"hiatus" poems
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter--
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.
39.3k
The light pollution
from the lives of little people
in the big city
reflects off the lowriding clouds,
the same way my knees reflect
in the little puddles
from the big rains.
It hurts my eyes to look up
without sunglasses,
hurts my lips to think of tasting
the subway oil that
drip
drip
drips
I speculate at the transformers,
part automatic, part people
in their pre-ripped jeans,
learning to get their Ns
to drive themselves away,
yarn trailing from their sweaters
like parade float streamers.
Citizens run so fast
to catch the early train home,
freefalling down the stairs
breathing in the exhales
of the other racer’s exhaust.
Marking their triumphs
with participation ribbons.
The pacific pants at toes,
a puppy that only occasionally misbehaves.
Impatient for attention,
waves wagging back and forth,
up the imitation river,
past the downtown.
Kicking the sea wall with it's gravity boots.
The geese are on hiatus
until they can take back the city.
Making the drains overflow,
creating their own habitat,
they’ll strut their haughty markings,
distinguished from orcas,
away from any saline nonsense.
Were we to retrain the population
to turn blind eyes,
we’d be much more efficient,
stop wasting time contending
to society’s obsession
with documenting itself.
But then, what would we do all day?
Creating light pollution
must give immediate gratification.
Once all the lights are turned off,
the influence won’t continue,
creating a lack of permanence,
making our need to be remembered
seem trivial indeed.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
Happenstance to the melancholic gives leave the sin of pride.
Inbound reconnaissance tells not the bearer of influence.
Squeamish at first: a foreshadowing of calamitous bonding.
A space between the mark of corporeal and the ethereal; a stringent hiatus
That which rattles the concrete foundation of morality is scarcely a malleable recourse.
Regret stains the unfounded soul: an enigma of ephemeral perforations.
A separation of the unmitigated humanities; misandry topples the writhing snake.
Impact; a cleansing of the maker's flaws integrated solemnly.
Complacency arrests the administration of the abhorred; unbridled is the autonomy of a guru.
Ambivalent giftedness burdens the reliant and haughty.
A flick of the tongue brings forth the cinema mortem.
Castaway: alone to wade in the sea of obscenities.
A temporal causality allows no mourning to abscond.
Negligence is not the enemy, but indulgent wrath.
Hesitant: a stroke of qualia begets the end of a maiden.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
A time was when
Nothing short of my deepest ******
Once and then many times more
Would satiate me
Then quietly crept between us
The hiatus
When I learned new ways to play
Chanced on a week a golden day
Then over a month or more
I had found the key to the secret door.
Now at the most heightened end of the affair
Satiates me a strand of her hair!
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:40 AM UTC
~~
Then, if ever, is the red color grows fade
The petals of red roses drop
If the birds don't sing any songs
And even a butterfly doesn't
Play on a purple flower
If the mistake happens in the rain
You 'll not cry
You can't be afraid of thunder
They will cleanse you
And when I am gone
Forgive me, but the melody in the air
You will come, playing in the garden,
Dance with the lost grasshoppers
Any yellow day when red flamboyant will be bloomed
Will have to take off your colorful sunglasses
At the very noon will be floated on the Cuckoo's love song
Again and Again it will prove your arrival,
O' Spring
You'll be the very white sky after rain
Will bloom red hibiscus
On that gilded day
Red flamboyant 'll be loved with yellow flamboyant
Patched up with melody and words
Will be made new Songs,
New Poetry,
With the yellow flowers tune
Then again,
You 'll not sing a song of despair,
Not even a song of hiatus,
Will sing the Songs of Joy,
Stir in the way of dreams,
Mating
Back to again and again
I 'll come back to you
Both 'll make a love
For the creation of a new life
~~
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
To watch or not to watch.
That is the question;whether it is nobler in my mind to suffer the feels and emotions of addicting shows and yet be so in love with them.
To watch, to cry.
One more episode and only sleep will help me to end.
The heartache and the thousand cinematic shocks the writers are obsessed with.
‘tis a consuming world with everything I wish.
To watch, to cry. To cry-- perhaps too much. Ay, but it's worth it.
For, when watching these shows and knowing what feels may come, when we have shuffled off this depressing factor, we must not forget the humor that makes happiness last oh so long.
To watch characters travel the depths of space and time.
The detectives prove wrong the proud men and even the relationships and love ‘tween the main protagonists.
The insolence of the hiatus that even patient fangirls cannot take. When we go on great adventures with a hobbit and a ring. Who could bear the long wait? To punt a sweat is a weary life. To discover world's unknown from books or shows. We travellers never want to return.
Our fangirl hearts burn and even still
We would rather bear the tears we have Than live in a world where there are none. Thus Fangirls are not cowards, not at all
Thus we are heroes so very proud
So we proudly say take flight on the enterprise with Captain Jean Luc
We bare our lights sabers alight
And lose ourselves in the action
Go we now happy as could be-- off to fangirl forever
To be normal? Ha! Never.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC
breathing down my neck
smelling like axe and testosterone
a mixture of callouses on my
baby doll hands
and the sun's reflections through dusty windows
on a winter day
I know that my actions are erroneous
stained with reluctance
the windows in my old church
scream at me for the reluctance
I stopped believing in god when I realized it spells dog backwards. or was it when I was 13 and realized I would make 75 cents to every dollar.
my unfounded reasoning for running
substantiated only by my astrological sign which I reluctantly believe on days where I need a hiatus from the dirt in between my toes
SCORPIO
it plays hard to get
but astrology spells dog backwards too
I should've said yes to the axe smelling boy
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
daily grind
sleep of mine
five hours small
so short so tall.
monotone, polite,
bubbly, smite.
"you always give him crap"
redhead hiatus.
Charlotte?
"What the hell?"
******** try to steal your show.
Jesus Christ;
these are the days I cherish
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 12:36 PM UTC
Dostoyevsky said, “your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”
I've felt rage seething in my chest for as long as I can remember. I've felt as his talons ripped open my sternum, digging for a place to call home. this rage has nestled deep into my ribcage, devouring my will to survive while carelessly residing within my nightmares.
I've surrendered to this forsaken depression fury has vacated deep in the confines of my irises - despite witnessing myself across grey-tinted glasses; a smoldering storm rippling miasma throughout my body, manipulating my hands into a devout pyromaniac; suffocating every chance to heal.
I've known nothing but bitterness congesting my heart. My dreams were burdened dreadfully with the stench of wrath. it mutilated my arms; burrowing into capillaries, and asphyxiating my habit to vanish.
This incessant sin I've endured has brought me to my knees, existing only to ***** out my ability to be a mortal in an unforgiving universe. I am not a cosmic metaphor, the iron residing underneath my skin has become impenetrable.
I am adorned with stillness while this betrayal has bloomed into a supernova. the things in which I lack have ignited into an endlessly violent explosion -
Atomizing my bones, swirling stardust into a forlorn emptiness.
A world that was held by the unfaltering resistance I persevered against, it has ravaged my memories, my moribund existence trembled; shivering from the growl of the recoil - the remnants of creation kissed abysmal lips within the faraway distance of a boundless abyss, raining tears for the last time as the destruction leaves a life void of meaning.
The last words ever heard in this universe spoke softly as if to lull the existential bereft into a long hiatus -
"This was all for nothing, just as destitute as this vacant nothingness, human life is ill-fated to be star-crossed and powerless."
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 6:51 PM UTC
*The confusion is envisioned
During the brief hiatus
Between thoughts*
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Crawling on all fours, traffic drags its bleeding body forward.
Men with collars of lipstick tap tap tap their fingers against steering wheels.
Time slows, cars inch, passing hands find cigarettes, cigarettes find fire.
Tap ash tap finds tap pavement.
This is the unobserved hiatus of daily routines, the dreaded stretch of heaven that separates from and to.
During such moments of inertia
thoughts drift through open windows
forming a cloud for bargains, regrets, wishes, doubts, prayers, and curses to perform cotillion upon.
Faster, faster, so quickly now, oh, change partners, switch lanes, spin, oh baby spin, fasterfasterfaster, until differentiation is impossible, until drivers become one with this steel river, until minds make their essential switch that makes home a bearable punishment.
Someone has broken down.
Do Not Stop.
They are shunned from the sweeping mob of machinery. Necks swivel in uniform towards this abomination, how dare they, how DARE they outshine our misery. Perspiration works its way down backs and pools into leather cracks.
Will it ever end?
Do we want it to?
Finally,
regrettably,
the final exit, the last few feet of purgatory.
We descend into the next inferno where we leap through fiery hoops of interrogation—
yes no it was fine yes okay.
We are exhausted.
If only we would have stopped.
If only we would have hit the brakes and remained in our haven of anxiety and lust and confusion and endless searching.
Our love affair with traffic can only last so long.
So we make solemn promises to ourselves to appreciate tomorrow’s,
to run our fingers along the satin thighs of the freeway,
to plant a rubber kiss upon the ground.
How tap long tap until tap five?
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
Helen sends me scraps of poems for repair. "Shreds of lettuce," she calls them. I fool around with them in my role as Poetry Doctor (see my banner photo). In her extended absence, I will post our convolutions. While the final product is mine, the vision, the imagery, the notion of the poem is all hers and therein lies the true authorship.
From Helen, Dec 2
Here is the last of the salad,
dressing not required...
savoir-faire [?sævw???f??
Upon a plate
of deliciousness
the lettuce
is usually
pushed to the side
to wilt
and be scrapped
into an
Industrial bin
were we all begin
as fodder for worms
turning garbage
into words
Nourishing
nothing
but our own pride
bon appétit
Helen
---------------
The Human Word Salad
Now it is dressed....
all poems, no exception,
the bad, the exceptional,
all begin
in an
industrial bin.
wormwood,
wormword
the ancestors,
feast on the scraps,
garbage letters discarded,
the wilts of alpha lettuce,
the word waste of the
every day beta jabber,
plate pushed-aside decorations,
all but none, bystanders
and they
turn them into words,
though inedible, incapable,
of nourishing life individually,
yet their recycled deliciousness,
unquestioned.
when
each sole word,
re-birthed in the compost
of the delivery room of that bin,
meet in the maternity ward
of our minds
words wed,
poems form,
and all the true nourishment
the world needs
begins anew.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
I never thought that I would have my heart broken by a city.
It wasn't just the men and the music;
It was the eternal hope and subsequent disappointment.
I didn't go there with dreams in a guitar case.
My hands have always been too small to wrap around the neck anyway.
I went for the experience, with a notebook to my name.
The most incredible voices echo through the streets
Like wind through bare New England oaks;
It's haunting, comforting, met with silence.
I leaned over the edge of a balcony and thought,
How many people have jumped?
Because the thing is: you don't make it in Music City.
You try and try and try and try and then you go home.
I met a man on a street corner, a shy, sweet little thing.
Two months later he was back in Dublin, playing in pubs.
A raspy, long-haired rock-and-roll singer howled into the night,
And he didn't sing again for months.
Not until his vocal cords recovered.
Five Scotsmen took the breath away from a hundred people;
They went on "hiatus" a few weeks ago.
But there was such hope in their voices, in their smiles.
And it broke my heart.
I long for Nashvillian streets beneath my feet once more.
I want to feel the desire and passion in the air,
Circulating like cigarette smoke outside the smallest venues.
I risk my sanity by inviting the hopeful and the hopeless into my heart.
At least I'll get a poem or two out of it,
And maybe they'll get a song.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
it's everywhere
though no eyes can see
but it can be felt
sometimes blissful
sometimes mournful
no genius can grasp the existence of it
no one could comprehend
it's beyond perception
it's complex
it takes place everyday
it's veracity
no drug could cure
no one could cease
no one could hiatus
and everyone felt it
though it fade
but when time comes
another will came
though it ache
but when time comes
it will heal
©IGMS 2014
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
As walked with the devil accept no fear.
Moans of pain affected only by a cowards ear.
Valleys light lit the darkest hour.
Through sands of time became sour.
Tides always turn nevertheless.
For our prolonged hiatus for the best.
The ones known by many I give thanks.
To those few who walk to meet the planks.
Frame by frame pages are torn.
For those are no longer sworn.
Only acquired by many past tense hate.
As we build our bridge for future date.
He conquer sight Long lived by one tale.
See as he will, guided to see no fail.
As his course viewd by multiple eyes.
All known why, in history he lies.
-Joseph B Schneider
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
Tiger Wood's wins the Masters today
Another green jacket comes his way
Finally, his image stands large at the doorway
For it's been a knock and a hiatus of his cache
As the years after 2008 suffered from his play
No major championships one can say
Only gossip headlines, mugshots, and injuries in gray
Where once a phenom in his twenties on display
Such greatness and legend his star headway
His mid-thirties saw some of his luster fall in dismay
With mostly self-injury to his ego in disarray
It was hard watching a once proud man's fall and decay
Especially one that held his world at bay
With his swagger, swoosh, and shine turning to clay
And like a good drama of accents and descents convey
With the wait and weight on his shoulders belay
He turned the storybook pages of dismay today
The pressure of his swing, swing, and putt on display
And how he uncorked his demons is a pure bouquet
After 43 years of his years, he took the fairway
Running, running, today after his prey
It was great seeing his game not get away
Logan Robertson
4/14/2019
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 12:13 AM UTC
Tablet dust rising
like smoke through the air
a blissful hiatus
from connection to them
moronic epitome
of ironic affairs
he should have looked up
cause hes falling again
Now the boy who cried wolf
lies awake in the night
cause he's actually scared of whats out there
the doctors he sees
cant do much to relieve
all the tension thats built up inside him
and the pills that made him cozy
made him cold
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
We can all spit on those tablets of stone,
the trinity's on hiatus,
the devil's alone,
School's out for training
it's raining hell fire and the bishops
are recording the antediluvian choir.
Noah's going to Goa,
A lot safer than here,
they say Indian beer's the best.
With his wood and an axe and
several packs of cool Cobra, he sails
into the wind and ends up in the Gobi.
On the edge of a rainbow
'jump Noah',
'don't go',
two people are shouting,
somebody's outing the sailor.
The choir got wrecked on microdot specks and
suspecting the worst, the bishops in Rome
all spit on the tablets hacked out from rough stone,
it was a quiet day in the Vatican, no miracles pronounced
in Perpignan, no Lady of Lourdes, no shroud of Turin,
only the blessing of Geneva dry gin.
Angels with harps all ****** as farts and
the devil sits alone.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
Porcelain goddess gaining momentum
Wishing she was anywhere but here
Popularity on hermit hiatus
Bile creeps up her throat
Bloated and dizzy
Binge. Binge. Binge.
Food a constant companion
Over indulge with sloth
Gluttony floods the senses
Smiles wreathed in decayed ruin
Mirror image rotund, unclean
Distorted into a thin, glowing unreality
I cannot make it through to your blistered self
Protected and coddled by strangling disease
You clean your toilet everyday
Hiding KFC wrappers under your bed until the smell permeates
Filth and Rot have become your calling cards
Twisted around the pinky finger of an esophageal acid burn deity
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 9:38 PM UTC
then
he made a gesture
like a farmer with a full hand of seeds
he made a gesture
and colours spilled over the world
and words
like water coloured worlds
dripping in my window sill
flooded in
waves
of forbidden wanting
in a dispersion of me
luths and flutes
silky veils and a galaxy
i made a gesture
walls of cold glass
intangible all the colours
his sail is a wing
a hiatus in the blue
hollowing me
i tie an iron ribbon
to my heart
and watch it
drowning
silently
12.11.14
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
Taken a hiatus
Unhappy with the latest
Words
Put onto pages
They've not been the greatest
Need a vacation
Find that part that
CAN
Be
Creative
Frustratingly
Average
Make them look
Pretty
Hide they're not
Witty
Ignore they're not
Gritty
Hello Poetry
When you hold a committee
To judge me
Take pity
Before you
Unleash
Your
Critique
Remember I'm only running at
Fifty-three
Percent
Capacity
Creatively
I think I'm due an upgrade
To iron out these kinks.
Plug
Me
In
To
Sleep.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
Tiny clumps of hair
Once caramel in color
Crumbles beneath the lowest
Lair of pallid
Trampled dust.
A lump in the back of my throat
Rises as the bone shows.
Our teeth have clanked
Collided in battle, our hooves
Finger-less and delving, we were
Ambiguously a hiatus in the water-color
Sticky like honey whilst Satan licks up my spine.
Burning sweet like the water that runs from the Nile
Into the mouths of every little insensate frame and comatose sky
Lacklustre pallor only children could buy.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC