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By the East River and the Bronx
boys sang, stripped to the waist,
along with the wheels, oil, leather and hammers.
Ninety thousand miners working silver from rock
and the children drawing stairways and perspectives.

But none of them slumbered,
none of them wished to be river,
none loved the vast leaves,
none the blue tongue of the shore.

By East River and the Queensboro
boys battled with Industry,
and Jews sold the river faun
the rose of circumcision
and the sky poured, through bridges and rooftops,
herds of bison driven by the wind.

But none would stop,
none of them longed to be cloud,
none searched for ferns
or the tambourine's yellow circuit.

When the moon sails out
pulleys will turn to trouble the sky;
a boundary of needles will fence in memory
and coffins will carry off those who don't work.

New York of mud,
New York of wire and death.
What angel lies hidden in your cheek?
What perfect voice will speak the truth of wheat?
Who the terrible dream of your stained anemones?

Not for a single moment, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
have I ceased to see your beard filled with butterflies,
nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon,
nor your thighs of ****** Apollo,
nor your voice like a column of ash;
ancient beautiful as the mist,
who moaned as a bird does
its *** pierced by a nedle.
Enemy of the satyr,
enemy of the vine
and lover of the body under rough cloth.

Not for a single moment, virile beauty
who in mountains of coal, billboards, railroads,
dreamed of being a river of slumbering like a river
with that comrade who would set in your breast
the small grief of an ignorant leopard.

Not for a single moment, Adam of blood, Male,
man alone on the sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
because on penthouse roofs,
and gathered together in bars,
emerging in squads from the sewers,
trembling between the legs of chauffeurs
or spinning on dance-floors of absinthe,
the maricas, Walt Whitman, point to you.

Him too! He's one! And they hurl themselves
at your beard luminous and chaste,
blonds from the north, blacks from the sands,
multitudes with howls and gestures,
like cats and like snakes
the maricas, Walt Whitman, maricas,
disordered with tears, flesh for the whip,
for the boot, or the tamer's bite.

Him too! He's one! Stained fingers
point to the shore of your dream,
when a friend eats your apple,
with its slight tang of petrol,
and the sun sings in the navels
of the boys at play beneath bridges.

But you never sough scratched eyes,
nor the darkest swamp where they drown the children,
nor the frozen saliva,
nor the curved wounds like a toad's belly
that maricas bear, in cars and on terraces,
while the moon whips them on terror's street-corners.

You sought a nakedness like a river.
Bull and dream taht would join the wheel to the seaweed,
father of  your agony, camellia of your death,
and moan in the flames of your hidden equator.

For it's right that a man not seek his delight
in the ****** jungle of approaching morning.
The sky has shores where life is avoided
and bodies that should not be echoed by dawn.

Agony, agony, dream, ferment and dream.
This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
Bodies dissolve beneath city clocks,
war passes weeping with a million grey rats,
the rich give their darlings
little bright dying things,
and life is not noble, or sarcred, or good.

Man can, if he wishes, lead his desire
through a vein of coral or a heavenly ****.
Tomorrow loves will be stones and Time
a breeze that comes slumbering through the branches.

That's why I don't raise my voice, old Walt Whitman,
against the boy who inscribes
the name of a ******* his pillow,
nor the lad who dresses as a bride
in the shadow of the wardrobe,
nor the solitary men in clubs
who drink with disgust prostitution's waters,
nor against the men with the green glance
who love men and burn their lips in silence.
But yes, against you, city maricas,
of tumescent flesh and unclean thought.
Mothers of mud. Harpies. Unsleeping enemies
of Love  that bestows garlands of joy.

Against you forever, you who give boys
drops of foul death with bitter poison.
Against you forever,
Fairies of North America,
Párajos of Havana,
Jotos of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cádiz,
Apios of Seville,
Cancos of Madrid,
Floras of Alicante,
Adelaidas of Portugal.

Maricas of all the world, muderers of doves!
Slaves to women. Their boudoir *******.
Spread in public squares like fevered fans
or ambushed in stiff landscapes of hemlock.

No quarter! Death
flows from your eyes
and heaps grey flowers at the swamp's edge.
No quarter! Look out!!
Let the perplexed, the pure,
the classical, noted, the supplicants
close the gates of the bacchanal to you.

And you, lovely Walt Whitman, sleep on the banks of the Hudson
with your beard towards the pole and your hands open.
Bland clay or snow, your tongue is calling
for comrades to guard your disembodied gazelle.

Sleep: nothing remains.
A dance of walls stirs the praries
and America drown itself in machines and lament.
I long for a fierce wind that from deepest night
shall blow the flowers and letters from the vault where you sleep
and a ***** boy to tell the whites and their gold
that the kingdom of wheat has arrived.
Sylvene Taylor Jan 2014
Breathing in that familiar smell of sweet coffee that screams Starbucks i sit quietly inside....alone..but actually, i am accompanied by some cheap elevator music which closely resembles country, and my grande cup of thoughts. This grande cup feels more like a thousand grande cups: a possy almost. This possy fills the empty Starbucks with small talk and the soft murmur that many people usually create. This possy keeps me way more company than any other living breathing flesh.

The thought that sits closest beside me is my mask that i purchased before i could pick out my favorite colored sweater. I wear this mask every day of my life although not always at own will. its hard to admire whats staring back you every morning when your cards dont match the ones on screen. It goes like this, i feel as if i had horse like pony tail hair crawling down my black so silky and taking a skydive at my *** would make it a HELL of a lot easier to wear this mask of mine in which has the title of: MY FACE.
But what is it about the crystal blue eyes that show the rhythm of the ocean or the solidity of the sky? WHAT is it about the deep forest green or the eyes that you can see more than just the sky that is so appealing? HAVENT YOU HEARD??
"THE DARKER THE BERRY THE SWEETER THE JUICE?"

So why does it seem the whiter the paper the more in favor. the blonder the hair the greater the fair, you seem to have in life. MAYBE its the recommendations in which the tv inscribes for us. Maybe its the runway that draws the rules of beauty.
The twiggier the prettier
the fatter the more laughter you receive from people who dont even know
your ****
name.
As I stare at the reflection and into the deep pools of confusion I fish out decent..and different,
but not pretty. I never arrive at the adjective pretty when i look at the reflection staring back at me but
does it ever occur that i do not strive to be merely pretty but something more.
DO NOT and i mean DO NOT EVER
slap a label onto my forehead titled pretty.
dont slap the sticker of cute either.
find another **** sticker
that you can not find at a store, this sticker is so original that it doesn't exist, its so intricate, considered more than an antique
for I AM MORE THAN A MISSION TO ARRIVE TO PRETTY.

Do not look into my cage where I sing and call me beautiful- for its funny how that so called gift seems to be nothing but a mere sample at a beauty supply. Im not a biscuit for you cant butter me up and salt me down for ill never be your favorite dish you can take a bite out of for comfort. I am more than just a piece of meat for I am more than just an adjective for you will not be able to pick up a dictionary and collect the word that fits me best.

I am more, WE are more, we cant be thrown into a binder full of women---no, for no binder is large enough to hold the complexity of just
one. woman.

Listen to the sound, and loose it, its sweet music, and dance with me, for there is beauty in the world so much beauty in the world. But we put a parental block on it we ignore that ad
we throw away that piece as if they are the unwanted leaves to the strawberry,
or the peel to the banana---we drive by that ordinary girl.

We sadly fail to realize-fail to notice the blue skies, notice the butterflies, but you will NOT fail to notice me.
Now, Starbucks is full-full of other rocky mountain climbs and terrible tumbles. It has become a pool of not only coffee...but pools and pools and rivers and seas,
of insecurities.
sorry its long- not meant to be offensive
Paige Apr 2014
Where's the man whose love is big enough

To catch a waterfall?

Whose rain slicker is sturdy enough to let things roll

Who isn't afraid to stare down a stream

Or look a storm right in the eye?

This man doesn't run;

The water-bearer--

On his shoulders he lifts the weight of love.

Do you know how many times I've seen

A man turn and run away from me

Instead of rushing to the sea?

He trickles away from feeling;

He dries up.

No, the man I'm speaking of

Is more than an oasis in a desert of difficulty;

He is a full-on river

Gaining speed

As he rolls down the mountainside

Carving canyons as he goes

Defeating the foes

That try to make us hide

from our emotions

--In fact, this man feels oceans

And never turns back

On his decisions

Doesn't reconsider the love he's given

or what he lacks

Because when he lacks, he makes more.

This is the secret of persistence

That keeps the sea kissing the shore

Because at times the tide gets pulled back by the force of the moon

But this man keeps sovereignty over the moment, knowing that soon

He will come crashing back onto her shore

And she will be waiting.

Yes, the earth would wait

Solid as a rock

for his return-

Her faith unshakable,

Though she is moved by his caresses.

She remains ever the same,

But she is molded, changed

By his loving form.

Made even more beautiful

By his presence.

Where is a man like this?

I've yet to find

One with such ardent purpose of mind

As to sweep his lady love

Off her feet, in a great flood

Of kisses and hugs

and promises fulfilled

The man who has an immutable will

And an unalterable course

Who dissolves the rock

And inscribes his love into the very earth

Not just by strength or force,

but perseverance

And resolve for all he's worth.
1691

The overtakelessness of those
Who have accomplished Death
Majestic is to me beyond
The majesties of Earth.

The soul her “Not at Home”
Inscribes upon the flesh—
And takes her fair aerial gait
Beyond the hope of touch.
Denel Kessler Jan 2017
Waves speak
to the shore
in rippled verse
scattered shell
strands of kelp

in the sand
each visitor
inscribes a story
sandpiper, wigeon, crow
raccoon, otter, coyote


I read each one
as I write my own
Samir Dec 2011
a guy sits here
hair a twist
no ordinary man
but a case
whatever prefix fits

he knows no limitations
seeks no thrill but fear
holds no memory dear
brains grasp simply too frail
such a broken outside
and gargoyles pier
however
he tranquilizes them
anytime someone comes near
yet the people abstain still
no shame, no cheer

they simply cannot see what purity
he has in his crypt
intimidated
severe

so let us move forward and glaze over the thick
move towards the misery which anguishes him

nonsense is sensical, whimsy at best
rational is of logic and dreary
detest

******* and thumbing
he frantically does his best
pulls his hair out
pulls his hair out
closed fist
punches chest

"where is she
where is her
name i cannot confess
for it escapes me...
not because
but rather-"

due to his distress

he stopped and sighed
violence
cried
broke down
then bled
red from his eyes

i want her
the sad one
shy

hurt inside

abused, accursed
diseased but undisguised

she'll love me

she will
there's nothing there to hide
she'll make me forget myself
sing or dance or
romanticize

"i want her...
a baby's friend
the neighbor's newborn daughter
the baby friend that came over
as an infant, i saw her
i kept the same heart
but its been through a lot
and now its done with slaughter

i kept the same heart
its growing apart
i need the neighbor's daughter"

it seems as though convinced
he truly had the heart of a newborn
ambivalent
knowing no complexity
purely hurt or comfort
either way's a shoulder
diamond or dirt
seemed to be bipolar

so he seeks the same
not the opposite
that would be a shame

because no one else can relate
to someone who feels the world
has turned its back on fate

he seeks out this girl
overlooking
all the beasts in his way

with evil colors they mask their face
appear to appeal, they may

but he knows better
their defenses fragile
they attract a plethora

to which they expose
like a sinister rose
the black rock in frame

the black rock so hard
shapely carved
to which its "blacksmith"
inscribes no name

a black heart
he sighs
which holds no light

might as well not exist
1023

It rises—passes—on our South
Inscribes a simple Noon—
Cajoles a Moment with the Spires
And infinite is gone—
SamBee Feb 2013
I have never felt such longing for ignorance than I have on this night
On which I have read the script that inscribes the ghastly when
And where or eight deaths.

I fell very much in love with a girl of the 20th century,
Her curled hair
Four outfits.
The silver band on her ring finger
And her driven passion for writing.
He devote bravery
Tantalizing sarcasm that made smiles crack the days hardened face of mine.

I fell in love with her strong sense of self
And unfathomable ability to say every piece  
Of every idea that trickled into her mind
And out through her lips.
Her value of words
Knowledge,
Writing,
Experience
Match that of my own,
Glimmering gracefully in her eyes.
I applaud her every wish to travel,
To live,
Not in vain,
But freely
And to not become a married woman
Who is forgotten like a draft
Through cracks in a window.

I fell in love with this girl
Who changed so horrendously into a woman
As I am before my very eyes.
Her ******* formed;
In angst of questionable hormonal
And ****** thoughts that throbbed in her mind.

I fell in love with this young,
Graceful woman,
But on this same night,
I mourned her death
And the passing of seven others.

Oh how this pain comforts me
In ways so delirious;
Oh how I would love to bask in the ignorance
Of a heart so full and whole and complete.
Oh, how I wish I never found my hero,
Because with a hero comes heartbreak.
Anne Frank. I love her so much. I look up to her. I always knew the general story of she died, but it just didn't really hit me until I really knew about her personality and about the whole story of her life.
Ronald Jones Mar 2017
The Muslim woman is perhaps
the most enticing female on the planet
with her hijab (head covering)
her burqa (outer garment enveloping most of her body)
her niqa (total veil)
Such strict apparel floods our mind with curiosity and fantasies about what is so hidden
Hence the covered Muslim woman is  a reenactment of every woman's beauty, power and numinosity
a veiled vision that inscribes itself across our mind
and inescapably through our libido
SELORM DEKU Oct 2015
When an heart inflated by true love gets deflated by denials
When opportunities seem absent for dreams
And nursed love finds no bed to root down
Failure inscribes its signet on wandering hopes
Highflying balloons of love brought low by a puncture of "no"
It scares the mind and drills scars in the heart.
But new hopes keeps you going

Some nos are better than yes after all
Love Things
SEN Mar 2023
Regrets, I’ve had a few
A crude red rose
An unwanted tattoo
Blood and ink, inscribes my flesh
Permanent art
A reminder of pain
First line borrowed from famous song "My Way"
Nigel Morgan Mar 2014
Orange in spring,
pinkish-brown,
yellow into deep green
through summer,
and finally to crimson
in autumn when they fall,
these leaves of the acer griseum,
the Chinese paperbark maple.

On the tree its leaves are opposite,
not alternate, two leafstalks arising
from the same point on the twig.
This is how it must be, she thought.

She had waited for the first frost
and, gathered in a fold of her cloak,
let seven leaves fall
to scatter on her desk.
One leaf holds her gaze;
her fingers touch,
and turning it over
she places it ready
in the hand’s left palm,

Picking up her finest brush,
with sad and slight but heavy
emphasis required, she inscribes
the subtle downward strokes of
the kanji characters for crimson -
makka, the blood’s red,
the true essence of life.

crimson leaves
fallen now scattered
one is chosen.
my heart longs for love


So to the garden stream
she goes, and kneeling
beside its moving water
launches this leaf
from her cupped hand.
The Dedpoet Jan 2016
Swat the butterflies whose wings
Decieve the poem and inscribes
Its colored brilliance on gilded flights;
There is no grace to his clunky
Flying and brings repetitive hooplah
To the natural poem and steals
Its personable voice.

Every language has a flow of poetry
Whose inner soul derives of the
Course of one's harmony and rhythm,
And using a star of butterflies in every
Poem brings about the very sameness
We all suffer from daily.

See the beauty in a vulture
Whose glide is magnificent
Spreading his wings in silent
Flight above rolling hills.

His beauty is not that of the
Butterfly, but it's flight is undeniably
Graceful and finding its natural
Poetic flow is deeper still.
Fay Slimm Feb 2017
Oh Word,
whose language can be lily or rose,
rain, dewy cloud, scaly fish
or feathered bird,
whose music trumpets in morning
and plays out night,
orchestrates stars, speaks thunder
and sunshine.
Word, who composes lion, dolphin
or lively stoat,
inscribes wisdom in insect, gorilla
and mountain goat,
writes perfect signatures in each
atomic thing,
whose silent symphony mystifies
with symmetry.


Word, praise to thee who sang Self
into humanity
for looking we find in thy grammar
superb diversity.
marvin m brato Oct 2014
A bard always inscribes...

A verse or two of innate sentiments,
that convey substantive expressions.

Like an ode that tells a story of love,
or a melancholic sonnet about solitude.

Quite an elegy of suspense depicting courage,
better yet a limerick of an adventurous quest.

And best couplet enthusing excitements
of an epic account of human endeavors
narrate explicit poetic phrases.
Elaenor Aisling Jan 2014
If you fall in love with this poet, (and she with you),
Remember, she will not tell you of the words she ascribed to your name
unless you ask to hear them.
(She likes her thoughts kept secret)

If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you)
Remember, she is not as solitary as she looks
and she will let you hold her till your arms ache.
(She’ll do the same with you)

If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you)
Remember her heart is paper, and on it she inscribes in blood
the words her soul could no longer hold.
(Your name will always be written there)

If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you)
Remember the things that made her smile,
she’s serious, but needs a break from
the things that go on behind her eyes, within her soul.
(They’re darker than you think)

Most importantly,
If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you)
Remember, you will never die.
Her words will last longer than she does.
(and as long as her heart beats, you are in it.)
marvin m brato Jan 2016
A rhymester inscribes his notions in rhyme,
A versifier writes poetry in metered verses.
Another one does a free verse to write at will,
As a poet I do my own style which maybe bad.

A poet for me is someone who does an art;
He does rhyme, metered verse or free style.
His subject can be any matter under the sun,
It may portray about romance, myth or reality.

A poem I believe does not have to be literal,
It may state something superfluous or specious.
But if delve closely may meant a thing of logic.
And will instill a better understanding about life.

Nobody really is a bad poet except me,
Even commits mistake to write for poets.
For expressing my own opinions about them,
Is merely a token of myself as poet who shares.
Need your opinion as poets! Thanks.
In shadows cast by moonlit dreams, my heart inscribes tales of adoration for the enchanting woman who graces my  world.

A clandestine dance of emotions, where unspoken verses paint portraits of admiration & love, where every stolen glance is a silent sonnet penned in the secrecy of my desire .
Chip Buchanan Dec 2019
I’ve ingested the bigot —
imbibed his words in each step that falters,
felt the cruel weight of lies
in every doubt and deprecation,
muted judgement of the system
that I might prejudge myself
in ****** images he inscribes.

This fight will go down into the dark
caverns of unreason
until the morning of unknowing  
shall expel the burrowing villain
that cannot live without destroying
his only host.
Dr Peter Lim Jun 2018
But they are wrong
who praise the virtues
of old age--
who its contentment extol-
the image
of understanding
they hold
as homage--

the story must be retold
the years that had gone before
have festered into rage-
the if and but
the should/would have been-

now standing apart
is the time to dip into
the poison of the heart-
hurt, real or perceived
dreams that had perished
the machination orchestrated
by enemies and even worse
that of once cherished friends--

broken promises
ideals falsely professed
wasted hours
in the sunshine
of youth
lies in the mid-term years
the slime and flattery
the bad-mouthing
the insinuations
the treachery
the self at variance
with the world
hidden anxieties
and fears

in translation
old age is but pain
and regret
a poem unfinished
a book badly written
a song that doesn't sing
a bell that doesn't ring

in his diary
the old person
inscribes:
these are the years
(though the last)
still swallowed
by lonely
and untold tears.
poetryaccident Jul 2017
The veil of years have obscured
emotions felt that linger cold
heart’s possessions words describe
hiding embers in poetry
kept there safe so I’m assured
what I’ve lost may be found

a woeful bard declares the rhymes
to remember past tenderness
weaving these in lyrics blessed
thus I’ll hide the memories
layered in my many poems
across the span of tearful odes

asking muse to evoke joy
from the dust my pen inscribes
in echoed halls I’ll describe
there the flame may still burn
with no heat to warm my heart
because it’s illusion of the words.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170710.
“Illusion of the Words” was inspired by a photo of a store in South Korea that had the signage, “I still hide you in my poetry”.  Exploration of this theme led me to a place where I consider poetry to be an attempt to feel the heat of the past, even though the fires are long gone.
Kurt Philip Behm Jan 2021
Music can only be heard one way,
words have a different refrain

Melody imprisoned by note and score,
what’s written when read apt to change

The ear a prisoner to the composer’s delight,
to listen—a captive within

But reading the lines that a poet inscribes
ever changing—each time you begin

(Dreamsleep: January, 2021)
Erin Dickerson Sep 2011
The howling sea chokes on envy for contentment,
Hard crushing everything valiant enough to combat his spine nullifying dominance
In taking on the marine.
Centuries of unfortunate life loss and destroyed scenery
Is nothing more than the rebuilding,
Because destruction’s alter beings’ name’s creation.
Lost ships and heroic legacies now lay fragmented in the ebbing tide,
Speaking only to those with ears open to listen when passing by.
And with the under towing current of the oceans breakers,
That inscribes the beaches with sediment ripped from history pages,
I look to find extended memories left behind, told through the workings of a nautiluses’ pastime.
Danash DelGotto May 2023
The rustling song of midnight
brushes through her hair
the solemn summer rain
takes away her cares

She gets lost in nature
to find her secret bliss
She listens to the moonlight
and feels its soft kiss

It steals her away from worry
as she lets herself feel calm
It reminds her of life's beauty
On her heart it inscribes its psalm

The night is a reminder
to be thankful for the sun
It all is a reminder
of a creation so perfectly spun

She is thankful for the darkness
She is thankful for the rain
She is thankful for the sunshine
She is even thankful for the pain

It all reminds her that she is living
Though most times she feels like stone
But she looks up to the heavens
And Thanks God she's not alone.

— The End —