"instructs" poems
V.B. Wigglesworth wakes at noon,
Washes, shaves and very soon
Is at the lab; he reads his mail,
Swings a tadpole by the tail,
Undoes his coat, removes his hat,
Dips a spider in a vat
Of alkaline, phones the press,
Tells them he is F.R.S.,
Subdivides six protocells,
Kills a rat by ringing bells,
Writes a treatise, edits two
Symposia on "Will man do?,"
Gives a lecture, audits three,
Has the ***** club in for tea,
Pensions off an ageing spore,
Cracks a test tube, takes some pure
Science and applies it, finds,
His hat, adjusts it, pulls the blinds,
Instructs the jellyfish to spawn,
And, by one o'clock, is gone.
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How this **** fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on bark's nun-black
Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape
In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,
Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne
Switched her incomparable back
For a bay-tree hide, respect's
Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip
Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs
Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery
Bed of a reed. Look:
Pine-needle armor protects
Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop
Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,
Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:
For which of those would speak
For a fashion that constricts
White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top
Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers
Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they
Who keep cool and holy make
A sanctum to attract
Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip
To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,
They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'
Be certain some such pact's
Been struck to keep all glory in the grip
Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs
As you etch on the inner window of your eye
This ****** on her rack:
She, ripe and unplucked, 's
Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe
Now, dour-faced, her fingers
Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly
Askew, she'll ache and wake
Though doomsday bud. Neglect's
Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop:
Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.
Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy
Till irony's bough break.
8.6k
EᔕᔕᕼI ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn sniffles as Ainhara gives her a
handkerchief which she uses to
wipe her tears.
"Thank you, guys," Lyn whispers,
giving them a weak smile.
'Well, at least she smiles,' Esshi
thought.
Ainhara has a bright smile. "My lady,
your lady mother gave Bael orders to
make this soup for you. She instructs
that you eat this."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When Esshi pushes the serving trolley
to her Queen's side, she lifts the gold lid
and Lyn looks at the soup; steaming
kale in a beefy broth with chopped
peppered sausages, lamb cubes,
onions, garlic, mint chopped potatoes
and carrots.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Kale, really? I hate kale," Lyn whines,
gently pushing the bowl away. "I don't want it!"
Esshi and Ainhara look at each other and smile.
*'Still acts like a child when her lady mother
commands she eats her vegetables!'* giggles Esshi.
"Your mother says you must eat it, My Lady."
Ainhara chuckles. "It will help with reduce
your stress and help relax your body."
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn sighs and mutters under her breath,
"I hate it when she does this! She knows
I hate the smell of kale! I swear, I'm going
to outlaw the vegetable!" She held hers
nose up and huffs at the end of her
statement, making Ainhara and Esshi smile.
'At least she is in better spirits now.'
thought Esshi.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
/ been \
/ thoughts \
| my |
| have |
| LANGUAGE |
| my |
| by |
| INFLUENCED |
| is |
| feel |
| or |
| do |
| or |
| want |
| or |
| say |
| i |
| that |
/ EVERYTHING \
/ if \
^ ^ ^
^ ^ ^
^ ^ ^
| language instructs | the way we think |
^ ^ ^
^ ^ ^
^ ^ ^
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 10:25 PM UTC
ghosts of slumber parties past.
just a haunted betamax & a stack of oreo sandwiches.
sisters braiding eachother’s hair far past the witching hour,
contemplating life without supervision.
blue house. yellow lawn.
silverback gorilla in one garage.
two garage: empty.
three garage: a woman entombed in exhaust.
[her bloated tongue]
a gang of bmx boys pizza-fed and friday-high,
hopped up on mountain dew and trading card collectible rituals ‘n rhythmics.
they conjure a demon just to **** and dismember it.
for funsies.
for keepsies.
a fang for the shrine at the foot of the old oak tree.
history on the skin, long history, long thoughts, long in the nod like a calm dead frog.
bubbled, boiled, toiled, and troubled.
the woods aren’t haunted.
you are haunted.
you are the conduit through which the darkness displays its vivid colors.
[treefort aflame]
the seasons furrow/
/ the leaves fall.
little plots of land etched out – subdivision and sprawl.
on the avenue, heaven
& hell made tame and tangible.
built, re-built, and refurbished – a lawn and a lantern.
a mortgaged glory of sparkle and decay.
[dead cat is a new cat is the old cat ran away]
pictograms of morning light display on mom’s face
as she instructs us on the gusts of love [scrambed eggs]
& teaches us the truth of nettles sprung
from violent pine.
[toast with raspberry jam]
the television.
the microwave.
the blender beverages.
hymnals of an electric kingdom.
one mom dances, the other expires.
[restless armless girls in orange sunsets]
girl with a gun at the edge of her lawn and selling lemonade.
girl in an old wicker chair.
save her horror story for another day.
boy with a bent frame bicycle limps his way home
from one end of the avenue to the other.
his pockets full of sparkly rocks found in the lime quarry pit.
one boy in a long line of lost planets.
the driveway.
the refrigerator.
the hum of a saturday night commercial-free cassette.
where’s dad?
the glow of an eerie crystal
(continued…)
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
My horoscope told me that I should think creatively today. It told me that I should write and so here I am, attempting to write a poem.
Little does my horoscope know that my mind is unable to function.
"Write something clever! You will create something great!" My horoscope instructs me but unfortunately that task is easier said than done, but I try because I want to fit in. All the cool kids are doing it.
However, nothing but loud noises come out and the writing police come to get things under control.
My brain has been arrested for causing a public disturbance.
Writers block has taken over. It is a cell block in my mind where all of my creative ideas have been cuffed, thrown into a corner, and forced to *** with rusted metal bars offering no privacy.
It's humiliating.
As I sit in my little jail cell I think about what I've done and how I could never come back here again.
"Next time," my brain tells me, "Don't listen to your horoscope."
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
1773
The Summer that we did not prize,
Her treasures were so easy
Instructs us by departing now
And recognition lazy—
Bestirs itself—puts on its Coat,
And scans with fatal promptness
For Trains that moment out of sight,
Unconscious of his smartness.
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Escaping backward to perceive
The Sea upon our place—
Escaping forward, to confront
His glittering Embrace—
Retreating up, a Billow’s height
Retreating blinded down
Our undermining feet to meet
Instructs to the Divine.
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An illusionary sleep
Has taken over every soul
Eyes wide open
Yet the vision is blurred
Every step is a stupor
Across broken paths
Not an inch of freedom
Spaces are traps
Detached from the soul
Every waking hour a tribulation
Truth swept under the delusion
Under an unknown spell
Magic wand instructs every move
It’s time to wake up
From an illusionary sleep
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
Listen to your desire,
hear it as clearly as I do.
It touched my heart,
and feelings bled through.
Sharing this love,
A reflection of me and you.
Senses aren't always right,
Nor love, always true.
Cause reason, and emotion often confuse
What our hearts intent, instructs us to do;
My need is to love you...
My want is to be loved too.
Preferably; by you.
Right now; these dreams will do.
Amiss the actual,
I wish, this one wish
Would become two.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
It makes no difference
Whether it is poet freak or Hello poetry
The sites are different
The loopholes are quite apparent
Human psyche is the same
There may be only a change in name
Good poets are every where respected
Fake poets are easily detected
Great poets are always adored
Eternal poets are highly revered
If writing poetry becomes a poet’s obsession
He tries his best to achieve perfection
The main aim of poetry is to please
Our tension it will soon release
The aim of a great poet is to instruct
But every poet’s intention is to construct
The platform for comraderie
Writing poetry is not a reverie
Poetry consoles, delights
Instructs, pleases, and relieves
Even our greatest psychic pain
Writing or reading poetry is a spiritual gain
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 3:28 AM UTC
White girls can get stuck too,
the same way that no money
sandwiches you between two
slices of dreams you cannot bite
into, because we cannot pay for that
school—stuck like peanut butter.
I want things, but mostly
I want to be able to stay at the
university and learn so, someday,
I can teach others too.
Teach them to love good and
truth and not care that they are
not the businessman or engineer
with a steady job.
All they—all we—have to do
is be willing to clean the bathrooms or
flip the greasy burgers if we have to.
Hands that are working and honest
are always good hands, no matter
what they do.
When I tell people I love English
and writing, the man or woman instructs me
to pick something more practical—be a
technical writer, a reporter, an advertiser.
But I love my poetry, and no one can
ask me to sell my happiness
and design for a nice house and a
maid who cleans because hubris
has rusted my joints.
I am not a hero or a martyr
for words, but I am a woman
who would humbly scrub toilets to
feed her children, write poems at
night, and be happy.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 4:32 AM UTC
renegade memories
relentless effrontery
rogue fractured intruders
a formulable formidable aside inside
man is a modified monkey
a jackdaw in peacock's feathers
contradictions, the multiplicity that is a unity
a patchwork of odds and ends
snips and snails
dreams and delusions
hopes and fears
a mystifying knot of phantasmagoric disquietude
agape in a stupefied bewilderment
as an autistic child swept up in minutiae
inscrutable incongruities
melange of matters beyond explanations
maundering machinates
necessary inventions repeating and reforming
sheltering some aspect of the mind's deforming
'reaction formations' sotto voce instructs the analyst
defending emotions at the personalities bequest
merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream
psychotherapy is no mere scheme
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
I inhale into my back bend as my mother and pregnant aunt do the same.
my mother’s toes begin to wiggle on their own
my aunt, eyes closed and belly full, mumbles along with the mantra
words that are unfamiliar to me
yet are home.
Keith prefers to be called Di Laoshi
but I call him Keith in private
even though he compliments me on my characters
and wants to send me to Beijing.
I smile because
xiexie is easier to pronounce than
wo bu zhidao.
my teacher
named for a province in Spain says
he has adopted himself.
the yoga DVD instructs to
drink from the well,
so I
call to Aunt Lakshmi
Di Laoshi
Master Ozuna
and I do.
Apr 16, 2011
Apr 16, 2011 at 7:35 PM UTC
A white abstract silence falls heavily like phosphorous snow… odd and oblique with nervous intensity of random limitations… sensitive and fragile in its unremitting generosity…A fluency of motion of imaginary realisation in silent turbulence descends in tenebrous shadows of illusion detonating the unconscious… the symmetry and exactitude of silence beyond all compass…. an intricate camouflage… meticulous and consistent.
Disinherited it tries to sanctify the air….. a silence in where stars evaporate vibrational loud and inquisitive…. freezing time by the velocity of its inner momentum of silent adrenalin.
Concealing its true identity isolating me in unknown realisation of what is to occur.. It resonates with constant tension waiting for unpredictability’s of indispensible voices that don’t speak….. This is a realisation of the imagination…. a vibrant insensibility…. density of unravelled thoughts that vaporise within me causing a vibration that fractures the equation of time and space in the burning crucible of my mind.
Intractable proportions of silent thought…. hovering… a constant mirage of irrational calculations….. This silence forces all the tears of consequence to fall upon my face with no avail…..Then in this thunderous silence see graffiti on white walls…abstract and meaningless….Like primitive lives…those with meaning yet possess no meaning… an ungovernable democracy of fruitless endeavour… of non factual fastidiousness… a glimpse of life and its fallacy.
Yet the words were spoken and written… by whom… And for why.. Now the silence punctuates and instructs…. phosphorous extinguishes itself and hides behind another truth…..The noise of the world cascades in torrents deafening… attempting to defeat… subordinate the senses in atavistic cruelty… Prowling searching for the silence… but it has gone…. disappeared in the imagination of my inner self…. an abstraction I call me….. But I know where the silence has gone….
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 7:07 PM UTC
possessed with the intangible art form known as
free flowing
mind blowing
expanding into all
but collapsing into itself.
breathing one's breath
and skipping one's step
at the thought that you can
and are
and shall be
forever more and eternally so.
we go and go
but step back to show
what we've found along the way.
i learn tomorrow and write today.
visions of the past are useless.
we must scope our way into the new beginning.
rush into the black mist of possibility.
of danger.
of death.
of life.
of breath.
of love and tragedy alike.
we are bold as mold
creep and crawl along side the creepy crawlies
until there is no more meat to pull along with us.
but we keep going.
we take,
we consume as this world instructs us to.
only way to pass along the lines without them
knowing why we're really there.
without them finding out
we've been here before.
new names and faces
both them and i.
but they are blind.
we seek.
we seek.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 9:34 PM UTC
they are standing in line at a café on 4th avenue he is directly behind her she is lanky wearing white background faded colors patterned summer dress thin straps over bare shoulders brown hair some gray cut to shoulders small unfinished tattoo on left calf leather slip-ons 1 inch heals he is at a complete loss for words thinks to make remark about the weather decides not to overhead fan stirs hot humid July air barista girl asks what she would like her eyes scan blackboard menu behind counter she hesitates remarks help him i need an extra moment to decide he steps up to counter money in hand orders small to go Arnold Palmer half black current lays $3 on counter mentions change goes in tip jar thank you barista girl moves fast he lifts cup from counter glances at woman still deciding then at barista girl says have a wonderful day turns walks out door dawns on him woman grows hair under her arms his 2nd most compelling female physique adornment fetish oh god he thinks to himself should i wait for her to make up her mind then approach try to craft conversation at least find out her name no i’m too weak in this moment she is so lovely let her go
she orders double Americana in small cup to go room for soy milk thinks to herself he did greet her perhaps their paths will cross on street why did he run off so fast she glances toward front of café notices window seat changes her mind instructs barista girl on 2nd thought make it for here digs through purse realizes she left wallet in truck explains to barista girl she needs to run out to her vehicle to retrieve wallet under front seat the air on the street is heavy dense she smells her own perspiration looks north then south does not see him walks to truck feels exhausted appetiteless almost nauseous wishes she did not order a drink thinks to get behind wheel drive home go to sleep
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
we each have
our place to stand
a place always present
an aligned awareness
and sacred connection
joining dark to light..
discovery comes first
then remembering..
forgetting is easy
each place is hidden
alignment broken..
sensing ones place
intent brings focus
a movement we notice
shapes in motion..
surfaces rising
then returning to
rise again..
a torus in motion..
watch the jellyfsh
its pulsing survival..
the web also instructs
animations in
splendid variety
this sacred movement..
become the motion
discover your own..
experience then
a gentle rocking
inhale
centered and upward
to brilliant light..
exhale
light now filtered
shadow and pain
breathing
unending..
a docking station
now introduced..
awaits remembering
intention for use..
check the circuits
the cellular lights..
a new identity
now fully alive
ready connected and
now to fly...
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
I scrub down the entrails
cast now in wire
forcing fast horsehair to form
audible friction,
with wood, metal, keratin, and navel craft
comprehensible tension;
and I study such tension to
form a portfolio of frequencies
from which to draw
and cause
emotion on cue:
to tease my tactile habits
is to hone my habitual expression (they say);
I ask the doctor and take this aural tool
--a theory of not colors but a fifth wheel--
as directed,
and use it to forge links between acoustic flailings
to turn feelings into gears that line up
just as the label instructs.
And so I train my instincts to match the mold taught in
this cramped and unfamiliar womb;
and I teach my hand to tremble uniformly.
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC
The horoscope instructs you when to try,
Sportscenter shames
Time poorly spent,
And a commercial on the tv tells you why
You tried to earn more
Than covered rent.
In fact, you’ve learned that you can sigh
From the same logo that aims to prevent
A tree growing straight,
Still wondering why
The kid from Into the Wild preferred a tent.
The weatherman told you when to go but
Those hills have eyes that
Tickle your spine;
You can convince your arteries’ juice to flow
But some streams run deep,
Deeper than a drill could unwind.
The schoolboard cannot be stopped
In rain. In snow,
Knowledge breaks the naked man’s vision.
The hardwood floors in an old house
Grow, and when those panels crack
I hear they glisten.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:40 AM UTC
Mina Mina she declares
Life is hopeful
Pink and red.
She instructs me to wash
my hands and listen
to my parrot
She is feminine power
fearless leader
Mina Mina she lies
of no use know
what does she know
of wife beatings? Of
Dumpster scavengers? Of
rationing food? Of
Children in whom no one
Believe?
Mina Mina she is dead.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
Life is Sew Amazing!
Once I was lost without a pattern to follow.
I discovered the Bible with its many golden threads.
Each verse was like a seam ripper, the words began to rip and open
the tightly woven seams of my heart.
The seams had been stitched with the cares of life.
Each stitch told the story of disappointment, pain, rejection, problems and strife.
Life is Sew Amazing!
Once a sinner now a new beginner.
I am a new creation a beautiful work of art sewed by the master seamstress.
There are no longer pins to ***** my heart only the love of a forgiving God.
The Holy Spirit’s scissors cut the old fabric pieces and stitched new ones into God’s design and plan.
He took His marking pencil and marked the lines I needed to trace.
I truly know that I am here because of HIS grace.
Life is Sew Amazing!
The Bible is like a seam gauge, measuring tape or clear gridded ruler which instructs me in ways to measure up.
I am thankful for all the living appliques, which are examples of God’s handiwork.
Sometimes I’m stretched like a piece of elastic, under the weight of life’s pressure foot but He provides the interfacing to strengthen me.
He provides a thimble to protect me from the ****** of life’s transitions.
He is my loving pin cushion holding all the pins and needles
regardless of my condition.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 3:17 PM UTC
Into our rooms, we scurry
into the comforts of chairs we can spin on,
screens we stare at for hours;
there is so much we have condensed
into the slight rhythmic movement of the wrist.
Only twenty years old and where have I come to,
on a desk with a jar of money beside Derrida
(with a cartoon where Plato instructs Socrates)
and the tattered pages of
Foucault, madness and civilisation -
those sick lepers ride a boat, which reminds me:
the Leith overflowed today, gushing
rushing into the harbour. I
looked out the window, imagining
it was Styx
and the ferryman had come to get me.
There is so much
artistry to it all, sometimes
it overwhelms me and I stutter
and remain silent for days;
the swirling air encloses
around; leafs tear,
wind flurries, shuffling shoes
shuffle shoefully
marbles that drop down stairs
knock knock
tick tock, tick tock
old Clock tower ding ****
ding, these clocks, Burns, don’t you get sick of them?
it is now time to begin
the lecture. Open
the rows
for late students. I am definitely
going to be late today. Look, someone has inscribed
“you are the yellow bird I have been waiting for”
I feel great
Can we write our stories with passion today?
Can we speak to each other properly today?
Can we see the sky rupture today?
It’ll be like walking the beach at night
at sunset.
Oh, god
when will
I ever
Forgive me, forgive me, I was distracted
for a second there
with Lear’s fool who implores
“Give me an egg and I’ll give thee two crowns”
and the funny looking cat that stares at me through
the bathroom window.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
I awaken in a frozen forest
The frost grips my lungs with icy claws
My face is numb and yet I can feel it burn
Snow covers my skin like a gown
As I sift through the permeating fog
A chilling veil of foreboding demise
The oak and ash trees stand like pillars
A silent kingdom encased underneath aeons of time
I turn my eyes to the sky; greeted by the deepest grey
The snow falls gently to the ground
Covering all these graves and where they lay
Stumbling forth through the brush
The wind howls among the boughs
And there stood the palace
A structure made from the strongest oak
Engraved with the runes of the gods
The doors appear as mirrors but ripple with touch
From within the fire burns bright
Lingering ash fills my senses; attracted to the warmth
Passed the thresh-hold I move
And everything disappears
A lady in white stands before me now
Veiled with what could only be death itself
And from her lips mists the very essence of despair
These are her haunted woods
All around, are reflective crimson pools
Steaming against the bite of the wind
Pools of death, pools of men who came before me
She constructs me a tower to the heavens
And instructs me to stay forever
I will do so, without hesitation
Compelled by the raging fire in her eyes
So, from my frozen tower I watch
The embers paint the blackened skies
An eerie shade of amber, permeated with smoke
The forest is burning
The fire in her eyes was released
From on high, I watch her **** herself
Burning alive, a victim of her own passion
I clutch my chest and find a hole
Dry and empty, just a grotesque cavity
She stole my heart in my sleep
And it lit the fire that destroyed this beautiful place
Now a sanctuary of death
In my tower I'll sit forever
Writhing in endless pain
I killed her with my heart
I killed the lady veiled with ice
I killed the only good to come from my conscious mind
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
"Tame your dragon"
My teacher says...
Can I refuse this assignment?
Make a plan
she instructs...
My plan is to slowly self destruct.
But I don't think that's what you want.
Can I be honest
and say
that today
is not the day,
nor was yesterday,
that I honestly want to change?
I know I should
but I don't really know what to say...
tomorrow, maybe
I'll consider starting.
But it might just be
a distant tomorrow
cuz today my plan is relapsing.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC