"indexes" poems
A world of thumbs.
A world of indexes.
We are the virtually enlightened generation.
up & down we scroll,
in search of company.
Facebook our friend !
We are the virtually enlightened generation.
Right we swipe to match,
Left are just left.
Internet our hope for love.
We are the virtually enlightened generation.
All the knowledge of the world,
Just a few taps away.
Google the Truth !
We are the virtually enlightened generation.
A world of thumbs.
A world of indexes.
We are the virtually enlightened generation.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
the hardest surgery is the one you perform on yourself.
Steady?
Ready?
No anesthesia but a chuckle of nervous humor
the first incision across your heart.
When you finish (many months later)
you put the scalpel down, wave weakly
to the clapping colleagues hugging each other in disbelief
from the observatory, sterile and eager
you give them a wan grin
and hope they've watched closely
so that now they know how...
how to do this.
At twenty-something, I was taught by Fear
who said nothing matters
and then at twenty-something-else I was taught by Faith
who said anything matters
And she wasn't the Sunday kind of Faith that you find
clasped between your palms, clasped like you're afraid
that if you let go the Faith will just tumble out and break.
No, she was the Faith that was bigger than God and so intimate
that sometimes I was the Faith, sometimes you were the Faith,
and sometimes the Faith was me.
So really, Faith doesn't have a name.
But Faith and Fear, they both breathe, they're each lung
and when I fill one, the other billows, after all
you need two to breathe.
And so then I, feeling bold, learned about Bravery.
I had heard about it in newspapers and history book indexes
and in our local volunteer firefighters.
Wondered if I could buy it.
Wondered how much it goes for.
But I couldn't find Brave until the moment I gave up on it
and said, ***** it, I'm so scared but I don't care anymore,
I'll just do it, Brave be ******
And surely enough, it was hiding beneath the tremors.
So really, Brave was the Siamese twin of I'll Just Do It.
which, by the way, wasn't in the glossary of this or any history book.
Everything changes, you know?
I'm changing, you're changing.
Oh, it storms me like the sea!
I secretly raise my glass to stasis, my faraway frenemy.
Don't tell the other Sagittarians, they'd exile me surely.
Change, letting go of my old faces
feels too close to dying,
feels too close to leaving you behind.
And I'm not ready to leave you behind.
Oh the West, keep your Mountains.
If only for a little longer.
I've excised my soul again and again
transplanted and sutured
but there's just no time.
Even with these visions from under the knife-
there's just no time to heal
before I'm laid on the table again.
*Faith hold me-
Fear teach me
so I can...*
Steady.
Please- stay with me.
Ready?
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
3.00 am
Just before the sun rose
She doesnt remember if the sun set,even
Time was moving at the pace of clotted blood.
Hardly moving. Not moving.
She folded her hands behind her back.
Touched her indexes and stood.
She was stuck in the gilded cage
That her mind had spun.
She was free otherwise.
Rather, she felt a rush.
But there was something stopping her from moving an inch.
So she stood there.
Her cage. And her.
While the little droplets of sweat, and liquid dropped onto the back of her dress.
Small red flowers on a cream colour
What was done, was done
A lonely soul, in a dark night.
The big day was yet to come.
Choosing to bear the consequence
She stepped back into the crimson war zone
An organised chaos.
A sizzle. A splutter. A crack.
She sat next to her masterpiece.
A smooth stream had leaked.
'So much to clean up' she thought.
But nothing could match the high she was on now.
6am
The shop bell chimed
And she woke up,
The stream had covered her
Her visitor walked in and stared.
At the blur of human, red and knives.
'The buns are perfect Macy! '
'Are they? Well now I just need to fill them in with the jam.'
It was business as usual.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 4:37 AM UTC
The fifth poem I put on HP; few* read it so I resubmit as Lost In Space III.
I tinkered with it slightly... O yeah, based on a true story....
Multi-tasking your body
Kissing your eyes,
Sense the tipsiness of your
Trembling lashes,
Drinking a poem from
My poetry birthing place.
Between kisses and rapido exhales,
Stutter and lisp
Uttered word-wisps,
Shockingly bad love poem stories.
Right hand strokes thy chest,
sensing/sending heartbeats upon my palm to the
Forever keep part of my
Treasury memory chest.
All the while my left finger
Catalogues, indexes.
It, mesmerized, it memorizes,
The curvatures of thy face
To be stored in the
Never-forget, always-place.
My tongue restless to participate
Goes wherever it feels like,
For the tongue is the only body part
With a mind of its own,
And enjoys getting into
What it calls, the best kind of trouble.
My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory....
May 19th
Laguna Niguel, Ca.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
I tasted the piece that
smoothed the way,
submerged, as a single leaf
floated unknowing
Salted sweetness
on folded fables,
turned pages rapidly
between parted indexes
As eyes pierced,
interlaced of cotton fibers
Laying fears aside,
wrapped in yesterdays worries
While lounging on the side of caution
in plastic sheaves
protecting the existence
of unwanted realizations
Still the moments that fell
atop motions fed my soul,
inserted into the warmth
of streams flowing deeper
And up to my knees wading
brought sighs of satisfaction
when dreams came and went,
but still remain everlasting
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 6:42 PM UTC
skyward certified ledgers keep track of all the godly, gritty details we can’t bring ourselves to believe. just throw some words together and make it count. the dust between our fingernails flavors the few crumbs we have left with the taste of a world that turned it’s back on us. honestly, the real apocalypse is just simply going through the motions. only we’re not as important as i’m making us out to be. sometimes (mostly on nights where the cold infiltrates your bones like an incurable disease and the rain is hitting the roof so hard you think that maybe this time it all will just finally come crashing down) it feels like we were designed for eachother. excuse the sentiment, i know it’s not me. i still picture you in the under-renovation-library thumbing through indexes for facts or truths, or maybe even just a semblance of hope. but that’s just the kind of punch drunk love ******** that keeps me ticking. my smiles come and go with the knowledge that you collect expired medicine and listen to mp3s of seismic waves from beneath the earth’s surface. you’re that special kind of weird that only makes sense in the way you can’t even play a game of monopoly without falling apart. a true rivalry is the greatest form of love. i’m stuck somewhere in between holding on to a grudge. you’re at my throat, i’m in your head. i swear i’m trying to regulate my sleeping patterns again. but the autocorrect on tumblr tried to change “mp3s” to “mumps” so where does your allegiance really stand? melatonin nod. glasses smudged. overedited and overanalyzed. linking words is the slurred speech of typing. or something like that.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
I often travel
it seems between the lines
Those indexes of verbatim
that correlate to the metaphors
those aphorisms of thought.
Here beside you
The residue of promise seeps
and double dips into the erosive state
and I comprehend a deeper impersonal you.
The soft lips
those eyes that glitter to the sparkle of life
ever held the patch of pain
that bore deep the emotional self
and destroyed the world.
Yet there too
where the darkness held the sway
You lay silent to the night
hushed in fearful dreams
That still contains that pit of sorrow.
When you look at me
I can envision it all
detect the corrosive run
that stems from the child within
harbours to the silence of your eyes
and speaks between and through
every word, sentence upon which you draw
and there I read you.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 1:03 PM UTC
So many lost ones, can you find me now?
Resubmitted for your tender consideration.
It fell between the cracks of us, but I love it so,
remembering its birthing, like it was but a moment ago.
~~~~~~
Multi-tasking multi-sensations
kissing your eyes,
sensing the tickling
of your trembling lashes,
between kisses and breathes
someone utters word-wisps of
love poetry.
right hand strokes thy chest,
sensing/sending heartbeats
upon my palm to the
forever to keep part
of my
treasury memory chest.
all the while
my left finger indexes,
it mesmerized, it memorizes
the curvature of the face
to be stored in the
never-forget-always place.
my tongue
restless to participate
goes whatever it feels like,
for the tongue is
the only body part
with a mind of its own.
my eyes, my eyes,
see only the
totality of this moment,
when mastery of multi-tasking
becomes
the single best poem
this man ever penned
with only
his entirety.
May 19th
Edited Nov. 17th.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
I know
a room
holding a soul
hostage inside it.
among other bones,
it indexes my ribs, there,
on the other side of the drywall.
I, bound
by knotted knowing wires,
writhe along its dividing line:
dissecting the silence
that forever ticks
our timedlines
as such.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
Multi-tasking
Kissing your eyes,
Sensing the tickling of your trembling lashes,
Between kisses and breathes
Utter word-wisps of
Love poetry.
Right hand strokes thy chest,
sensing/sending heartbeats upon my palm to the
Forever keep part of my
Treasury memory chest.
All the while my left finger indexes,
Mesmerized, it memorizes
The curvature of the face
To be stored in the
Never forget always place.
My tongue restless to participate
Goes whatever it feels like,
For the tongue is the only body part
With a mind of its own.
My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety.
May 19th
Laguna Niguel, Ca.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
For the past thirty years or so
I’ve heard Republican broad hints
That never quite come to pass.
They must think I am dense;
That I sit and watch my TV
And get all stoked to hear them
Promise they will set things right
But reality never comes near them.
They talk about our poverty gap
And how they will narrow it down
And how they will lower interest
And they will quit fooling around.
They go on about their opponents,
Even when they have good records,
And then the election comes and
The people fail to get it together.
So every eight years they vote,
These fools I must call my peers
And throw the good guy out.
Every freaking eight years.
An even once after just four
They told the good guy goodbye
Then put in a world class crook.
Can anyone really say why?
I’ve watched my fellow man
Go bonkers like this repeatedly
And vote in some twisted clown
That ******* us up completely.
Nixon looked like the creep he was;
A greasy, rude and stupid man.
Then Reagan was a liar and a looter
I never was that fool’s loyal fan.
In between we’d get someone
In the job who wanted things fixed.
He would work hard as he could
And pray things wouldn’t be nixed.
But the current bubble-headed villain
Said he’d take the country back;
All his predecessor was guilty of
Was of being unremittingly black.
So, what’s with these people here
Who can’t tell a good thing from bad?
Why can’t they recognize success
And good times we have had?
All indexes were up, things were fine
Things were not a bit bad that fall.
So why did the half bright-Americans
Choose a guy with no experience at all?
Surely they don’t think any guy
Who doesn’t give a **** about them
Would care about more than rich buddies.
Of course not! That would be just dim.
Yet they did it and proved that fools,
When they’re left to play with the adults,
Can ruin things when they’re going well.
Now we must live with the results.
Sep 3, 2017
Sep 3, 2017 at 9:04 PM UTC
Snell's law in life a medium
of a mind prism, as sure as ,
the wavelenths have varying temperatures:
Wide open aperature of high
the slitted view of depressions,
purpish absorbing the green, yellow
echoes, yellow absorbing the hot red rays.
If only I saw what was absorbed, the waves that came I ignored.
Blue with depressions, colder than all the feel of ultraviolets.
Or intense as the white paper absorbing the infrared rays.
I pass , like a prism, the negative refractive indexes.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
-
**Sinking slow the mire
Of touted soldier’s stare
Blindfolded, seeing inside
Stood straight of knotted shame
Condors perched waiting
My last cigarette damp
Lips nicotine cracked
Useless circumstances cry
Unforced tears fall
Guns raised and aimed
Bayonets point a finger
Discharged of itchy indexes
Ripping antique flesh
Puncturing vital statistics
Sorrow in tattooed blood stains
My dense skull explodes
Shards of bone fly
Dotting soiled landscape
In a mosaic of lost dreams
Shattered with one foul mouth
Loose like the cannons
Flanking the homeland
As I consume the sludge
Of final foolishness**
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 3:28 PM UTC
I forgot what shivered bones felt like
I forgot about weak indexes and knees
I forgot how I sometimes used to forget how to breathe
I forgot about the blood pumping head crunching beats
But simultaneous yawns, constant blushing, and white teeth don't erase the past in me
I find warmth in your fingers and the sun shines from your mind,
but the snowflakes and ice cycles come back sometimes
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
Do we use the glossary when searching the back pages of our lives follow the indexes when something perplexes
Motions making sounds ,representing actions & reactions ,lessons forming curiosity ,constantly seeking answers
Surrounding ourselves with sounds ,breaking into syllables ,basics as a beginning then hopefully turning us into detectives
Now lessons become narratives not always with a heart moving title ,but open feelings harder to bridle, days forming chapters
As new breaths begin in a nursery, mysteries are awaiting within the walls & halls ,nooks & books of depositories
From embryo to a first cleansing ,protection is constant ,warmth of blankets envelop similar to bindings encasing the fruits comprised on papyrus.
Opening the world through the first window ,light ,sky, flowing forms taken in with a healthy grin,integral parts of out future stories
The main doors as a cover ,silence is golden while the words are screaming ,what is first? a daily rag ,twirling of the mighty globe?
facts or fiction now lay fractured
Fondly absorbing phonics ,tasting the clicks or ticks & annunciations still samples for future refining
Labeled as language or merely absorbed as sound forming ,trying to become an individual expression
Flashcards as roots into an inner corridor, signals separated with commas dots or dashes ,awaiting future defining
Roads or paths laid out like aisles, alphabetized such as street names shelves as floors of buildings ,books as unopened doors to a new lesson
A long life search no longer monotonous as a Dewey decimal offered ,but click or a flick ,automated corrections leaving many clueless
Even building faith often based within bindings ,factors of fame or items for blame made best by those who clearly see the text
Holidays as often as book of the month ,b.m.i. becomes t.m.i. , forever offering lessons in hindsight ,many offerings to amuse
A mind akin to a vault taking in all offerings by default ,endless it seems for storage capacity ,Librarians or doctors can off a new zest.R.C.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC