"hatching" poems
you ‘why’ her.
While she is thrilled & happily beside you,
Telling you when she’s up to something new.
Your pre-existing notion of setting a “ya” for her limits,
Persistent "no" to her wishes,
She grows up to know that,
if she got to do something new
She got to fight over the, 5 Ws & 1 H!
Ow! & you convince it’s out of distress not mistrust!
And by the Indian parenting manual,
questionnaire weighs heavier at a girl.
ultimately,
“This time”, “That day”,
" This place", “Those people”
Would impregnate her!
Sons of yours -
Son of nights! freely hatching eggs past curfew.
Not foreseeing the evenings his sister would come crying.
Parents when you talk on equality & empowerment,
Let broad mind not hit the very ceiling of your house
Let rest mindset that proclaims gender roles,
The differential idea you set on them,
From who uses broom to who chooses groom.
If misogyny is permeated in the roots of society
Cleansing and changing begins in the family,
Before there in your minds, first.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 12:39 AM UTC
Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr
Or as you might refer to me as a fry,
This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry.
Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation
The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings.
I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish.
Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers,
I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me.
But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special.
And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air.
The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary.
I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain.
This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects,
And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes.
I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover.
As the years pass by and maturity abounds, I find my self settling in behind a large boulder
Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply.
And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful.
And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be,
A different looking bug with yellow belly, so I make my move.
He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip.
As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder,
When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface
I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I.
It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful.
This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly.
Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen.
He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am.
He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life,
He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away.
I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me,
I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC
If I said I want you,
Would you run and tell the stars
To close their eyes and ring dry
The clouds of tears?
If I said let me hold you,
Would the earth crack open,
To shudder the rolling lands,
Not cradle the hatching seeds?
If I said I am yours,
Would your name soon dissolve
And be lost in the revolving
Night that candles you in light?
If I heard your voice,
In twining dream and woke
Beside you talking in your sleep
What would your question be?
If I called your name,
Before the first sunning year
And heard you, Echo in the wind,
Would time guide us to the door?
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 2:22 AM UTC
There are two types of heart breaks in 1 life.
The positive heartbreak.
&
The negative heartbreak.
A positive heartbreak is earned when we are very young. Our parents come home to surprise us with a gift so grand it breaks our hearts. Now.. this is not your average heartbreak. One would assume that upon breaking your heart, you lose it, and you feel nothing but pain. A positive Heartbreak is the exact opposite of that. Upon growing up, so does your heart. Like a snake shedding skin or a baby chick, hatching it's egg for the first time, the heart beats in your chest start to race, pumping faster and faster, making your heart grows quicker and quicker. Suddenly your heart grows so big it shatters out of it's old form and grows larger. breaking out of it's shell and growing with you, building things like, trust, companionship, loyalty, joy and more happiness.
A negative heartbreak is what everyone would expect. After a break up or divorce one might feel their trust is lost, their happiness stolen, their pride robbed. They may feel betrayed and shattered resulting in a negative heart break.
Both of these things are very common and both beautiful and tragic.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
It was a couple of years ago I had an experience I couldn't explain but wouldn't deny.
It was almost like a daydream that took me back to the age of five.
I saw how I was pushed into society before I had developed the wings to fly.
To survive I had to split my soul into two to create a false personality of mine.
Ever since, the 10% I was suppose to give as tide has been occupied by the hatching seeds in the left side of my thin mind.
The experience brought me back to where I lied. I couldnt move and my heart was racing It felt like I was going to die.
At the end of what felt like a paralyzed panic attack I had a strange tingle in the lowest part of my spine.
The tingles slowly started to rise,
like two angels slithering their way up all thirty three steps of Jacob's ladder to open up the seventh seal. My gateway to heaven.
It was sensational. A euphoric feeling, I never felt that happy before. Everything that was holding me back, all the bad memories
and all the grudges I had been holding on to, did not matter anymore.
I started to think freely and act accordingly. I worked less and wrote more because money was not a priority.
The value of life became clear to me.
There I was, reborn with Christ oil.
I dwelt in that right hemisphere of my brain for three and a half months before I got thrown out of paradise for questioning myself again.
Of course I tried to force my way back but drugs only gives you a temporary pass.
Besides I can't let go of the lifestyle of the genie in my genes that likes to buy expensive jeans.
It's genius how they deceive us, or I'm just seriously delirious and my psychological awareness is just as meaningless as my nihilistic periods.
Who is really the genie; us?
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 9:10 AM UTC
I am an artist
i paint brilliant pictures for you to see.
i sketch out curves and shade
the world as i see it.
i do this to please and entertain.
you. me. anyone who is willing to
take a step into my mind
I am a life drawing artist.
Through techniques of rendering and
cross hatching, i authenticate the
skin of beauty mind and soul.
my **** canvas in front of me sits perfectly
still, yet is always moving.
it blinks and slowly breathes with each passing minute.
I am a 3D sculpter.
No 2D for me.
i want what is there for me to touch.
i want to grab it. turn it. inspect
every angle and then proceed with
my decision.
I am an abstract artist.
i see things differently.
I dont want to follow the norm.
no conformity for the strong and independent.
i will choose my color, my stroke, my paper, my pen.
i will choose my own pathway.
I am an artist.
i do not use a brush.
i dont like pastel, or paint, or charcoal.
my medium is my voice.
i use my words to describe the bitter sting
of love, life, and wonder.
I can paint any picture in your mind.
I can shade any thought into your head.
I can sketch any emotion so vividly into your heart,
that it will melt into the sweetest pool
of crimson.
I am an artist,
through my words, description, and mind.
i need no colors or paint
only my pen and paper.
i need no history of Van Gogh
only my imagination and creativity.
I need only what makes sense to me.
Through my writing,
I am an artist.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:01 AM UTC
*Ladies & Gentlemen, behold!
Listen to the story I have to share.
A fantasy from future.*
Someday in Future
Setting: The underground metro train
Characters: She & me
Me: Now our stop is at the end, darling.
She: I'd just relax until we reach then, dear.
Me: How're you going to do that, standing?
She: I've my personal pillar to hold on to for relaxing, you know - I don't fear...
Me: ...and that is me?
She: Yes & no!
I look clueless and she lets out a laughter barely audible to others in the metro train.
She: You yourself are not the pillar but you've the pillar!
I blush big time and turn tomato-red, her delicately-soft hands come pull my cheeks and by now I am able to duly respond as the man.
Me: Oh I see! So madam is in a good mood to flirt. Good-good, even I was starting to get bored hearing only to the harsh sound of the metro train on the track, let us recollect the previous night.
She: Sure, you bear the onus of starting the account and I'll recount the ending as we reach home.
Me: Alright then, here we go.
Low voices
Me: Darling I started it all,
I came from the showers,
I carried a seductive grin,
As I moved forwards,
You started to fall,
Not caring where you fell towards.
And you fell in my arms,
I held you softly as my baby,
As you're precious to me like one.
I then lifted you in my arms,
You had a soft glowing smile on your lips.
Then I laid you on the bed,
You appeared like Aphrodite.
The white gown was off in a jiffy,
You looked at my towel's knot,
And you undid it the next.
She: As the pillar was unveiled,
I hoisted myself on it,
And we came together.
Me: Now the station seems closer, let us conclude our recounting Friday night. (Looking at my watch)
She: Yes, we have a night every other night. (Winks)
Me: I love you, honey! (I smile)
She: Not more than me! (Her smile is more brilliant)
By now the train approaches our stop and we are smiling as we dismount the train.
On our minds for a sleepless Saturday night we are hatching a beautiful plan.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
‘Tis time to bid Winter adieu.
Make way for purple hollyhocks,
while crocus are just peeking through
last summer’s row of garden rocks.
Bulbs warm, thankful for frozen days.
‘Tis time to bid Winter adieu.
Rime frost replaced with morning haze,
writing it’s own Spring song haiku.
Buds, blooms and fledglings hatching through
with colors for our hearts to swell.
‘Tis time to bid Winter adieu
at the sway of the first bluebell
No more snow's argent glitter gleam,
the Season’s bold promise rings true.
With the last broken ice downstream,
‘tis time to bid Winter adieu.
*Empat Empat
Early form of rhyming verse from Malaysia.
8 or 10 syllables per line.
A. b. a. b.
c. A. c. a.
a. d. A. d.
e. a. e. A.*
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:21 PM UTC
a rubix cube upon my desk
with half the colors matching
near a wayward garden gnome
what plots might he be hatching
contemplations fill my head
of life and all its meanings
a conservative at heart
despite my leftist leanings
someday I’ll find the leprechaun
hiding at the rainbow’s end
I’ll take that ******** lucky charms
before he runs again
memories haunt my waking mind
not sure if they're even real
vertigo and déjà vu are all that I can feel
I think I’ll take another hit
that should finally stop the spinning
as my pet rock races Charlie Brown
the rubix cube is winning
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 7:06 PM UTC
Hey Jessica, my tinder match
I am looking for a back to scratch
A back to scratch you may now ask?
Yes, a back to scratch!
For from our match may now have hatched
A mutual matching of hatching, back scratching
Without any strings attached!
So swipe right, yes swipe me right
Let Photoshop destroy your night
I’ll be charming, I’ll be polite
But it won’t really matter what I write
For all the signs are in black and white
If you only rely on your thumb, and on your site
An emotionless one night stand will be at their might
You see when you cut people off just based off their look
You may stop at the cover of what is life's greatest book
And instead you’ll be left with twilight, or some crap
The boring type of book that will force you to nap
With nothing but physical beauty filling that gap
Eventually ended by the reality slap
That this relationship was spawned by a ******* app
So Jessica, still wanna scratch my back?
We can start up this mutual back scratching pact?
Celebrating all the common virtues we lack
For me its looks come first, and then next your rack
But enough about me let’s hear about you?
Why are you lonely? And when can we *****
Here’s some stuff about me that is not at all true…
And if I havn’t asked already, when can we *****
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
that has taken the mantle,
the muse of inspiration,
for she -
(did you think she was a man-god?)
dyes me oft, colors me, ***** me,
loves me with intensity hot
that near to make my heart stop.
poems I did not know,
knew not their name,
would write,
but moments ago,
now are
chicks in the hatchery hatching,
cupcakes in the oven rising,
spit in the mouth ***********
so fast a-coming,
the sustained pleasure
the best drug I have designed.
seconds ago there were none,
a lifetime of moments,
now, multitudinous,
molecules of
oxygenated words
flying past my eyes,
purposed for inhalation
through my skin.
all week I have stretched and pecked,
shreds of lettuce un satisfied,
a title, no poem,
a stanza, no poem,
like I need a woman,
need to write,
like I need loving,
desperate and raging,
need to write.
even my alter ego,
the hidden me,
where I write on the other side
of edgy, indie, across border lines,
in a name you do not know,
nothing.
started poems about
being enlightened,
my eldest sin,
my eldest son,
hitting a kid with a car,
reading writing and 'rithmetic,
inch plants,
****
about the young poets here,
fast track to nowhere.
but at 2:22 am awoke,
my small engine repaired,
the fingers humming flying across the keyboard
so fast broke the 3:50 minute mile,
dear muse,
I hate you with all my love.
would it be so terrible if you gave me
one complete per day,
is that too much to ask?
now I am choking gasping on
****** adrenalin cup overflowing,
now they come like *******
only a women can have,
so many more than one,
long short fast furious
separate but connected.
you make me woman,
just like you.
one day when get up high where you reside,
gonna start a recall petition, and if that don't work,
a revolution, to kick out the cruelty y'all dish out,
the tornadoes and typhoons,
return the missing to their parents,
and give inspiration, hope
to every human poet upon this
living planet.
now I comprehend why
Shakespeare's theater was called
The Globe.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 5:58 AM UTC
Many years ago from now
a gentleman I knew
his predilections were precise
and, to me, quite new.
He was intent on teaching
deliberate and firm
and from his experience
I began to learn.
So here arose my interest
it's him I have to thank
for taking me in hand so well
and giving me The Spank.
He wasn't ever lazy
never dealt out on a whim
he made me work to earn each stroke
I was obsessed with him.
I put in many hours
hatching careful plans
of how to win the best attentions
from this authoritative man.
I'd knock a stack of books
off the corner of his desk
and he'd lean back in his chair and say
"come here and lift your dress".
And I'd comply so gladly
already feeling hot
my bottom was presented
and his hand knew just the spot.
Sometimes he'd give me just the one
on a precipice I'd stay
longing for the three or four
I'd get later that day.
I remember him with fondness
he taught me many useful things
but most of all I thank him
for every little sting.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
Do we ever forget what we see?
Do we enact what we believe?
Do we arm the spine of our diaries?
To self-detonate to remain drama-free?
Sometimes my intent indents ignorance,
But maybe I've umpired too many bazookas,
And wore out the strength of my remembrance,
Catching rockets aimed at this loser,
Loser?
What are you talking about?
Lost the L in Laughter
Lost the O in Optimistic,
Lost the S in Simplicity,
Lost the E in Expressionistic,
Lost the R in Reality,
So now my soul's succumbed to gravity,
Tragically hatching my apathy with a Whack-a-mole mallet,
A dastardly dressed casualty,
Actually,
I'm trying to reverse the black magic curse and verse my happiness,
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
Eyes chanced upon a brown object
Nestled on a crowd of multi-colored subjects
A bunch of dried and fresh leaves,
Small, thin and soft spikes of twigs
And I wondered.....how on earth
Did fibers and strips of polyester sack
Get included in this mix?
One would think it might fall, and be slung
But it stayed put, steady, where it hang
I was trying to figure it out:
A cylnder, at first thought...but I had my doubts
I realized, it was a crooked oblong
And, from its opening on one side, came the soft songs
A small part of which, was attached
To the thorny Bougainvillea branch.
Strange.....for it was small...yet steep
A human hand could never go deep
You wouldn't think it could contain anything
And yet...inside it, were resting
Three tiny eggs...warming
And eventually, would be hatching.
Soon, the Red Palm and Sweetsop trees
Buzzed with activities
Birds of many kinds, watched, upon the bay window eave,
High on the electric cables...they perched and wouldn't leave
To and fro.......high and low, they flew
The air was filled with bird sounds i never knew
Soon, too, soft tweeting was heard
Along with the louder chirping of the older birds
Then came that morning, when, a birdling,
Eagerly, tested its wings,
Then fell off its nest
Down to the roots of the Red Palm tree
Where it almost met its final rest...
Suddenly, came to the rescue, two big palms
That put the birdling back inside its home
And reinforced the nearly displaced nest...
Both birdling and nest, were put to a test....
Today, other birds fly around this once busy space
Where life's significant phases
Inevitably took place,
Lonely and deserted now,
For the birdlings are fully grown
They're now flying on their own...
From my rocking chair, I could see
Among those entangled twigs
Hidden among a crowd of sprigs
Still ably rests
An abandoned strange nest
That once told the story
Of an Olive-backed sunbird....and its glory...
Sally
Copyright February 18, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
^^^^^^^^^^
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.
Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.
Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the ****
Nor the outspoken grave.
If I were tickled by the lovers' rub
That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the ***** and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts' toes.
This world is half the devil's and my own,
Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.
And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his ***
From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.
And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.
2.2k
His kingdoms span the desert sands
his subjects all dress in purple and black
know his sacred name and bow to him
for who you see on this throne is the lizard king
He licks his eyes with his slippery tongue
the eggs around him are all his young
he is the master of times sands
creature of the sun that he commands
He is the last true knight
cursed to hide his real persona
and when he chooses to speak
his voice you will remember
To your knees you must bow
watch me I will show you how
dare not my friend look at him
our cold and wondrous lizard king
Oh see how he makes silver stardust
how he has kept us warm all these years
look now dear friend his eggs are hatching
and all contain his legions, his black dragons
All hail to our glorious leader
master of time, our lizard king
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
Once upon a time a long way away
The Prince married the Wizard's daughter
Within the Queen's garden they said their vows
Wonderful day in the land of Stohyer
Then came the black witch and let it be known
Her pale white skin sent shivers through the crowd
Her voice cackled making the guests tremble
Thy firstborns blood will make my skin shine proud
To the Wizard's cave they sought his advice
There his red haired daughter told of their plight
Then with dagger he cut each of their hair
Mingled hair in cauldron opened the sight
The clear water began to boil and churn
When it calmed down it was like a birds eye view
This sight was flying fast over the land
To the far corners of the land they flew
Then the sight did still, showing a great bear
The bear looked up at them giving a growl
Come ask me kindly as he showed loose claws
The King understood the bears words in growl
Then sight flew to show an old grand dragon
The dragon saw them and bellowed great flame
Come ask me kindly showing pile of scales
The Prince understood the words from the flame
Then the Queens garden to a strong old tree
The tree swayed and the wind rustled the leaves
Come ask me kindly showing huge walnut
The Queen understood rustling of the leaves
Leaving Wizard and daughter safe in cave
The king rode hard and fast to see the bear
The Prince climbed up high to meet the dragon
The Queen to her garden asked tree to share
Once returned they gave the gifts to Wizard
The bear gave claw of a great warrior
Dragon gave the scale of the first dragon
Placed in walnut shell to protect Stohyer
Wizard sealed the shell and gave to daughter
Keep warm and with you always my daughter
When you are with child it will crack open
Revealing a protector of Stohyer
The red haired Princess took care of the shell
The Princess kept it with her everywhere
Then one morning she awoke to cracking
With husband they watched a hatching to share
It cracked a little here and then more there
Revealing something they had never seen
A bearlike furry ball with a long tail
Stretching out little horns could now be seen
The eyes of the Prince and Princess went wide
Something beautiful and new was now there
Looking up at them with green dragon eyes
The Princess cuddled Teddy Dragon Bear
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 6:06 PM UTC
Hello
It's me again
It's the early hours and I'm slightly drunk
And it's me again
He has the sins of his mind
Which keep him warm inside
Amidst the weary and the wasted
Such warmth keeps him alive
Restless
I've always been restless
I hate to move yet I can't sit still
Hours are endless
There is a thrush inside his head
An agony of wings
Panic beaten thrashing
A cage of singing things
Anxious
Still always anxious
Even though I've slowed right down
This edge is ageless
Laying low and watching
A million sub-plots hatching
Paranoid and paranormal
He scatters to survive
By Phil Roberts
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 2:33 PM UTC
Got a message from my half
Mrs. Hypochondriac
Moody right, moody right
Tell your CC
Let everyone know
Beatnik **** beatnik ****
Listen to that beaten sound
Keeps me running, keeps the engines hummin'
Listen to that beating sound
Tic Tac Tic Tac
Got a lookout for King Me
Watch your Q's and watch your P's
Dot your eyes and cross your tease
You're gonna see what you still won't believe
Birth your rumors of immortality
Pound them 'til I can't help but agree
But when the truth slays the light
Don't blame me
King Me King Me King Me King Me
I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King
Keep your filthy black stained hands off of my crown
Take up your own bleeding cross and ride it to town
I'm the King
Too good for my own good and don't give a fu ck
Hatching plans to freak out the Man
Got a meanness in me that I don't understand
A lie for a dollar, a life for a dime
There's a well, a deep, deep well I fell
Into once
Where in the tumbling I found
The true hidden meaning of falling down
The treasure at the bottom wasn't worth the minute
It took to get there
King Mad, King Mad, King Mad, King Mad
These songs for a King
King You and King Me
King Kong's a Ding ****
Monkey Tales
Banana on a stick
Dipped in black chocolate
Rancid and arcane
Read in, read in
The main character wears a black tunic
His queen is the one with the brain
Better half, better half she tells him
It's best you stay quiet you'll give it away
You've done enough damage for one other day
What's done is done
Nothing but another bridge to burn
Another corner to turn
She says
You understand it less than I
And your understanding is void and dry
Quiet now, my loveless love
My misunderstood drug
My salt melted slug
Quiet now, before people believe
In the nonsense you write, the ******** they read
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.”
Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade.
I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor.
She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle.
I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice.
She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers.
My mind was her mind.
Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder.
Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep.
Did I want her, or did I want to be her?
Alison Wonderland.
Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own.
For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me.
On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst.
My mind was her mind.
And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down.
Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple.
Carnival infatuations…
Alison Wonderland.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
cyber forces glitching,
itching,
scratching,
hatching,
inside… inside…
further deeper,
latching,
onto body…
onto body…
mind,
soul,
body…
cyber forces becoming
transferring,
creating,
hating
the old,
the old.
new cybernetic soul
born modern,
born modern,
progressive process,
tradition’s torn,
torn.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 2:14 PM UTC
Time swirls above me
in the dead of coldest night,
when the witching hour brings you
in copper cloud's delight,
So I can feel you moving,
touch the quivers of my skin,
bursting through the cascades
of the naked storm within
Rushing you inside me
pushing deeper,
deeper in,
tasting salt in tongues
when the droplets cleave the wind
And the boundaries
cease between us:
dissolve where sweat begins.
Torrents sweep in waves
coursing through the joining Syn
Face to face we rise
from the pipes of Pan
within
breathing mist together
as the bird songs wreathe
a ring
of foliage and of flowers
around ancient stones
and altars,
Where all the others leave us
their carrion
in the garbage,
we take Raven with us
and soar
above the bloodlines,
the glisten of the kin
Raising new horizons,
we feel the morning spin,
hatching suns beneath us
in the shadow of our wings,
un-folding life together,
ten-folding on forever ...
and ever ...
Within.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
The fourth of a fourth,
Born of a blood of fire,
Unlikely he was,
But never less right.
A bald boy of ten,
Groomed in dirt for his name,
He was pure as white light,
Around mischief and grief.
His stood up for his name,
As his ancestor named the same,
How long has it been,
Since a king's been the same?
A Tall tree beside him,
The sworn star above his head,
A flea that that's come to be a knight,
Raised that boy all good and right.
From hedge to hedge,
From this lord to that lord,
With Maester and the straw hat,
They rested under stars with salt beef and ale.
The Lunk swore his sword,
And with it a clout,
Until he swore again,
When the clout was needed not.
The boy became king,
And he was still the same boy,
He married for the good of love,
And so did his sons.
That's all right you say,
But the realm favored it not,
They hated the good king,
For not taking their blood as bride.
The king rose his name from ashes,
And wanted it risen even more,
He tried hatching an egg,
But all it hatched was death.
It is not certain what happened,
Whether it was the egg or the realm that got them,
Egg and Dunk met their end,
At Summerhall's flaming hand.
But, at the same place and hour,
When the hedge tales were done,
A prince was born in fire,
Later called the Last Dragon.
Time went on,
And often the prince returned,
Playing in ruins on his harp,
Songs about the dragon and the friend, and their lives.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
The Process
There is the notion, the urging.
The first spilling, the self-congratulatory
Commencement ceremony for
The process.
Then there is the first short-pause,
a quick-freeze hibernation. Then,
The bubbling,
The querying, the special fear,
What have I started?
Where is it taking me,
Am I properly undressed for doing
T he process?
A new vocabulary,
an arm extended, but distended,
Words are all angled puzzled,
Capable of unity, but first,
Unshaped but swollen,
By the process.
Hatching, head-aching,
words arrive rushed, but disordered,
Confused by the process.
*{The exception has it own character.
One kingly, run-on sentence birthed,
After silent labor, a full poem, fully dilated,
A shocking head of hair, full developed,
So fast does "it" fall onto the paper
The obstetrician arrives too late
To process.}*
The exception, exceptional.
The normal, normative.
Twenty four hours of labor,
False starts, much screaming,
Painful joys, hardly seamless,
This process.
Distractions the enemy,
Compulsion the master,
As you choreograph the work,
In loving servitude to
The process.
You the doctor, insert probes,
Looking for the tumors, the out of ordinary,
For normal flesh is not of interest as part of
The process.
Finally, you do exhale,
With unique the pleasure, of the longest sweetest
Female ******
The breathing less labored,
Tho whole, sensing a diminish-meant to convey
That completion is the end of part of you,
The near-end of the continuum, lessened but continuing
The process.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC