"harnesses" poems
“T'was the night before Christmas ...”
and Santa was busy.
The reindeer were antsy
the elves in a tizzy.
The missus was tending
the ovens like mad
And turning out cookies
to make children glad.
The wood chips were flying
the sawdust was thick
The workshop was bulging
with toys from St. Nick.
Contractors from Sega,
Nintendo and Sony
Were working on games
(and a robotic pony).
Iphones and Ipads
(with virus removal)
Were packed in their boxes
and stamped "Elf Approval".
Last minute touches
were added with flair
While elf stylists tended
to Santa's white hair.
Elf tailors were making
some last alterations
To Santa's red coat
and his waist tribulations.
The weather was fair
as the weather-elf stated
The routes were approved
and departure was slated.
Bells had been polished
and harnesses buffed
While repairs were addressed
for the hoofs that were scuffed.
The antlers were festooned
with ribbons and bells
And the reindeer were covered
with elf flying spells.
The clock approached
midnight as Santa was seated.
The countdown began
as the flight crew was greeted.
H-hour neared
and the tension was growing.
Outside it grew cloudy
and then, began snowing.
But Santa just grinned
as the weather-elf winced.
"Don't worry, my friend.
Our time has commenced."
For the weather was nothing
to Santa's conveyance.
His reindeer and sleigh
were immune to"delay-ance".
With a whirl of his whiskers
and a flick of his wrist
The reindeer were launched
in a flash of white mist.
And I heard him exclaim
through his teleport ray:
"ALERT TSA. Tell 'em
I'm on my WAY!"
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
The sun bakes down heavily on a plastic micro planet in Orlando, Florida
where crowded trams drop American bushels of tourists into an alien world.
Quickly fantasy comes alive
through a corporation of disguise.
The workers mask themselves in a drapery of familiar life
-like costumes to charm little children’s hearts.
They smile wildly, carving a clear dimple line on the but of their cheeks. Walt’s Disney World
must have driven every one of America’s circuses out of business.
The flying trapeze is too elegant,
people now want to be strapped in,
buckled up and whipped around
to forcibly experience the true velocity of entertainment.
Even the participant’s attire is geared for this third world oblivion. Neon ***** packs rest like bloated kangaroo pouches
on fat sweaty old lady’s round hips, their plump fingers
holding on to leashed harnesses reined to their child’s small chest.
This is vacation,
strangers of people in massive conglomerations
with confused expressions and burnt faces.
Even the food seems wickedly unnatural,
like an artificial order of burning plastic and sour dough surprise.
Waiting is the enthusiast’s pastime as parades
of anxious voyeurs are captivated by a trance
fixation of lights and whistles.
They line up like schools of lemming,
plunging on rides,
one by one.
This is the place
Where memories are made
And dreams come true
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
next to prime rib
is a miniature fir
or bush
lumberjacked at
the trunk
you press like a bobblehead
plugging nostrils with green
steam and shake and
nobody wants to spitspoil red meat
and everyone agrees
so you collect veggie trees
arrange them in a forest
and reenact little red riding hood
with a cherry tomato
you bite -
you ******* werewolf
vampire where were you
when the fetus
crowned like a tulip pistil
harnesses by an umbilical noose
and the nurse paused and said
she's dead
and cried
and she cried too
while I waited with her father
her mother
and mine
and three friends
and nine months of this
for that
you ******* ******
not even john hancock
can sign a birth certificate
and a death certificate
in a nightmare
let alone in one night
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:13 PM UTC
...You, dearest vagary, aplomb--were
brought to bear.
Vicissitude of memory which is the
dispersion of identity.
Of a time, and of a place--you, a
mellifluous bronze dusk poured upon
a meadow, a solitary immersion, a
moment that harnesses the whole of
the earth, as you are...dearest vagary.
You were afforded as by the citizenry
of the air, lent by an intercontinental
wind.
An undying eloquence featured for all
time--the swaying bud blown to bloom.
You...the beautification of possibility,
its matrices never left in want.
As in withstanding place the round is
made, and remade about you, the whole
of the earth.
Thus, you've no confounding words...
have you?
Thus, this sidelong expenditure that you may--
shall breach the earth you shall.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
You wake up,
Ask me for something as simple as a glass of milk.
But as my duty as a younger sister,
Like a daughter being told to pick up her toys
I didn’t want to do what You asked me to.
You’re eyes were that of the constellations,
I didn’t understand them.
I knew You were trying to cry out to me,
Why didn’t i listen?
Sirens all around us.
The sound like a cicada, blaring on a summer night.
Why couldn’t I understand?
When will I ever understand?
Sometimes I sit awake in my bed,
Trying to fit all the pieces together.
The difficulty as intense as a 1000 piece puzzle.
No one could ever be in my place and
Maybe I don’t want them to.
Maybe I would be happier if I sat like those cows,
Out in the middle of the field.
No one to bother them, no one around to have
To explain their feelings to.
The friction between me and my emotions
Is like that of two opposing magnets.
They just wont quite come together,
But still I try to force them.
Sometimes I still think about that day.
And sometimes even accidentally wish I were back,
To be taken back to the time where you
Were still in that bed.
No one around.
Just me and just You.
No one around,
just Your body, at a slant.
Like the horizon, so far out of reach
But maybe id be happier that way.
The thought is almost jarring.
But my mind always wanders.
Like it should be put on a leash,
One of those harnesses.
Almost like the harness on a 5 year old
In Disney land.
How do You go from asking me a simple question, to being
G
O
N
E
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 2:09 AM UTC
Imperfections
The kindest evidence the savior passed was the marks he bestowed in the most gentile articulation in this
His wise choices matched imperfection to our needs. One of the most telling attributes of women can be
Her hands but what if they are slightly marred the grace only flows to a deeper level quickness is
Replaced by deliberate action slower more thoughtful and profound a touch placed with this kind of
Feeling goes to a measure instantly felt it is not just the ordinary but a thing of force that unravels
Trouble mysteriously it finds the hidden knots looses them allows love to flow wide and full. Perhaps a
Man no longer strides with a power that has an assurance maybe he is depended on a stick for support
Where power is diffused it only changes channels it makes the heart stronger the eyes feel it too
Humanity in others is recessed the blunder the self efficiency drains from boisterous streams into calm
Assessment a flow that harnesses possibility not vain bravado that can at times wound those who are
Weaker and that are struggling. If times try men’s souls then imperfection can be a clarion call the
Placement of virtue at the lead where sometimes pride is the driving force this writing came from seeing
A woman walking in a sunny scene and she had a blotchy spot on her arm others could observe this and
Be to one degree or another repulsed but to the man who loves her it is a special calling card it
Touches makes the forces revel in a display that sets her apart from all others an instrument of sound
That separates from the den isolates carries a marker that generates tenderness, esteem, and honor
Thou art the tune and sound of a masterful violin play nothing else in my presence nothing else will do
Your imperfections makes another whole don’t ever fret over your special make up it is the breath and
The visitation of the divine in the human form boldly brushed in the shadow perfected by sun light.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 2:16 PM UTC
****** rings, tattoos
Open leg crab harnesses
Shove it in my face
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
I think that all writing comes out of pain. Every remarkable work harnesses compassion or strain that begs you to empathize with the pain that someone-something, has felt. It is pain that has taken another form, it appears differently in plots and characters; pawns in a sense, that grace the game board of life. Nonetheless, pain is present. The Bible. A God's suffrage for grace of an undeserving people. Shakespeare's sonnets that brought us to our knees with the agony of lost love.-a lover's sorrow. In every classic there is a tugging on our heart strings that invokes a reply of our emotions.
In short, Pain is Poetry.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
The kindest evidence the savior passed was the marks he bestowed in the most gentile articulation in this
His wise choices matched imperfection to our needs. One of the most telling attributes of women can be
Her hands but what if they are slightly marred the grace only flows to a deeper level quickness is
Replaced by deliberate action slower more thoughtful and profound a touch placed with this kind of
Feeling goes to a measure instantly felt it is not just the ordinary but a thing of force that unravels
Trouble mysteriously it finds the hidden knots looses them allows love to flow wide and full. Perhaps a
Man no longer strides with a power that has an assurance maybe he is depended on a stick for support
Where power is diffused it only changes channels it makes the heart stronger the eyes feel it too
Humanity in others is recessed the blunder the self efficiency drains from boisterous streams into calm
Assessment a flow that harnesses possibility not vain bravado that can at times wound those who are
Weaker and that are struggling. If times try men’s souls then imperfection can be a clarion call the
Placement of virtue at the lead where sometimes pride is the driving force this writing came from seeing
A woman walking in a sunny scene and she had a blotchy spot on her arm others could observe this and
Be to one degree or another repulsed but to the man who loves her it is a special calling card it
Touches makes the forces revel in a display that sets her apart from all others an instrument of sound
That separates from the den isolates carries a marker that generates tenderness, esteem, and honor
Thou art the tune and sound of a masterful violin play nothing else in my presence nothing else will do
Your imperfections makes another whole don’t ever fret over your special make up it is the breath and
The visitation of the divine in the human form boldly brushed in the shadow perfected by sun light.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
Take the plunge with me
Answer to the irrevocable calling that is this moment
Maybe in comparison the fear you might have if you were to jump off a cliff bungee jumping.
For this we won't have harnesses
Only flesh embodied, skin caressed with the warmth of the blankets and each other.
Swim with me in this forbidden pool
The night is young and the taste of white wine heavy on your tongue
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
Marooned on a desert island
the boys sit patiently
waiting for a mobile signal.
At last, the bolder ones set out
in search of free wi-fi,
while the boffin tries to figure out
the cheat mode which will release them.
Food in trees
remains inaccessible
in the absence of ropes and harnesses
- these lads know their health and safety.
Slowly fading, bitter, helpless
the children fantasize
about who they can sue over this fiasco.
Piggy is the last one standing
for obvious reasons.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC
love the boy who paints–
who harnesses the power of the spectrum
and brings life to his views
on the world
admire his colourful fingers
and lead stained hands.
he didn't mean to fray the
brushes like
he frayed your heart strings.
he only wants a little life
in his body and soul.
he paints with you in mind.
and when you see the crumpled up
tubes on the floor
of his bedroom,
know that they reflect
his efforts to make you happy.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
The terror of him consumes you,
constricting your soul from moving
under the darkened phrases of that mind.
Feelings surface deep within you
that no man has ever found inside,
but he draws everything out so easily.
Your fingers have yet to touch,
the physical distance keeping you at bay,
yet it's as if you've spent days in his arms
as you think of the warmth he's spoken.
He's a disaster, that you're sure,
as he harnesses the power to destroy you
with his words or lack there of.
Saying he's a risk is an understatement,
yet your heart has a new source of life
thinking of that one chance with him.
You've tried to walk away, forget him,
and disappear from this twisted fate
you've both written for one another,
but your fingers won't stop typing his name.
You cannot bare the thought of losing him,
as his words have filled the void
you hadn't known existed in your heart.
He's the kryptonite you never wanted,
the weakness you so desperately ran from,
but you're addicted to the risk of him,
the risk of being with him
and the warmth he promises you.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
They never should have let me out of the box,
these harnesses are coddled in rust and will never do,
I nearly have an arm free now.
Tis the bloodlust,
the ever recurring,
I cauterize so sickly raptured and recoiled,
vile animal reveling beneath fang and flesh.
Tis the beast wrought beneath this parchment bearing,
what is left of mortal means
as the morals feast upon the limbs and lungs of one another.
Ever screaming,
my memories wrench and tear,
torn in ribbons splayed from lung to tissue.
My demon slaughters the remnants packed and hid way
in corner and shadow,
ideals and sockets of life scratch and rip
across the flesh of the air as their lungs flood so violently,
doused in creamy blood liquid.
I die so sullenly,
so intrepidly,
dripped in god’s sunlight beams,
bathed in crackling spine and broken butterfly wings.
I writhe not in brain fractured grenade shrapnel,
not felted amongst iron clad bomb shards,
I lie so serenely,
stomach basking in sun beam,
I bite and suckle upon such succulent fruits of flesh,
human meat and such soft hips of lustful imps,
so untouched and littered in my most precise of bite marks.
I stake claim to the everest of fiendish hues,
chains so kin to my sins,
mind so ravaged in demonish,
all thought is mother to acts so sickly in hellish cravings,
I seek no retribution for ideals so crimped and carved through my bones.
All is relative to one’s fiendish benevolences.
I take care to ratify my most ancient of antiquities,
the very blood line that so racks this mortal sense of the human reality.
This evil is ever bearing and eternal lasting,
nor it’s will softened.
Shackles crease and crinkle
so fondly with every sickly furnished breath.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 4:56 AM UTC
I say, whoa now
You say, let’s go
We are ones for running
Our knees have the scars to prove it
Sometimes my fingers grasp for the rail but silly me
That’s not how falling works
We are humans
And humans do not carefully climb down scaffolding held-to with harnesses into love
That would take forever
And it’s boring to say
We fall into love
Crash to the ground together
Get up and laugh heartily
Spitting our broken teeth out as we do
Love is a collision we don’t all survive
But you and I are the Bear Grylls of the heart
And I would gladly drink my own **** to stay loved by you
I say, hey girl hey
You say, boy please
It’s sickening to watch I’m sure
But **** if you aren’t my Pepto-Bismol
And I ain’t your TUMS with Vitamin C
And I ain’t a fourth
And you ain’t a fifth
And we aren’t some sort of major lift
And
Ugh
I’m sorry that was dumb
I’m sorry
It’s just that song sometimes
It reminds me of that time I felt the corners of my lips curl up involuntarily watching you watch my favorite cover of it
And I get all worke
I say, I’m sorry
You say, I love you too
Falling isn’t always graceful
But having fell is always worth it
Grass stains and all
I don’t see futures
And you don’t make promises
But next to you is a place I’d like to wake up tomorrow
And the day after
And if you’re tenable to the idea the day after that as well
I am knee deep in love with you
This quick sand has hold of me
I’m struggling harder so I can sink faster
You say, closers dive in head first you *****
I say, I love you too
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
I crave her pain
Like a storm
She's my rain
I crave her promises
I'm her dog with shock collar harnesses
I crave her love
As she runs thru my blood
I crave her control
So let the credits roll
I crave her danger
Releases this anger
I crave her life
As she takes mine
Nov 26, 2023
Nov 26, 2023 at 8:56 AM UTC
Monstrous earth goddess
Product of darkness
Harnesses gardens
Markets madness.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
True rise of true
rise, true fall of
true fall...as if
these gave mind
and body the
mythology of
direction.
Afterall, there's
everafter at every
turn.
Gifted a ghostly
long lock, for
good luck and
good measure...
to keep the pneuma
from transmogrifying
stillness.
A silver cord as
brittle in appearance
as the world it
harnesses to experience.
Where release snaps
silver, lightning return
of no return.
Mainline of soundless
music, en-silvering stars...
cord of web and Word.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC
Gold dances on a dark canvas old as time
the orbs sway from side to side
hypnotized as they trace the curve of an imaginary bowl
my heart beats out fond memories
that fill my mind with fervent desires.
The dark wraps its cool shawl around my neck,
With a brisk touch, it tumbles all my reveries into associations of a noose...
I cannot connect with the world as I see it anymore...
It is experienced as a strange reflection
of all that comes from within and before me.
To be lost in this cage of thought
is to ignore the perpetual inspiration
gifted by the miracle all around me.
It is to see all as a reminder of a thought... of a thought.
Every smell is a whisper remembered
Every touch echoes a pain ignored for too many moons.
The soul sits in the well of our minds.
We build the mind to fill our soul to the brim
so that we may feel it glisten and gleam in the warm sunlight.
We see the world through ripples of ecstasy
as our love spills over the mind.
It flows into the roots around us...
In that moment we are truly present.
The joyous pride of the mind is the gift to overflow its most precious burden out unto this world.
It is the disciplined mind which harnesses energy to overflow
while the undisciplined mind remains as poor foundation.
It will only drain what precious reserves it tries to hold on to.
left in darkness at the bottom of our minds, the soul sees only what small glimmers it can glean.
When every firefly in the dark is a reminder of a thought of a thought, we are lost in the confines of a well we cannot climb out of.
...
When every cool breeze passes without grasping,
we know the power of being present...
We feel love as we breathe it in
and peace as we let it go.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:28 PM UTC
I remember when you were my friend, when we talked about the future
and our plans. I wanted to get one good dose of life and went to the mountains.
You wanted safety of your survival and went to exchange your rights
for extra harnesses.
You began to search for survival and found the highway.
The neon blue signs
advertising just that.
You will feel comfortable, very comfy cause when you see the same
things at 10mph at 100mph what’s the rush?
You will survive for a long time never too long what you claim,
happy to see where the world goes.
The bug on your windshield will be your biggest problem.
Your foot will begin to slip and you will turn off the highway.
Yet the bumps on the exit ramps will be more than bumps,
slowly flattening your tires, destroying the and you leave worse than when you
turned off.
Not the ramps fault it’s just things were designed this way you saywith a shrug.
Slowly your organs will start to show and you will survive for a long time
but nothing more.
You will see how ugly a heart really is, a blob of red keeping you alive.
You will see your mortality in the mirror.
You will feel the harnesses, once so comforting begin to dig into your skin.
The lines from the harness more clear than clothing.
You will have food, water and a place to hang your hat
but it will never be your home but you will survive for a long long time,
too long.
The suicide nets prevent the last line of control and you will survive for
a very long time, far too long.
You will bounce off the nets and be gently be taken back to the highway.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
The curse of a writer is that
every word jotted down
is a reflection of every beat
the heart ripples through the body
that harnesses waves upon waves
of emotions from here and there
and the best part is that you will find
yourself there too
no matter who you are.
They want to escape, they cannot
but find a way to embrace the subject
of the matter with words that morph
stanzas into finger pointing
comments that strum your chords
and wait for the echo to die out
with the last period
on the last line.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 11:51 AM UTC
One will always find
a way
or
an excuse
to do
exactly as One wishes.
That's how it works.
Harness the devious power of intention before it harnesses you.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
The silence sets in
After a day of nerves and preparation
After the trip filled with loud music and shaky voices
The silence sets in
After the sweat turns clothes damp
After the dressed become harnesses of body and mind
The desirous chills die down and strong ones come to play
This is before the silence really sets in
After the short seperation creating burning sparks in the night air
This naughty lust breaks upon arrival, reunion is sweet never bitter
Nausea unyielding, the silence has begun
Voices rise and fall
Raw conversation leaves an awkward aftertaste
A solem realization that a good time is being had
Over at the eleventh hour, progress slow but promising
The point of contact is the center of the world, like a shared halo glowing insanely
Nausea is, as it always had been, pride and confidence and splender
Lasting until the silence, permeated with uncertainty and starving passion, sets in again
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 4:20 PM UTC
i have no need for change.
it's meaningless to me (in most senses).
so i plop $6.24 (exact change) on the counter.
he throws pillows filled with guilt at me.
and i hurriedly leave as he's shouting threads of vitriol that could trap me there forever, with my bags of guilt (what else do i have?)
commuting home is easier now.
we stand on the backs of alligators.
brave men fit them for harnesses.
but it's all good here.
until a beautiful women steps out of her house.
nothing good can come from it.
my alligator lets me off at my house.
i only have to blow on the front door at a certain angle,
my shelter has been charred so many times;
touching it might make it collapse.
my house is the only one with no electricity or running water;
noone knows why.
but i've learned to improvise.
a man on the street once told me, "it's better to be adaptable than to have no need to adapt."
i asked him "why?" but he was gone.
i unload my haul of guilt next to my collection of desires; seems fitting.
no.
i'll have them pad the totem of regrets; it's much more delicate.
and maybe if i make them more comfortable, they'll stop haranguing me every night.
every evening the floor gives out, and worse, nothing to hold onto.
but while i'm falling, a fish hook always finds it's way to my chest and sinks into my heart.
and i just dangle there for an hour or more ("where do i keep these things?").
the floor comes back (as it always does), frozen solid.
i don't know where it goes but it is not to the core of the Earth.
as per ritual, i'll give it painful fit of body heat;
i know where i'm sleeping tonight.
i don't get any visitors,
but if i did, i'd like them to be comfortable.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
My crampons crunched into the snow, as the sky began to come alive with the sun rising over a crest behind me. The only lights near me are headlamps in a straight row, and the whiteness from the snow appearing more clearly. Six people mimic me, tied together by harnesses and a blue and green weaved climbing rope, a six to eight step difference. Relying on me to lead, guide, and set the pace, I stop to look behind me to see a row of white helmets glowing from their headlamps. "Step. Crunch. Breath in. Step. Crunch. Breath Out. Step. Crunch. Breath in," I yell military style. They need me to talk through our breathing. 13,000' and my legs are moving slower, the crampons are feeling heavier with each step. My breathing feels like its being strangled by the rope attached to my back carabiner. I want to stop. Sit. Eat. Not move again. I wonder how I can check in with others behind, how I can lead, yell, talk if I feel light-headed, questioning my decisions to tip-toe on the edge of a crevasse that has just appeared, I think. I have lost track of how many hours have passed. The sun is my best friend reminding me of time, as it burns off the whisking clouds appearing at my head as my elevation increases. As I remember to look up, look ahead, I know we are close, highest I have ever been. I want to run, but I know I am moving in very slow motion. I slip off my crampons, thankfully being able to walk on stone, scree and scramble to the summit to kiss the sky at 14, 562'.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC