"hones" poems
In the dour ages
Of drafty cells and draftier castles,
Of dragons breathing without the frame of fables,
Saint and king unfisted obstruction's knuckles
By no miracle or majestic means,
But by such abuses
As smack of spite and the overscrupulous
Twisting of thumbscrews: one soul tied in sinews,
One white horse drowned, and all the unconquered pinnacles
Of God's city and Babylon's
Must wait, while here Suso's
Hand hones his tack and needles,
Scouraging to sores his own red sluices
For the relish of heaven, relentless, dousing with prickles
Of horsehair and lice his ***** *****
While there irate Cyrus
Squanders a summer and the brawn of his heroes
To rebuke the horse-swallowing River Gyndes:
He split it into three hundred and sixty trickles
A girl could wade without wetting her shins.
Still, latter-day sages,
Smiling at this behavior, subjugating their enemies
Neatly, nicely, by disbelief or bridges,
Never grip, as the grandsires did, that devil who chuckles
From grain of the marrow and the river-bed grains.
6.3k
Under the tree of the university
A shadow was gruesomely cast.
The branches made too much shade
And there grew no grass.
No one would lie under its wood
Down beside its trunk;
It wasn't essential, there was no potential,
Claimed the revered monk
But late at night you'll find him lying in the dirt
Wearing a Paisley Poplin Shirt
The click of the gears define his years,
A cycle on a chain
A cloud of sand thrown by his own hand
Hones forth his pain
He blows seeds of dandelion weeds
****** a ****** field
And he pretends that he intends
To reap this horrible yield
Because unintentionally he subconsciously convert
To one who wears a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Covered in rust, a blade he adjusts,
His mind remains unwrung
The words to speak were too **** bleak
So he cuts off his tongue
He'll be finished when he's diminished
These humanly sights
If there's no vision at the end of his mission
He'll gouge out his eyes
And Helen Keller takes one of her old ragged skirts
And fashions him a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Why must we be obsessed
With the unseen
When we know we cannot
Make something out of nothing
And to those of you who think that you cannot be hurt
Stones go thru a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 2:49 AM UTC
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
Into the night
Swings his big word-hammer
Never minding lies and grammar
Cuz he's gotta, gotta, gotta
Fuel the fight
With his bellowslike ire
He stokes the fire
As it burns, burns, burns
To his delight
On his huge word-anvil
Pounds rumor and scandal
As they sizzle, sizzle, sizzle
Burning bright
Hones his words untoward
Like a two-edged sword
As they stab, stab, stab
Like a knife
As his words extrude
They can get really rude
As he pushes, pushes, pushes
Wrong as right
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
With all his might
© 2019 Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 11:17 PM UTC
Little pockets of sound that skyrocket around
Words: verbs, adjectives, nouns
Words can get me steaming or lucid dreaming
And it leaves me silently screaming to see people consider words a weapon
Like they mean to cause harm
Well let me remind you I have the right to bear arms
Just because what’s on that page is mine
Doesn’t means it aligns with the ideals in my mind
Writing is expression, not confession
So when I write about a character who is confused and depressed
Buys a used gun and a bulletproof vest
And shoots up his classmates in the middle of a test
Because everyone ignored the signs of his anger
Doesn’t mean there’s a trench coat on my hanger
But nevertheless, they labeled me me a threat
Better yet, they focused on me instead of the 15 year old addicted to cigarettes
and took my words out of context
Because they are con-text
Well I’m pro-text and I protest that they suggest that I’m hopeless
and I know this coldness only hones my focus on my magnum opus
But where would we be without controversy?
The indirect side effect to freedom of speech
A beacon for speakin’ your mind without your rights being breached
It’s all in the name
When you write, you’re right
But when you advocate censorship, then you’re ****
My two cents are worth a million bucks
So who cares if they contain a million *****
F-words might be wayward but in a way they aren’t F-words, they’re A-words
Because all words are equal on surface
Well, until one strikes a nerve with a conservative
Who, without even meeting me, determined me to be
The next **** Germany
I didn’t write a story about a school shooter
I wrote it about how one impressionable kid became a slave to the page
And lost himself in the rage as an unfortunate consequence
And it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense
That the school would let themselves fall victim to a nonexistent threat
Brought on by a few paragraphs on a pair of half ripped papers stapled and
Paper-clipped to the rest of my script
You can place the blame but you became that same shameful shell
Hell, you can expel me, but you can’t compel me
To stop yelling again with this paper and pen
Or a stage and a mic
Going without words is like an endless hunger strike
Being voiceless ain’t a choice for this
When I protest, I prefer to be heard
A whole lot can happen with a few simple words
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
Into the night
Swings his big word-hammer
Never minding lies and grammar
Cuz he's gotta, gotta, gotta
Fuel the fight
With his bellowslike ire
He stokes the fire
As it burns, burns, burns
To his delight
On his huge word-anvil
Pounds rumor and scandal
As they sizzle, sizzle, sizzle
Burning bright
Hones his words untoward
Like a two-edged sword
As they stab, stab, stab
Like a knife
As his words extrude
They can get really rude
As he pushes, pushes, pushes
Wrong as right
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
With all his might
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 6:37 PM UTC
.
white fox, snowy owl
doze, crave cousins summer fare
ice hones beauty, will
.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 1:36 PM UTC
a slap on a face by a girlfriend,
just because she feels
like you've been cheating
on her while visiting your grandparents...
i must have looked pretty fit
for her to assume such a delusion...
and then countering...
punching yourself enough
times and giving yourself a plum
(a black eye)...
what do you think feels worse...
the 20 odd punches by yourself,
or the slap in the face?
that's not a trick question...
the slap in the face...
stings like a bee...
hones onto Parkinson's
like Muhammad Ali:
what is Parkinson's?
a bit like an animated stroke,
in slow slow motion,
over a long period of time.
- Rammstein makes a fetish
of various disorders
in the video for mein teil...
oh... lookie lookie lucky:
i've experienced the classical
bulimia of the ancient Roman
bourgeoisie...
i went to the bulimia gym...
trained the oesophagus
so well (it's not a tract,
it's a muscle) that i was able
to eat as much chocolate
as i was able to spew out...
on note: i love when Germans
sing...
that elitist part of me
disappears...
because: who the ****
had the authority to say
that opera was exclusively
an Italian or a French affair?!
- technical matters...
what is a precursor
hyphen?
a new paragraph in poetry;
a semi-colon? an elongated
pause...
backing up on
the topic of the hyphen...
point-break
(great movie by the way...
hate the remake...
Val Kilmer... Patrick Swayze...
or as i like to call them...
Valerie **** Me
and pat Paddy's back
while he swings Zed).
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
Just take a good look at me;
My frame is attractive!
It does the unsated
appetite of the chauvinist
fuel.
My curves and your fantasies
are mutually inclusive!
Without them, dreams
are truncated.
But I am an ********
symbol.
The self opinionated chauvinist
designs me in his sub-conscious
to serve and be utterly subservient.
I am incarcerated as a chef,
and timeless baby sitter.
A baby machine for a
patriarchal dynasty.
My education is a threat to chauvinist ego.
My ignorance hones his misogynist confidence,
whilst my erudite head
retards his self esteem and worth.
The illiterate ******** symbol is his
ideal and virtuous woman.
The smarter and more professional
is the age-old Jezebel.
My chastity and virginity
are twin virtues of a
mutilated genitalia.
My restrained *** urges are
designed for his unrestrained
proclivities and gratification.
I must be restrained,
for him to be unrestrained,
because, share him I must
with two or three others of
my kind.
But take another good look at me,
and see a versatile womb-man!
Translate each prejudice of yours'
and see my remarkable antonyms.
Oct 14, 2023
Oct 14, 2023 at 3:23 PM UTC
He kisses
her hip;
lips on skin
and feels bone.
She moves
in intimacy,
hones in
on his lips
in the moist moment.
She curves
about him
like a serpent,
her legs
about his waist,
bringing him in
to harbour
like a pilot
brings in
a large ship
to home port.
Hip to lips,
lips to skin;
sense now
the hot dips.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 4:08 AM UTC
Winging on thermals
across river valleys
counting days until
death hones-in;
lead pellets
swallowed,
prey
eaten.
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 8:34 AM UTC
Her lilting voice,
sweet and soothing,
once moved audiences
to laughter and tears.
Now, at bedtime,
she hones her celebrated art
for her daughter's enjoyment,
regaling her with stories
of wizards and talking birds,
of princesses and castles
and magical visits to a
glittering fantasyland.
She tucks her child in
and listens to her prayer,
then sleep tiptoes
into the quiet room
as the little girl
turns over gently,
all her lovely dreams
just waiting to unfold
like a glorious sunrise.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
Foie gras
Exploitation of geese
Posh food
Cows with udder
Too big for their bodies
Industrialized
Greyhounds
Get legs broken
If too slow
Bleeding bull
Disorientated in the sand
Slowly dying
Taser rowdy whites
On uncontrollable blacks
A gun is handy
Water
Rocks splinter rollers
The breakers hones the rocks
Into shark fins
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
Your love confronts me
I can't resist you
Your touch is sinful
But your voice is my redemption song
I know your voice all too well
It is the shackles on my hands and feet,
It is the bars in this cell
But never did it cross my mind that I was trapped
That this prison was hell
My darling angel
It seems from heaven you fell
Your sweet sinful harmonious tones
Only heaven knows the power it hones
Only hell sings along in your song
As I sit in this cell trying to right this wrong
To no avail to no avail
I've been sentenced to this madness
And there was posted no bail
No freedom from love
No freedom to love
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
We've been evolving with music,
ever since our mothers heart beats,
special and different,
terminally unique,
flabbergasted freaks,
trapped,
poverty stricken and weak,
little *****
unharnessed potential sleeps,
forced into a corner of naughty
left handed niche,
never gonna be right,
no matter how hard we tried to please,
surrounded by subterfuge ,to fool we,
And force us to be,
other than that which is 3,
oppressed with an Iron fist ,
that was planned ,pummeling,
our creative needs,
like bricks in a washing machines,
Never get cleaned,
Discombobulated,
Artiste,
wearing our souls on our sleeves,
it's not like we never told you,
What WE wanted to be,
Traitors sounding dis-eased,
somethings never gonna change,
best believe,
they just wait and become more vague,
and strange and displeased.
The only escape and coping mechanism sufficient
4 1 2 survive,
and preserve the real we,
Alchemists? , Magicians? thieves?
thrive
and get a life
ub3
and feel alive,
Our duty to share and express
our majesty
and universal given creative talents!
aka
" Balancing heavy burdens on bended knees"
the most precious ancient currency
Deep in the concrete jungle,
amongst all kinds of ******
Only dead fish go with the flow!
And never stumble
Just their for the ride
with ease,
swimming upstream,
brings light
providing us with,the fortitude and spiritual stamina,
to stay alive &survive;
for the streets,
that is required,
in order
4 We 2 b 3
and able to
keep on keeping on,
no matter what's gone on,
Got 2 B strong
by any means necessary,
suffering
through these astonishing catastrophes,
written in stone,
war and peace,
4 what doesn't ****
hones and
must make strengths increase,
as out of the darkness comes the light,
like a beast to a priest,
That we are still here to share,
no matter what!
express ,believe and receive,
creating, creative, creations...
exposing the woods from the trees
WE big people ,
have to bend,
and ponder,
and weep.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
Possible,
Water,
Rain like mud sticking to your flabby boots,
Drift closer,
The beam of a candle,
Melts my fluorescent membrane,
Kappa,
Gamma Gamma,
Zeta, Theta,
Delta 2 Minor,
We have Control,
The opening is cut,
Like vintage dawns,
fiestivo, rex,
Domus,
Sum,
Forget any retrieval,
Seldom Come,
Seldom Reach you,
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..
Aaw sure she's my own
little Finnegans Wake.
For my little skeowsha
language is lava
the mind is molten
flowing.
She catches tones and hones
in on the last word.
"pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?"
She knows how to
stick question marks on
things like
"...sweets?"
The thunder scares her
on Thursday
& becomes
Thundersday.
The flies bother her on Friday...
becomes Flieday.
Not realising she is
quoting Mr, Joyce
following in his WAKE.
Or she makes up her own
"ONESDAY...TWOSDAY
WEDDINGDAY...FATTERDAY
SOMEDAY!"
She my little trinketotes
my dear ***** Dumpling.
I read her to sleep.
Not a peep
when Anna Livia Plurabelle...
tells her tale.
Beside the tickling waters of.
Beside the chuckling waters of.
Beside the laughing waters of.
She loves
the music of it all.
"Again!"
she agains it!
" Can't hear with the waters of.
The chittering waters of.
Night now.
Tell me, tell me, tell me elm.
Night night!
Tellmetale of stem or stone.
Beside the rivering waters of..
Hithering tithering waters of.
Night."
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
Modern Haiku
Foie gras
Exploitation of geese
Posh food
Cows with udder
Too big for their bodies
Industrialized
Greyhounds
Get legs broken
If too slow
Bleeding bull
Disorientated in the sand
Slowly dying
Taser rowdy whites
On incontrollable blacks
A gun is handy
Water
Rocks splinter rollers
The breakers hones the rocks
Into shark fins
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 7:04 AM UTC
I am compelled to look,
To understand the grotesque.
I am drawn to it like prey.
Fixated on the abomination in front of me.
There is no peace in obsession-For it hums below the surface,
Persistent and invasive, staining the landscape of the soul
Each glance deepens the pull, as if understanding it somehow makes it less monstrous.
It grows like ivy in my mind-twisting itself around thoughts that refuse to dissipate.
It doesn't shout or scream, yet it has turned the quiet into noise
It lingers-
endlessly circling me, refusing to pounce till just the right moment.
It sharpens it's gaze as it hones in on me
And I know I have been captured,
Made prisoner by my own fascination.
Even in my very last seconds I relentlessly fight the need to understand
Making sense of something that has none.
Nov 26, 2024
Nov 26, 2024 at 10:25 AM UTC
The selfish life is killing me
Petty
Minds
Instilling me
With boiling kettle enmity
Staining shell of steel
Evaporating empathy
Deforming each ideal
To freshly-brewed misanthropy
Angry
Hands
Are spilling me
Onto the skin of vanity
My scalding heat is real
This melting world in agony
To puddles we conceal
Still slipping on my sanity
Trippy
Thoughts
Fulfilling me
By pouring out my clarity
As liquid suns of zeal
Into your cup of apathy
Sip on the warm reveal
Don't burn your tongue on lunacy
Drink only what you feel
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
Gold autumn leaves with withered rose
crumble like promises we made.
To dust returns the love I chose
as rust consumes the sharpened blade.
Wet grindstone hones the rusted edge.
Love swings the sword I can't evade.
You watch me teeter on the ledge
but find no words that can dissuade.
My broken thoughts can not sustain
the quest for all that I do lack.
Yet though vague flashbacks still remain
I know this too will fade to black.
I never thought that anything
that felt so right could ever die.
What was once love would later bring
an end to thinking I should try.
Glass promises we sometimes make
reflect not love but self defense.
They tell a lie and only take
then shatter at our own expense.
Love never heard me say I do.
It passed my heart along the way.
No sacrifice will make it true.
I move my rook to end the play.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
Willing though I am
I am not the 'full shilling' of a man.
You can stuff me full of worms and watch which way the earthworks turn or burn me on the stake,take your shot,make your play,willing though I am
I haven't got all day.
It's time you see that captures me and ties up the dandelion clock and there's no **** a doodle ****** me to wake and set this old man free,All
I see are mad old hens with fountain pens scribbling in the sand and the farmers wife who never had a life to call her own, sits and hones the carving knife,willing though I am she won't be carving slices off this old piece of ham.
What's normal now may tomorrow be somehow sanitised by experts who'd then advertise me as the fresh young thing and bring me to some underling who'd work in order just to pay the madnesses to go away,but
I remain,
the stain you can't remove and I turn again into the groove,another disc reminds you that I am
not quite 'the shilling'
not quite the man.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 4:31 AM UTC
I.
It feels like an itch beneath her skin, like static electricity, like all her hairs on end, and she loves it. She knows that if she would only spread her fingers and say the words, she knows that if she were to close her eyes and open them again, the world would be in colors that no one else could see. She knows that if she would only let it free, it would spark and be euphoric-
her hand clenches into a fist. she ignores it.
II.
Her spellbooks are stacked haphazardly in boxes and her shelves are full of YA fiction. She does not go into the attic anymore. She lets them collect dust. She does not pour over old latin phrases or study greek for any other reason than to read Homer. She concentrates on Biblical Greek. A silver cross hangs around her neck. Her notebooks of tediously written translations are scattered to the winds. They are replaced with collegiate notes and short stories.She is a scholar. Her curiosity is never sated.
She does not go into the attic.
III.
Sometimes she wakes up five feet from her bed, her nose brushing the ceiling. Sometimes she’ll feel the wind and clouds pick up her emotions. Sometimes she hears the whispers of the dead. But they are whispers. Her prayers are louder. She closes her eyes and grasps at control, waiting until the forecast is correct again. She clutches her golden cross and tearfully waits until her back hits mattress.
It will pass it will pass it will pass.
IV.
She studies more now than she ever had. The girl who’d been able to get by on lectures alone is no longer satisfied with a B/C average. She hones her writing skill until it is sharp as a blade. She beats her pen to paper as though it can lead her to salvation as well as The Good Book. Sometimes she falls asleep at her desk and her papers float around her.
She buys more paperweights.
V.
The future is shadows and whispers. No longer do other people’s auras paint her vision with colors no one else can see. No longer do other people’s deaths and loved ones press themselves behind her eyes. No longer does she peer into souls that only stare back. They blur together like retired nightmares. She does not hear their voices. She does not see their faces.
Her vision is only 20/20.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..
Ahhh sure she's my own
little Finnegans Wake.
For my little skeowsha
language is lava
the mind is molten
forever flowing.
She catches tones and hones
in on the last word.
"pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?"
She knows how to
stick question marks on
the end of things
like: "...sweets?"
The thunder scares her
on Thursday
& becomes
Thundersday.
The flies bother her on Friday...
becomes Flieday.
Not realiasing she is
quoting Mr, Joyce
following in his WAKE.
Or she makes up her own
"ONESDAY...TWOSDAY
WEDDINGSDAY...FATTERDAY
SOMEDAY!"
She my little trinketoes
my dear ***** Dumpling.
I read her to sleep.
Not a peep
when Anna Livia Plurabelle...
tells her tale.
Beside the tickling waters of.
Beside the chuckling waters of.
Beside the laughing waters of.
She loves
the music of it all.
"Again!"
she agains it!
" Can't hear with the waters of.
The chittering waters of.
Night now.
Tell me, tell me, tell me elm.
Night night!
Tellmetale of stem or stone.
Beside the rivering waters of.
Hithering tithering waters of.
Night."
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 3:38 PM UTC
The stepping stones
crossing boundaries
exchanging homes,
hanging on by a thread.
If I'm to be dead
I will live on
in the rising waters
when the stones have gone.
Lick my lips
she slips right in,
is this where
the beauty of
life begins?
Kiss me later
kiss me soon,
kiss me under the
sparkling moon
reflected on the
stepping stones where
the light
hones
my appreciation.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
we learn through
iteration and repetition
repetition hones your craft
iteration grows your craft
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 1:16 PM UTC