"infiltrating" poems
|**“lead into gold, good into dear, mortal into immortal”
(where poems come from)”**|
you charged me
with crimes three times three,
sorcery and witchcraft and doing god’s work
plead guilty three times three
not that I was successful,
but a complex, candied marvelous failure
not in my possession, the sorcerers spell,
my dross and wordy dregs all sit sidelined,
perchance perhaps,
if you search with a leaden patience inhuman,
you might just find a minuscule golden vein there’d unmined
turning good into dear, an “anyone can do it” miracle,
when you whisper with just one kiss those forever words,
don’t be afraid, say it low and slow, I love you,
and
“I only want to be with you”
and dare it to be become dear
mortal into immortal, an order tall, for one knows his
hiding places for all too human pockmarked weak,
but having been charged and found in guilt,
no one proffered evidence but they wanted a unambiguous
unanimous verdict and proof is such an old fashioned truth notion
happy accept your accusations and since confession is
the best soul medicine, with glee, here and now reveal
how immortality is achievable
breathe poems constantly instantly throughout
the orifices in the skin cells and
pore’d orifices you were god given;
it is how we immortals communicate
with what cannot be seen,
yet drunken heard when spoke aloud
taste the poems in and on tongues you can’t comprehend,
the sounds fly skyward after infiltrating your eyes,
then you can see your own immortality anointed rising
all nonsense you plead,
indeed,
only immortals truly cherish and envy the
human ability to create
nonsense, the place
where poems come from
*******
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
I had a collar once
Of black leather and sky blue fur
And it fit me snugly
It was all I could ask for.
When my thoughts rampaged
As they do very second of everyday
I'd wrap it round my neck
And the noise would fade.
They called me a freak.
They looked at me in disgust, I was shamed
Because they don't understand
The need to be tamed.
Whether round my neck
Or around my wrists and ankles
Without a tether, I fret
Thus, for that collar, I am thankful.
I once felt guilt
Worse than any other pain
It weighed me down
As though it waterlogged my brain.
And all I wished
Was to atone
For a whip
To sing to my bones.
*"Why invite pain?
God, she's disgusting?
She's ******* insane!"*
The words said to me.
But how could they know
How much I wanted to cry?
How much I wanted discipline
To ease the guilt in my mind?
I once heard a scream
And it scampered down my spine
Like it was a living, sentient being
Infiltrating my mind.
And I'm sure I'd be a pariah
If I ever told anyone
I wanted to cause that scream
To make it sound like painful salvation.
I once cried
I hurt myself as comfort
And the feeling of that pain
Was so very sweet and so very short
And they'd call me a fool
Yet I still crave pain
And they'd think of me badly
For what I can't contain.
See, I'm far from vanilla
I'm far from innocence
Because all life gave me
Was cold and cimmerian.
There's a word for what I do
A lovely acronym
And it's so far from vanilla
Most describe it as a sin.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
Take what is left of mine
Something buried and something wound
a jarred melody
of a song most dear
and hang it upon a river of self-doubt
to let it float in a pond of that overrated emotion.
They had always said
in LOVE
nothing should really matter.
Never told us about the different ones.
don't they need it too?
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 2:01 AM UTC
There is no certainty in cancer.
No simple cure. Easy way out.
Just time.
gnawing away the brain.
Leaving only regrets and memories.
No matter how young, happy, rich or healthy one may seem...
There is no certainty in cancer.
It is a faint word drifting in the air.
Infiltrating households. hospitals. Families.
But never us...
We are too strong.
Too busy.
We have too much life to live...
'its leukaemia’
The words soaks into me
Suffocating me in my own skin,
What has my life become?
A sunken abyss of darkness.
An empty vessel of meaningless time.
Now Its just me.
The room.
And my soundless mind.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 2:12 AM UTC
Sure the fatigue would come...
Infiltrating the sanctity of our skin,
gripping our muscles
and chafes us within.
Right down to the bone.
No doubt the fear of future days
would eat at us raw.
It would gnaw at our minds...
Debilitating thoughts that would *******
no one else but our own.
Of course the seeds we've planted,
mightn't see past the layer of soil
in which they're embedded.
Seeds hidden in the ground for future reaping...
They mightn't flourish to meet the harvest
and greet the hand which would
welcome them full grown.
Most likely the days before us
only show of dark clouds...
That constantly scare us.
But today...
Has time and space for us to exist.
Today has a crisp sweetness wafting through the air.
Firm, unwavering ground beneath our feet.
So let's claim today because today is ours to keep.
Today we share the returns...
Of the sweat and the tears that in the past
we've sown.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
how easy it is to write a poem
of unrequited love
an ode to that insatiable hunger
that lives unwelcome in the pit of
my stomach
and slowly eats away at me
gnawing a black hole into that space
an emptiness i couldn't look at
its darkness burned brighter than
the eclipsed sun
who always called with the most
beautiful voice and promised that
if i simply stopped averting my eyes
i would most certainly become one with you
and i forsake my sight
to have your heat
your radiation from all parts of the spectrum
to burn my traitorous eyes right out of their sockets.
how different it is to write
of contentment and perhaps even
a love that i can reach out and touch
without having it sublimate each atom of my being
and reduce me to a radioactive ash
scattered to the wind.
it's a love that i can submerge myself in
it presses in all around and the
mega-Pascals of pressure simply reach
a placid equilibrium with my porous skin
i breathe it in and my lungs
somehow learn to pull the oxygen from
the molecules of liquid desire and vitreous joy
and it fuels my body
infiltrating and inhabiting every cell
feeding my muscles as i
sensuously move my body
fluid as the frigid water around me.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
My eyes are beyond polluted
By the overflowing inanities
That paint wordless post-mortems
On yesterday's lost fantasies
Rolling over lifeless as dead certains
When obligations fall into disrepair
And the king of all invocations
Awaits power sitting in an electric chair
As darkness shrouds the uninspired
In triumphant ticker tape parades
While the bewildered beast becomes the feast
A million glasses in toast are raised
To the jesters unequivocally blasphemous proposal
To the queen of all frustrated converts
Who Once Upon a Time willingly surrendered
To the impresario pretender
Who fooled the world by laying siege on the empty house of cards
And with all the power granted
By the grace of obscenities triumphant screams
Separating me from reality by infiltrating my failing vision
With the polluted overflowing inanities of these cellophane dreams
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
a perfect, newly unveiled horizon line
ancient and promising
yet reborn as a newborn
to my industrialized eyes.
I haven’t heard sirens in days.
still, there is the hustle and bustle
of movement everywhere,
but not by people
nor Porsches and Escalades
and their infiltrating thick smog.
no inane chatter
and fake oohing and aahing
over Louis’ and who saw who.
no
here the possessions move
the so-called inorganic
the buildings, doors, and gates
yearning to be free
swaying, creaking
their tiny reins of confinement
too much to bear
for their free spirits.
taking their cue
from trees, plants, vines, leaves
which are overgrowing fences
and clambering over walls
a massive riotous uprising at a glacier-pace
to triumph over the bipeds
imagine the horror of the flora
at a sudden interment to La-La-Land
the hopelessness and oppression
at being trimmed twice a week
mutilated and then slaughtered.
no
they are the secret underground rulers
stubbornly proud but humble tyrants
mercifully loving their lowly subjects
feeling sorry for us
we who have been forced into
this unnatural industrial order
not their beautiful chaos.
and yet...
they lie in wait
patiently, silently
anticipating the day
when we throw up our arms in exasperation and relief
and acquiesce to their dominion
a return to times before times.
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 1:33 PM UTC
stillness;
my petite fingers loosely grip the black leather
of the steering wheel,
melodies erupting sweetly from the dashboard,
their lyrics infiltrating my thoughts.
line by line, word by word,
they all take me to the same place.
my eyes search the sky on the long drive home.
the sky is a canvas
filled with an artistic blend
of magenta, red-orange, and gold,
as the sun slips quietly behind the clouds
& into slumber...
this same piece of art reveals itself
a long 6 hours away,
sneaking into darkness
above the quiet place where my music takes me;
to the place where my heart lives
for four solid months,
four months of sunrises & sunsets
where you stay
6 hours away.
yet, across those 300 miles
a single melody singing in my dashboard
can erase the vast, empty space;
in my stillness, I feel your presence.
time & distance are drowned out
in soothing sounds of rhythm & blues
& explosive colors in the sky.
all that I really see as I gaze upward
day in & day out
on my long drive home
is a pair of brown eyes
& long lashes,
holding me tight with their gaze...
"What distance?" they whisper,
"*I'm always right here,
watching this same setting sun*."
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
The Allusionists (Mary Winslow and Jeff Steir)
these two allusionists (not illusionists!)
composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.
I am a career criminal. I know.
these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.
for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.
the allusionists.
the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.
I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.
I do so admire their tapestries.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC
My eyes smell sleepy, he, refusing to depart,
But there is coffee on the nightstand,
The odor, infiltrating the dozy brain's heart.
Annoyed with each other,
They shout and fight
Like teenage siblings Commissioners at the SEC,
Arguing over bathroom monopolization,
The tongue stays sidelined, feigning net neutrality.
The bed smells empty,
For the **** has crowed,
Yogi David commands your presence
At Saturday morning Eight O'clock yoga services.
To get to his Sinai on time,
Early departure, an FAA requirement,
Car, ferry and foot you will deploy,
In the winter, special skis and snowshoes,
That blessed by his mantra,
Enable you to walk on water.
In the kitchen there is sisterly conversation,
Yes, puttering and muttering and discussing,
Sister's grown child texting, he's making the pilgrimage
To see Mama, alone, unexpectedly,
Six hours driving.
Friends and countryman,
That is how you spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e
Sleepy master dwarf refuses to concede,
Says when kitchen noises retreat,
Back to him you will supplicate,
They (the other dwarfs and body parts),
Have a big convention to better communicate..
Departure comes without a kiss,
But not without complaint,
She always says I love you first,
Which is natural,
She being a girl.
Now the bladder starts to whiny~chatter,
What about me, what about me,
Don't you love me, and me rhymes with P!
While the stomach quietly snores
Have been well-fed
but a few hours before,
He dreams of some more....macadamia crusted s'mores...
I could verse you more,
No problem that's for sure,
But you got the point:
The morning smells.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 7:18 AM UTC
so this is it
crime and punishment
hidden under barries that are too silky for the normal hands to touch
if I tell, I might be saying too much
in this line seeps one
listen to this, the story has just begun
from time to time
suspision raises something more than infiltrating thought
crawling through a master mind of unbeliavble things
the kind of things you see in those dreams
that slipped your mind a few hours later, and you can never seem to grasp what it means
I see those familiar figures laughing in the fog
in murky grass ,blue skies and deep deep courtesy they lay
glass scatterd and this head goes astray
pack up, and leave I may
a melody is playing ever so lightly on those taught strings
it reminds , yes
it reminds me of all those unforgettable things
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 8:30 AM UTC
As kids we were close,
Pushing each other on a swing during humid afternoons,
Scrapping over the biggest piece of cake,
Singing and strumming old rock songs on a video game,
Cheesing in the odd school picture together,
Hiding the family dog upstairs, cartoon shows on the tv,
Volume at its highest, all to drown the rows vibrating the walls
From downstairs,
It seemed back then we had each others back,
Sobbed for the same reasons at night,
Nervously bit at the skin around our nails over unknown noises,
Shook a knee with every thought of fleeing our hometown,
Yet now we don’t even know each other,
The distance runs thicker than blood,
He said she said infiltrating a possible recovery of a bond,
I often wonder how it can be, two people from
One home, both living on different planets,
Almost generations away from beliefs we once shared,
Pinching at each others emotions from another continent.
I found a journal from when I was my angsty teen self,
Words of fury coated most pages,
Some rhymes of regret,
Plenty of mischievous essays,
Page 94 had no explanation, just a date, some doodling
And one sentence,
“You were the first one to break my heart.”
As kids we were close,
But what do kids know.
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 9:36 AM UTC
I am sitting in front of a small coffee shop
listening to the birds chirp and smelling the rise
of cigarette smoke infiltrating my nostrils from
a barrista's hand.
random thoughts rise like smoke from my mind
as I sit and settle into myself and just take in
a everyday of this new city I arrived at last Wednesday.
The life of the urban jungle of D.C. seems far removed from
this sleepy quiet neighborhood. No sirens every 30 minutes or sounds of construction in the distance.
All this reflecting takes me further back and makes me muse about how I got from being an angry punk kid to now a 34 year old, who just bought a home with his wife and expecting a new baby. I am grateful for everything that's been given to me, and especially for the ability to be grateful.
Maybe I don't really need to figure out how, but just here and now fully open to the present.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC
I know why he laughs
everyday, every single day.
Telephone poles line the streets,
a young man giving message to loved ones
reminding them of his travels south,
to stay, to visit,
birds fly through air
upon hearing gunshots in alleyways
escaping to freedom, to cold winds,
away from dark figures in the night.
The postman drops off mail by foot,
in the golden flap-slot
at 312 Baker Street,
while waving hello to the little boy in the window,
the one who will surely die
suddenly
at the age of 20,
driving drunk, open casket,
bloated face. Mother blotchy from tears
and stress
for eyes that will never see another day.
I know why he laughs
day after day after day.
The ribbons tied around presents under a tree,
lights infiltrating closed eyelids
giving off colors never seen before,
never to be seen
friends, family, arms interlocked
whispering thanks, warm nothings
with nothing to be seen,
except deals behind closed doors
an uncle over a nephew,
unheard tears and gasping for breath
lost behind muffles of laughter and shouts of play,
just play.
I know why he laughs
all day, it never ends.
The work, the money, the vacations
the form of form itself,
the fact that form is, and that one
abides by it,
can even touch it, poke it,
poke fun at it, and yet live by it,
live their lives by it without question
whether it be above or under
grounds so cold, full of bodies,
bodies no more, just run-down homes.
Paint peeling and insects swarming,
devouring all that was, bringing life anew
for their comrades, rocks crumble
tears of granite, marble,
not tears,
just erosion of the face.
I know why he laughs
every single ******* day,
because with time like this,
times like these,
and everything in existence,
beauty is an open eyelid.
There’s no room for crying,
none will hear it.
Heads without ears,
and eyes
without lights.
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 3:21 AM UTC
She held onto the cigarette
quivering hands and ****** veins
it lit up and scorched the leaves
infiltrating in her tensed lungs.
It reminded her of him.
Breathing in the grey smoke,
she suffocated from
the air that they weren't sharing.
Hugging the cigarette,
with his shapely lips
she knew that any attempt
of kissing him
would **** her
but yet she longed to die
at his touch.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
Catastrophic
Catatonic
Claustrophobic
Annihilation
One time salvation
Breakout of the contaminated
Destination of taxation without representation
Conspirator to predetermination
Bastardized paradox within a mind flux
Mentality of antagonizing accusations
A nine-cent flag now costing nine dollars
Fronting of the war effort while at home on a family vacation
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 6:21 AM UTC
1
Stop biting your lip
Your blood is meant to stay
In your body
And carry oxygen
And kiss your bones
It has no place on your tongue
2
Breathe
1 2 3
Breathe
Don’t be afraid to let
Your lungs expand
Don’t be afraid to calm
Your nerves
Pop a Xanax and you’ll be fine
You’ll always be fine
3
When you feel the gut pulling
Desire to kiss a boy
Kiss him
Kiss him before he realizes
What a mess you are
Kiss him
And then break his legs
Remind him you are a tornado
Wrapped in skin
And your kiss
Just blew him away
4
Always fall in love
With strangers
Lose yourself in fantasies
Featuring the people on the bus
Or in the mall
Smile at them so they know
They’re infiltrating
Your dreams
5
When a guy catcalls you
Kick him in the teeth
Show him the hair on your legs
Shove your emergency ******
Down his throat
Say no
You are not a dog
You are not a prize
You are a goddess clad in
A leather jacket and
Motorcycle boots
And goddesses do not accept
Catcalls
6
Wrap yourself in poems
Hold them close to your heart
Hide them in your pockets
Let them spill out
Of your mouth
In times of stress
You never know when you’ll need them
7
Never wish for tragedy
Just so you can have a reason
To be sad
8
When the poetry stops working
Go to therapy
Follow the advice
You’ve given to so many
Other people
9
Swallow that lump in your throat
Let it dissolve
In your stomach acid
You will not cry
You will not break
10
When the boy with
The beautiful smile and the
Even more beautiful voice
Looks at you for the first time
The world will stop
You will only know his eyes
When they pass over you
To the prettier girl on your right
Do not take offense
Your time will come
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
Writing is oxygen-
It allows me to breathe,
Infiltrating my lungs
With life.
My body expresses itself
Through oxygen-
Walking, eating,
Sleeping.
My soul expresses itself
Through writing-
Words, phrases,
Sentences.
It is my oxygen.
I take in breaths
Easily and naturally,
My heart working with
My brain
To pump blood and air
To my body.
Just like how my brain works
With my fingers
To create prose and
Poems.
Oxygen flows through my veins
Like ink flows through my fingers
Out onto a page.
Oxygen is how I feel
Oxygen is how I live-
Writing is how I feel
Writing is how I live.
Writing is oxygen.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
When it's in the air
you'll not know what it
is at first, but once you
smell it once you never
forget
It lingers there as you walk
through it, hanging
in the air as prokaryotic
pill shaped molecules
It always smells different
but the symptoms are
as follows
words stuck in the back
of your throat,
sweaty palms and shortness
of breath
a sense of longingness
juxtaposed
with a sense of fear
An overwhelming need
to communicate all the
new thoughts on your
stone written findings
of what we need to survive
Don't be alarmed, or rush
off to the doctor thinking
"There is something wrong
with me"
We all breathe this in,
multiple times in our lives,
Love's pathogens have a way,
of infiltrating our senses and
controlling our thoughts and
actions like our physical bodies
are more of a third party parasite
to what our souls need
to feed on.
So don't choke on your words,
reach out with dry hands for hers,
the fear will always be there,
because that's love
and this is how we react
when it is in
the air.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
open wide
as filth falls with slugged flow
putrid lies fog our eyes
the stench clinging to nostrils
infiltrating minds
altering our reality
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 2:50 AM UTC
Introduction
_____________
some words
chase you around
infiltrating and winking,
in emails and poems to
your attention dispatched
undeniably messaging
a wanting to be
realized, completed,
teasingly speaking
you know
a poem newly birthing
in your left brain,
tender pleading,
love me already,
just write me
like you would
make love to a woman!"
messages from others employ
the self-same word r e p e a t e d l y,
you start to get the hint
very very v i g o r o u s l y
the rumbling,
the back-seat tumbling,
you're driving
bipedal composing,
guitar and piano
gas and brake
pedals to the mettle,
and the speed limit
was 15 mph under
where your brain is fermenting
all tuning you up to
meet the guild's
product quality standards,
yet unlike an automobile,
a poem, like a life,
has a unique DNA,
cannot just be
recalled,
for repair
and additional tinkering,
jes' because
once it is out there,
it has been outed
sure enough in my
my "started but *** file,
a lazy layabout,
overlooked and undercooked,
the poem below,
a dabble and a muddle,
so ignored, so berefted
for so long
it got this
special introduction
by way of an apology....
Incarnate
She is my poem incarnate
She is the carne of my body
She is the innate of my soul
She is my woman incarnate
she is all I need
in form realized and invisible imagined,
angel and thank god,
devil as well...
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
They all build up
like a slow
rising
flood
infiltrating your
comfort
and replacing air
with water
until
even all the spluttering
all the struggle left in you
is not enough.
Oct 30, 2011
Oct 30, 2011 at 6:22 PM UTC
i despise you more by the day infiltrating my
every thought, have you no shame?
even as i drift into sleep, i hear
the baritone of your voice, a
passing in the night breeze,
confessing your love,
i know it’s not real
a simple illusion
brought upon
by delusion
yet
i always reply
because I love you
and I wish you loved me too.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
Intellectual Insubordinates Infiltrating Independently Isolated Islands...
People Positively Promote Popping Pain Pills
Do Dummies Distinguish Different Demographic Disorders
Crazy Commanders Create Confused Combat Corps
Unorthodox Ultimatums Usually Unfold United Unions
Things That Typically Transform Taint Temperaments
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC