"hurdling" poems
Like the waves
clashing against one another
Struggling to keep up,
but aware of the power
Rising up,
streaming down
rushing and hurdling
coming ashore
As the sun radiates
illuminating the water,
I can see crystal clear
there is hope.
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:56 AM UTC
3:8:15 - Kosher pinot noir toasts the snowflakes that the eider brings, just as the Ash bows ache; naked and starving. Hurdling through old bedroom windows, giving those reasons why pennies are wished first into window wells. Smoggy gawkers, locked into an image shaped by organic lines and gestures. The two smoker- cure their hours reconnoitering in skyrise stairwells, discussing recipes for fixing wounded hearts without the peaceful frequencies she speaks into two styrofoam cups with strings pierced through their innards. Much like the story of how two people meet within the timespan of the living.
Even the Moon Men eat space cakes to loosen their chests, from the apathetic laws that began to govern their personalized truths. Not a mug with a name on it bought after an almost very cool free-art reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Love is not a sentence I can choose not to awaken.
It's the difference between having a one night stand rather
than keeping a toothbrush at each other's places.
Even on a Saturday night, we could fasten ourselves
to one another. Even if it's only you and I, who are you to
say it's not a party.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
I.
something within me,
maybe its my amigdala,
misses the oven-turned-gentrified clot,
that great collection of want,
of transient soles-souls.
I miss how we’re piled three stories high,
so close to each others’ mouths that we must
burrow in criss crossed, colliding tunnels
to our point b’s, our job sites,
our lovers’ houses.
maybe it is indeed part of our un-nature to do this,
to cling to one another even
as our unforgiving sungod bakes us whole,
cornish game hens on the el train,
hurdling 40 mph, to and from
our personal hovels, heavens
and bedsheets,
tethered to this place, possibly indentured,
definitely flawed,
where we revel under roofs to prove incredibleness
an virility.
II.
our eyes are not closed today.
they may not blink in unison
as mannequin lids do,
so effortlessly, plastic and mechanical,
but those, we are thankfully not.
for we are flesh,
and air, and miles of gastrointestinal turnpike, if unpinned,
would stretch from here to panama.
we are each of us
a viscous mound called
Sally, Bertram and Queen Mary.
We are the collision of milk flowing, divine,
a whirling dervish
in scalding darjeeling.
we are air,
gliding over enamel into the collective breath
to be devoured so sweetly by others,
as saintly man-scripted gelato,
dribbling down our chins in piazzas.
la dolce ************* vita.
III.
that’s the funny thing about living
in this size 2 world,
the ability to appear anywhere upon its face at a moment’s notice,
to be in front of any face when desired,
to live sans toll booth or customs desk,
to simply dust off our ability to fly
and tumble icarus-adolescent into the collision
between the two blue planes called sea and sky
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 9:58 AM UTC
the rock
so tough and strong
the baby bird
so weak and helpless
with one push
the rock is rolling
rolling
rolling
the baby bird stuck
it hasn't learned to fly
the baby bird watching the rock
tumbling more and more
towards itself
it gives up trying to be free
the rock
still hurdling its way down
doesn't seem to be stopping
the baby bird lies down
closes its eyes
and doesn't wake
the rock skids to a stop
it was on its way to help ****
the approaching cat from behind
the rock wanted to help
but ended up doing the most damage
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 7:47 AM UTC
writing is simple.
it's like popping a pimple.
one of those nasty ones that
makes a certain clicking noise when it fractures
and another certain splatter when the indulgent ooze lands on the mirror.
writing is as easy as this.
just like taking a ****
i could try to hold it in as long as possible
but eventually
something will leak out, the dam will burst.
writing is like getting a *******
i'll do it where other people can see me
if i have to but
if some guy walks up and tries to strike up a conversation
i will not shake his hand.
writing is a *****
just like that ever-present itch
in the back of your throat
when you have to cough.
writing is like getting off.
you start out slow, exploring her trenches
then quicken the pace, begin hurdling benches.
then, an hour and a half later
you're smoking a cigarette and
trying to remember what just happened.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 10:33 AM UTC
Engulfed in emotions
Everything's a blur with tears
Silly old hopes
Silly old misinterpretations
of generic pleasantries
and politeness
expressed into something more
Let the water flow through the creak,
over the hurdling stones,
let my thoughts move on from this day
Charging forwards leaving your stone behind
Adieu!
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 3:01 PM UTC
I was broken, I was severely unafraid
Nothing mattered anymore
Because I had already lost
My family and my friends
And my depression was kicking in too hard
I wasn't trying, I wasn't caring enough
Love was never enough
Though there it was in overwhelming amounts
I never belonged to anyone
No one ever lived for me
And life was being suffocated from me
That emptiness within me was bruising me
How polite, how unapologetic
How fast, hurdling down, my decisiveness
I started tumbling down, without fear
Shameless, without nerves or apathy
I was brilliant in the limelight
But behind the shadows I was being swallowed
By anonymity and solitary confinement
The darkness was strangling me
I left everything I was, to reach everything
I thought I could be
Didn't I get everything I wanted?
Yeah, I thought this was the plan
But I became someone else
Other desires became attached to me
My heart changed, my mind bent, my thoughts evolved
I lost focus, in sight of love and desire
I never bothered to figure
What it meant to be happy, within me
The work was tedious, but only on the exterior
No time allotted to the dwindling interior
I was broken, I was severely unafraid
Nothing mattered anymore
I could be starving a thousand times more
I've been disillusioned many times more by banquets of contempt
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
You know the way I took it,
At the break of dawn
You know how I slid from your window sill,
Like the gold flakes from my fingernails,
Fandango in the bluing sky
You knew when you awoke,
Rubbing cobwebs from your cracks
When you looked to see it gone,
The gun into your mind
Surely someone clever as you,
Would never let it sit
For a replayed taboo like me,
To steal it as you slept
Your periscope eyes have found me,
Hurdling from the howling woods,
Deep with festers
From your pets
You, you scrawny herbivore
While I eat carnage
Tangy and red
You, it seems, possess some bravery
When you shot those mind bullets
Pushing through my back
But you missed, my dear
You missed
Or was it just your intent
To slash
And torment
Instead?
But you missed, my dear
You missed
--Lily
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
It's a cold call in the middle of the night,
you're orbiting a big yellow sun with long brown hair,
and sharp, fierce, green eyes.
Now you're being thrown from her orbit,
hurdling into a vacuum,
it's like driving without headlights.
Don't hold your breath,
you're out of her pull,
out of her grasp,
don't look back.
Just collide with other planets,
crashing and burning up with no sound,
it's a silent film.
Shedding yourself,
pieces of you crumble and break away,
as your last bits blister through the atmosphere.
Stripped down,
smooth and bare, like a newborn,
you land into the arms of a planet you can call home.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 1:19 AM UTC
you who swayed on stoop-steps and picked bits of teeth
from your knuckles, your fantasies, your crouched in blood
giggles; monologues.
you who wrapped knives around tree hides and in carvings
found your way back to days of love
& dead wet leaves.
you who rattled in hate of sweaty girls but
smeared out on the boulevard for girls anyways
& made those girls sweat.
you who ****** in the snow and wrote out all the names
of your far-fallen friends and sisters in just one stream.
pacific coast highway.
you who soaked back in the trans-fat pools of employment
to grip at tips and taste at *****
in this fine phase we call fermentation.
you who came hurdling down from hills and hallways
with navajo sidekicks,
your battle-axes sweetened with sugar powder flecks; for flavor
while dying.
you who peeled skin from your fingertips in protest
of the war on whales, warping you irrevocably
down the path
of a whisky avocado diet.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
Intricate matrixes of words
Strung delicately one after another,
Flowing from unseen fountain,
Flowing beneath a cryptic mountain
Melding Into one another, so far as I can see it
Nothing absolute can be created from the puddle
That’s collected all my muddled thoughts,
Stagnate, is indignant to the fact that life survives in motion,
Lost to the notion that change is not bearable
But instead it is, it is inevitable.
Tell that to the cryptic mountain resisting the change
Holding on so desperately to every spec of dirt,
Until in turn gravity tears it from its grip.
Yes the mountain is grounded
But is it equipped? Water is quick.
But it just moves dirt and mountains that spent
An eternity building up , and what kind of
Grounding is earth hurdling back toward earth?
Astounding yes, resounding in your heart and head
Your aspirations bounding? Remaining unchanged,
Except a small tilt in your perception so insignificant
You don’t know that gravity just stole a spec of your dirt.
You have on a micro level come unearth
But regardless of your element you will be
Subjected to the erosion until you are a flat plain,
Or a calm stream or eventually a stagnate puddle.
But you would never know
That you are the highest humbled,
The grandest grounded, and if you can puddle
Without being stagnate you are the ocean
Until you were there you wouldn’t know it would you?
Well unless you read I said it, then maybe then,
But again I doubt it.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC
The lunar craters sit silently
Painting an image of a bygone war
One that no grass or flowers
Will ever grow over
A war of annihilation
A destruction so complete
It was etched it stone
A grim reminder of a vicious cycle
That the very thing itself
That decimated our moon
And sent it hurdling into the earth
Would one day return to us
To finish what it had begun
Those distant eons ago
Feb 22, 2024
Feb 22, 2024 at 2:34 AM UTC
I've helped you help me process my addiction
your conviction to your faith
or lack
my conviction with the law
the smack
the tall walls fall around
I have found myself on many grounds
your voice rang no sound
all the evil within
cut away without forsaking your skin
sin in complex ****** addiction
in addition additional additions conveyed
swept away
easy
not ******
saves my day
I speak with nothing in the way
convey my wish for more has been gone or delayed
relayed admissions of guilt
of the many tables I have tilted
still I have my bouts
doubts
God?
Can you help this mother ****** out?
hurdling hurdles under me feet
can He feel this beat?
Stumbling upon piles and lost at the four way
...street...
un-ended
my God is not offended.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
I should draw my parachute
Hurdling towards the ground
Falling in reckless abandon
My hands trembling
I should draw my parachute
The sky is screaming in my ears
Letting go has never felt so safe
Losing grip, giving in to you
I should draw my parachute
My body is weightless
Tumbling effortlessly, colliding
Surrendering control
I should draw my parachute
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 5:46 PM UTC
shoot for the moon
because even if you miss
you'll land among the stars
and then come hurdling back to earth
like an asteroid
well
either that or die of asphyxiation
actually i don't know what would happen
i'm no space expert
May 17, 2021
May 17, 2021 at 9:50 PM UTC
Outside, the world is hurdling on
through space and time and everything else
While our people tear each other to ruins.
Inside, the walls come crumbling down
taking blood and bone along with it
While embers burn to ash in what's left of our minds.
The end of the world is such a concept
Because what's ending?
I can assure you one thing:
Nature existed far before humans arrived
and nature will continue to exist after.
Forest fires rage through countrysides and mountain ranges
But no time is wasted before new trees are growing out of the cinders.
With us, a forest fire rages through our being
and we drown as the flames burn us from inside
until it's too late
And there's nothing to show except a blackened shadow on the ground we once stood
Because we paved over any chance of rebirth when we stoked the fire and gave in.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
In that cold, moonless night
my feeble mind raced through
a thousand thoughts.
But those thoughts,
cannot describe what I was feeling
as I was giving my own life away.
As much as I wanted to start over,
I convinced myself that it was worthless.
I had already lost faith in the things around me,
I'd lost faith in the things I treasured most.
But most of all,
I had lost faith in myself.
I'd always left the door ajar,
hoping that my miseries would finally come to an end.
After all, I thought,
**would the world be any less different
after I had passed away?**
I waited,
and death came.
He had knocked on the door,
and said his warning.
Weak was I, not far from surrendering.
But at the last moment, I remembered.
The thousand thoughts, memories, feelings,
all coalesced into one faint memory I'd myself had forgotten.
One one overcast morning, the sun still rising,
a friend said,
**"I believe everything turns out well in the end.
If your life is still sour, then it isn't the end."**
Like a violent stampede hurdling down a hill,
or a tsunami reaching land,
every part of my faith was restored.
From the things I had once doubted,
reassurance came flooding back.
He gave another warning,
before kicking the door open.
I stood in front of him, and said:
*You are going to leave this house now. There is no one here to take.
Yes, I gave up. And yes, I decided to take my life away.
But He changed that decision, and turned me around.
And guess what?*
Today, isn't my day.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
I angle my upper body forward from my reclined seat back,
To gaze through three panes of a frosty porthole,
To view a blanket of lights on darkened earth.
But they're below me, I'm distanced.
I'm thirty thousand feet in the air.
Incandescent highways splinter and mend like aimless root networks,
Funneling wingless fireflies like worker ants. And I, here,
Hoping your luminescence is, too, wandering to your hive or elsewhere,
Hoping against hope that you notice me in transit.
Though I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.
At least, but likely closer to the distance between our moon and sun,
Hurdling through galaxies at the speed of super-sound,
Sure that even at the end of space, past comets and nebulase,
That even if I get turned around,
I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.
As the lights ebb and dim from outside my window panes,
Gradually giving way to blackened earthly landmass,
I will recline my seat slightly and rest my eyes,
Hoping the steady burn of the plane's fog lights guides you,
Thirty thousand feet closer to where you need to be.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
My eyelids fall heavy upon my vacant eyes,
The dull pulsing of the harsh, artificial light
Throbs and shrugs up against my temples,
Running down onto the creases beneath my brow.
Last nights dreams lay stagnant beneath
My troubled mind- like lukewarm coffee,
The cream beginning to lump and curdle together.
I'm destined for this kind of solitude, I think.
My mind races and whirls off course,
Speeding straight past the acute turn,
Destructively hurdling into a thick pool of
Yesterday. Is this how it feels to be alive?
A stale taste of tap water and broccoli slowly
Rises up into my lungs, creating a subtle
Discomfort, too faint to be washed away by water.
I can feel the uneven rise and fall of my hollow chest,
As if it is set off balance by the absence of my red,
Pulsing heart. Something is off here.
Gradually, my body surrenders to the ruthless
Shadows of my conflicted soul.
Sinking in to the starch white sheets, all that is
Collapses into misplaced yeast and water daydreams
That only come out at night.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
S O M E W H E R E
U
between-----between-----between-----between-----between-----between-----between-----between
S
sprouted
a
wall
Hurdling over it used to be fun.
until it grew, and we had to mount it
but even then, the feat of
g
F n
A i
L & b
L m
I
l | N
c | G
IT
made me appreciate seeing you more
but now it has
become so big
that our voices
are barely able
to attain the pe
ak; even the m
emories of you
have trouble re
-aching me pa
st the obstacle
that i now see
instead of you
r soft, soft eyes
I miss the touch of your palm against my palm
Now I can only press it against this disdainful and cold brick wall,
hoping that you might be pressing your hand against the same brick,
just on the other side.
hoping that my warmth might eventually sink through to you,
that my rain/tears might corrode the clay
hoping that maybe, maybe, maybe
you will hope the same thing too.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 8:48 AM UTC
i'm taking comfort in jet lag
i'm thinking of the catharsis in a glance
i'm measuring stages of grief
in atmospheres traversed
i'm changing my name to stale blood
i'm hurdling 27,006 feet above where you are
i'm wondering if emotions can become
airborne
i'm wondering if anyone knows
i'm wondering how everyone here can
just not know
how they can not break down entirely
when they hear someone running to
catch a flight
i'm choking on pressurized air
and promises
death decided i shouldn't keep
i'm breaking sound barriers
trying to find
the last octave you could speak
i'm crying at the sight of sewing needles
i'm sleeping in your bed
i'm dreaming of breaking the teeth
that took your mouth for granted
i'm pressing flowers from your funeral
in a book that promised eternal life
i'm cursing your death certificate
i'm still waiting for a curtain call
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 4:15 PM UTC
Brown little can resting on restless wheels
Waiting to carry me away,
Paint peeled like every bit
Of my sense of security
I’m in fear of everything,
Of leaving my dreams and sense of identity
Of all the screams that play in
My day dreams,
In echoes off the vacant caverns in my chest
Little fists clenched and weary
Longingly staring at pavements passing
Wishing to wake, to cry to break
The silence with this tremendous
Confusion,
Refusing to let blond feathered hair out of my sight,
Like he might just disappear
Drop into distance like everything else
I have ever known, that’s ever grown inside of me,
I will hide him,
In fake smiles, in hand holding,
I will hide him from fathers breaking cry’s
The first tears spilt over old scars
From his crippled heart.
I will tell him I love him so much
There will be no room for my wounds
He will have no space for the vast expanse of
Pain of mistrust and the awful nothingness.
Everything is gone, the world is the inside
Of this car hurdling through space with no destination,
I am holding the weight of the world on
My frail little shoulders and I hold it.
I only break under the weight of his sad eyes
glacial blue gray where my hope drowned
and my childhood dies. There is no safe part in me.
I’m sorry
I’m so sorry…
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
Within the aches of the times between dreams
Hobbling on
With a dour countenance
Hanging in the prevailing north wind
Someone old yet hardly wise
Whistles an eerie hymn
In reply to native birdsongs
Cardinals and sparrows
An occasional red-tailed hawk scream
The lively menagerie joins
Into a taunting laughter
Within the cold threat of a life uncertain
Bounding on
With the sun running in
And sliding down the bedroom wall
A young man in his young armor
Walks out shining toward the day
To find clouds approaching
And beneath a thin mist
He walks his trenchant walk
Metal splashes through viscous puddled earth
And rust grows in the creases
Within the rain hurdling down
Scampering on
With a dream thundering from gray skies
Into a drab living room
A child loses himself in himself
To find a more colorful world
Where the booms are but drums
And drops of rain are chipper visitors
When the lights go out and darkness comes
He marvels at the waltzing candlelight
And nothing can touch him
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:46 AM UTC
All of your relations
Acquaintances, Lovers, Ancestors,
Stand buried in the rock
Which you left for the stars.
All of your dreams
To be anything but
A passenger of exploration
Hurdling towards the stars.
All of your advancement
From fire to fission
Brought you to the edge
To the unknown light of the stars.
All of your history
From nomadic to communist conquest,
Dwindles to bygone feuds of nothing
Specked with glimmers of the stars.
All of your prayer
Inquisitions and moral apostasy,
Matters not to the mirrors of Fate
Refracting illumination, reflecting life
Parsecs of attainable depth, here we are.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC