framed photograph stands companionably amongst today's letters and the coloured cards of Christmas to come. There's a red-haired girl, a portrait against old roses., a child in a school-blue dress, freckled with green eyes she is smiling carefully, as though not convinced taking this photo is a good thing.
As darkness encroaches, the stories in this space circle the lamp like moths. They rise from the table, detach themselves from the walls (like bats) and float in their own form. Catching leaves, wish-making in a September wood; the fierce tide pouring across the Lindisfarne causeway; small children picnicking by a cricket field. The recent thrill of Jerusalem. Taverner's Mass –
*Oh Western Wind,
when will thou blow,
the small rain down can rain?
Christ! If my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!*
Here in this small suburban room there comes together a past; a life reverberates in a temporary peace, a truce in the long campaign of family, ageing, ****** discomfort, obligation, regret (always regret), passion unspent, books unread, poems still to write. And this waiting for a clear answer yet to come, a promise yet to be fulfilled? All is contained here as the alarm clock's digits move towards 16.30 and it is time for tea and cake. Time to rise from the table and feed the cat.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 1:45 AM UTC
fraud!
she knew it, smirks, so she applaud.
-
lame. that was a fallacy
herself is the mistery
Have you seen her in the clarity of dripping scarlet riverflows?
she's still the secrecy of midnight that no one ever knows
Even hallowing hazy fog of cold could made us blinded
in this knotted ropes of white lies, dead end
Lowfully dare to follow her illusionary footsteps in waters
fraud. she's the one whose following your shady runners
she is the vulture and the prey;
the moth and the flame;
the wicked and the good;
the water and the blood;
Peace in your mind, her sojourn.
she's the only one who smiled in the midst of mourn
Mellow greetings when she entered the juvenile dreams
when the night visits, it'll be silent screams
fraud?
Eccentric.
she is an oxymoron but more of a paradox.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 6:27 AM UTC
Chasing the dreams to touch the sky, shaking the roots of feminism;
Happy to shoot for the Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Gia's plagiarism-
All for her superstar Angel, she lived the attitude of lesbianism;
From Philadelphia to New York she sold, her fraternity and parental prism-
The ambitious gal, the ambition gal felt addicted to ******* and heroinism.
Climbing the hills in Beverly was not tough enough, shredding chastity for mean;
Hallowing for her Tomb Raider, she swallowed her city of sin-
All in her attempts she brewed her habits, she tattooed destiny for her queen;
From abortion to scandals; she breathed to see her prolific akin-
The injured gal, the pitted gal still nearly was not doomed to grin.
Succumbing like the serpentine in salt, still longing to meet her dream star;
One fine morning she was found half-dead down the alley, waging her life-war-
All the fever she had, yet not looking to get out of the foxfire;
From one hospital to another, she was taken and was declared a patient of cancer;
The lucky gal, the ******* gal was lame enough to meet her jester.
The tumor had eaten her bones, like the steroids that made her a body-
Donating a million dollars in charity, made a brief appearance by Angelina Jollie;
All in her graceful charm, she penetrated hope to fight the disease folly-
From a life directionless to the motive of her strife, she kissed her cheeks and regretted being silly-
The ambitious gal, the ambition gal had just a single day to cherish her so called glory.
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 4:15 AM UTC
Jan. 22nd, 2013
The bird tweets, but not for you.
Like a teapot screaming with no one to remove it;
Your voice is like a teleprompter on a fuzzy station telling me the evening news
But it's not as if you are hallowing out my bones with every word
The rings of age on my trunk are colored red and blue when you were there
but now green with life and growth and care
and I can't figure out if I'm completely full of ****
or if I'm just over it.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
You make me smile
And my heart ache
In your presence
My hands quickly begin
To shake
My skin secretes
A lot of sweat
My heart thuds and starts hammering
Against my chest
I hear the hallowing
Of my lungs as I take my last
Breath
That you borrowed because
You deserved much less
Grasping my chest realizing my
Mistake
I still have enough air to whisper
Your name.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 2:08 AM UTC
Think positive
*Have you learned nothing about
me?*
Have you learned nothing of me?
-.-
Fire with fire... Questions with questions
*Smoke with ashes, I'll smother
you -.-*
After nine lashes, you've nothing better to do?
*Before your funeral, you've got
nothing better to say?*
Inhibitions compensated, though so futile. Bury yourself beneath your yesterdays.
*Trial and error, yet so naive.
Through your mistakes and
heartaches, you still
overcompensate.*
Smiling through tears, and tearing through smiles? What do you fear--everything prior, or just one more trial?
*Been crying through the pain
for far too long. I fear...
Simply everything, to avoid
the hurt, why is that so wrong?*
Not wrong, but you hold doubt where hope belongs. Don't wallow in the dirt, or hold on to this morning's dawn.
*But where I should see hope,
there's only despair. I'm not
wallowing, simply realistic. It's
really not fair, to assume I'm
being over dramatic.*
Learn to cope when people are unfair. Try hallowing what you know's simplistic. There's much in the air, besides the cruelness of fanatics.
*But the evil is overwhelming,
it truly surrounds me, in my
mind and my heart.
Sometimes, I can't help but
fall apart...*
When the Devil is swelling, his doings unruly, and it all mounts on you, know there is kindness. Just part with the bad times and take the goodness to heart.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Nothing is sweeter
than waking
to the silence
of snow
of the movements
your chest makes
before the closed-eye smile
stirs
the ancient Woman in me.
I crawl into your arms
like stepping
into the sunshine abyss
of my childhood
like conjuring
the music
of my sister’s laugh
like conjuring
the dead.
Some mornings
I wake
so full of love
that it takes all of my
strength
to keep my chest
from hallowing
my ribs from cracking.
At 6 a.m.
on a
snow-covered lawn
the revelation
of love
accompanies a cigarette
and cup of
watered-down coffee.
All of the words
you whisper
my porch cowboy
are stuck to me
on a morning
so unaware
of its own
beauty.
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 9:02 AM UTC
[..I said to Barbara, I said]
word for word I’m writing my book,
making my costumes and playing me
the best I can
I think I am rather good
remembering all those lines that could
have once made a difference
when sunsets felt real,
beyond their damaged magnetic fields
I sang, I danced, I concurred
and when my sword bent from its knees
and I couldn't cry any more
I walked on burning coal through the icy rain
to embrace the forgotten
I keep on writing my book
chapter by chapter
I pierce my ears, die my hair, conjure the dark forces
and anchored by fear I deliver
touching, exhilarating, borderline shocking
live entertainment
half brave, half pushed
sometimes merely there
I remember the lights,
blinding they are, hallowing they are
I keep on wearing my costumes
children rush to me like lambs to their mother-sheep
and their smiles, joy and clapping
are worth a whole sun and one bright half of a Moon
we lick ice-cream together,
get colds together
make sticker-charts together and
sit on the naughty step together
and after dark - and only after dark – we pray to not have to pray again
keep reading
turn the page to the scene
with the guy who locked the rare wounded dove in a cage
and the woman who loved too much, laughed too much, wore too much lipstick
and her depressed chiwawa
and keep playing me
Sunday to Sunday
the best you can
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
When you sit in your room and cry,
You can't blame me,
For I did nothing wrong.
When you decide that you don't want to go to school,
You can't face their taunts and teases,
You can't blame me.
When you find that the one person that you trusted, turned against you,
You can't blame me,
For I did nothing wrong.
When you find me sitting here,
My blood barely seeping through my hallowing veins,
You can't blame me,
For I just found an escape.
But you see,
While you can't blame me for any of these things,
I can...
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
772
The hallowing of Pain
Like hallowing of Heaven,
Obtains at a corporeal cost—
The Summit is not given
To Him who strives severe
At middle of the Hill—
But He who has achieved the Top—
All—is the price of All—
994
I get drunk to forget myself
And for a little while, pretend I am someone else
Tortured souls feel the most
And me myself and I, don't mean to boast
But I've seen all the coasts
Swallowing me up whole
Pretty words don't mean much when I constantly drink in the ugly
I used to think alone was better
That if I was the one to hurt me
It would feel better than leave myself open for someone to scar me
But the winter winds are blowing from the skies
And this autumn jacket lining is frail and thin
Sipping on bottles of reoccurring notions
Soaring through broken promises
Don't leave me lonely
One foot, another day
Once more, the hallowing wind
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
Heaven, O, Heaven, is the path to you through intentions or artifacts?
They are hallowing the moves, the writings but not the heart's acts.
Heaven you are not close in a place like this,
They "follow" the man to achieve, but all they do is miss.
They miss God and make out of people a bliss.
Compensating for the void with the material, marching to the abyss,
A "renaissance" they claim, while we here the truth reminisce.
Mon coeur est confus, J'ai le cœur en aller-retour,
Quand je vais trouver enfin l'essentiel? Ici, je suis secoué,
c'est possible? Suis-je le seul esprit qui ne soit pas doué?
ou la verite est-elle, quelque part, écroué?
Repondez-moi, est la vérité dans l'oubli ou dans un carrousel?
la vérité, je vais, avec mon cœur, avec vous, me renouer.
It is the silence of the truth, that makes the sound of lies loud,
It is the paralysis of rationality that leaves peace unfound.
It is the loud not that rational that guides the crowd.
It never was what they vowed.
You are a "master" that is creating a disaster-piece
It goes from one hand to another, the cross,
Throwing it from one hand to another, with no loss.
Selling angels and demons, sending to heavens and hell fires,
But O, the lives are not a coin you toss.
Je ne vais pas donner ma langue au chat
Le salut est entre les mains des gens, cette fois.
Ce n'est plus pas entre vos mains, Monsieur.
Aujourd'hui, le chat ne mangera pas ma voix.
la liberté est un choix.
I despise myself for not being the obedient you could cherish.
Shall I follow or shall I purge out the poison and perish?
If I am gone, my writing will be there in the dark, garish.
Actually, you are a "master" that created two disaster-pieces;
A corrupt generation, and me; the one whom you, despises.
I am glad I am enslaved to no one, but my "rotten" thoughts.
I lost my home; my peace. Today, I cannot connect the dots.
Tomorrow, you will be the first to take a sip from my tea,
When I sew a better reality with my weary knots.
My home; peacefulness, is given away to the kids,
To the cats, to the birds and clean pots.
Call me by my name, when he applauds.
Jul 12, 2021
Jul 12, 2021 at 9:46 AM UTC
The iron in your blood is palpable
And as my nose discovered it
It was like a new religion to me-
A break into your apartment
In the middle of the night,
Wearing knee socks and a football jersey,
Hallowing religious experience.
And as much as you like them
I can NOT appreciate Corn flakes.
My feline has found a base in my guitar case
Much like I have made a mansion,
A toasty nest in your dominance wafting veins.
Watching her lay there
I understand
What it is like to be.
What it is like to be
the supplier of ultimates
And not ultimatums.
Like how God feels when he see someone
Bathe in the diminutive properties.
And as much as you like them
I cannot appreciate Corn flakes.
They taste like toenails.
I want to fasten my seatbelt to this.
I want to send you text messages
That are blank and know you know exactly
What I meant to say.
I want to make love to you
Without ever touching you
Because grip might be too rough
For what subsists here.
I will eat your Cornflakes, Mr. Prufrock-
I will eat them up.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 3:36 PM UTC
My heart pounds
at the beat of the drum
the weight of the stick
thrusting against the symbols
the vibrations hallowing out my insides
weakening the core, releasing the vibrato
The strings of the guitar
puppet my motion, igniting my being
physical but immobile to the sweet sound
casting the reflections of the shadows of my soul
I stand tall, mocking the vocal stick
Numb to the sounds that are screaming
and singing deep within my soul
The lyrics spit out without effort
though are silenced, and chained
And composed upon the spinning record
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
praise them
or dance them
or skip rocks onto sand
and let fields
melt into
crystal diaries of mass extinction
hilltop love in a heat
hallowing the indestructible
march on to the field
and walk right back out
flick bugs and make them out to be your own enemies
nevermind that you wish you could fly
because
because
because
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
Frailly erected upon two twigs
within the hallowing walls of the dusking sun beam,
I’m encircled by the furious winds of a weirdo’s no-mans-land.
This land encompassing me
is one violated by its own submission
into vision-less ignorance.
I stand here,
the temptation to reach through;
exposing myself into the obscurities around me.
Is it within this light that I am being misguided?
Is it the world beyond holding the truth
from which has deceived me time and again?
There’s only one way to find my path,
be it dark and unkind, I must step out of my life
into the world that whirls in frightening speed around me.
I gaze through the purifying threshold
feeling the eyes of the nocturnal creatures
piercing from far beyond.
They know me;
they see me,
fearing what they don’t understand.
This world is too small,
I walk amongst the folks I coexist
within these cruel existences.
I gasp… my skin tightens…
I take one last look up into my dusking sun;
“I wonder how you shine in the world beyond!”
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
my mind is a football stadium
filled with sports anchors
hallowing our conversation
in class
the other day
did I say this right?
did you mean your laugh?
i am nothing but a child!
mazed by a fable or
some sort of
fairy book story
i imagine the other day in
class, wanting it to be
all days
all moments
in different aisles of hallways
different shades of walls
i am still a child
picking on my mind
like a sunflower on valentines day
"will he like me"
"will he not"
and you have nothing to do with this
but you are everything to blame
my poems are just passive voices
asking you questions without saying your name
indirectly
it is 10:03 I am
lying between the covers of my bed
pondering when you told me you like music
i am listening to the
same song
over and over
each time,
thinking of you
differently
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
Saucerful.
The candy lights won’t come back on.
My boots have been swallowed.
The table cloth chess players.
Roped into hallowing out their arms.
It’s ok the blankets don’t know any better.
Garrett Johnson.
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 6:14 PM UTC
The keys, that
Dribbling waxy fingers
Turn, their gritted smiles splice
As peppered silence
Slices through the hours,
Sinking sunlight strikes
Another ashen pair
Of eyes, closed harder
Than doors on tipsy tongues,
Painted lips
Peeling cracked whispers,
Since open woos,
Seethe rapturously
Throughout the widowed house,
Her violent shudders
Rake my ears
And aching for clenched nails
I turn
The keys, the
Greasy lock
Is deep, yet her eyes are deeper,
Hallowing my gaze
And spitting back swallowed wishes,
Sweetening flusters that tease
Wildly she smiles,
And snatched by the hook
Writhing upwards we arch,
Toes curled and eyes squinting
As the door burst open
And the light fluttered in.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
I imagine the rain battering
upon the neighborhood,
out there in the dark,
from what I hear.
Its constant explosions
on the leaves, on the street,
on the walkway, on the roof.
There is not only rain I hear on the roof,
I don't think.
I imagine wind always with the rain.
The wind whips around the neighborhood,
out there in the dark, from what I hear.
Its always hallowing in the trees,
over the street, across the walkway,
against the roof.
There is not only wind I hear against the roof,
I don't think.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC