"intercept" poems
death wants more death, and its webs are full:
I remember my father's garage, how child-like
I would brush the corpses of flies
from the windows they thought were escape-
their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies
shouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glass
only to spin and flit
in that second larger than hell or heaven
onto the edge of the ledge,
and then the spider from his dank hole
nervous and exposed
the puff of body swelling
hanging there
not really quite knowing,
and then knowing-
something sending it down its string,
the wet web,
toward the weak shield of buzzing,
the pulsing;
a last desperate moving hair-leg
there against the glass
there alive in the sun,
spun in white;
and almost like love:
the closing over,
the first hushed spider-sucking:
filling its sack
upon this thing that lived;
crouching there upon its back
drawing its certain blood
as the world goes by outside
and my temples scream
and I hurl the broom against them:
the spider dull with spider-anger
still thinking of its prey
and waving an amazed broken leg;
the fly very still,
a ***** speck stranded to straw;
I shake the killer loose
and he walks lame and peeved
towards some dark corner
but I intercept his dawdling
his crawling like some broken hero,
and the straws smash his legs
now waving
above his head
and looking
looking for the enemy
and somewhat valiant,
dying without apparent pain
simply crawling backward
piece by piece
leaving nothing there
until at last the red gut sack
splashes
its secrets,
and I run child-like
with God's anger a step behind,
back to simple sunlight,
wondering
as the world goes by
with curled smile
if anyone else
saw or sensed my crime
22.4k
Inspired by Wendy Mass' Every Soul A Star
I stare up at the deep blue sky,
At the sun and moon up so high,
A pitch black mass,
A hot yellow gas,
Float side by side,
Then they collide,
Casting the moon's silhouette,
So I begin to forget,
Of all the difficulty,
There was previously,
And began to accept,
I decided not to intercept,
Then he slipped his hand into mine,
And I felt just fine.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 4:47 AM UTC
Dogs take new friends abruptly and by smell,
Cats' meetings are neat, tactual, caressive.
Monkeys exchange their fleas before they speak.
Snakes, no doubt, coil by coil reach mutual knowledge.
We then, at first encounter, should be silent;
Not court the cortex but the epidermis;
Not work from inside out but outside in;
Discover each other's flesh, its scent and texture;
Familiarize the sinews and the nerve-ends,
The hands, the hair - before the inept lips open.
Instead of which we are resonant, explicit.
Our words like windows intercept our meaning.
Our four eyes fence and flinch and awkwardly
Wince into shadow, slide oblique to ambush.
Hands stir, retract. The pulse is insulated.
Blood is turned inwards, lonely; skin unhappy ...
While always under all, but interrupted,
Antennae stretch ... waver ... and almost ... touch.
7.1k
*
Quiet echoes bring the night of cricket song and firefly
as masks of clouded abstract shades intercept
Foaming colors take the eye to moments of shadowed dreams,
crimson plumes beneath a starlit canopy
Footing soft on dry grass down paths not yet worn,
wandering along fence line silhouettes
A golden sphere, above mature pecan trees appears as curtains lift
igniting the northern sky in beaconed majesty
Slowly puzzle pieced mist clears and bursts of color,
rainbows of dark bands announce the arrival
as this evening’s lunar show begins amidst
heavy sighs and mesmerized smiles
Soft in splendor, basking in myth,
the full moon, distant yet touching the soul
This night is shared, beyond horizon’s glare
and focused thoughts of two places, two hearts, one sky
Whispers follow beams of ancient descent, silently finding her,
hoping she will sense and know…that it is this moon that is ours*
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
He is an exponential function.
Small rate of change at the beginning,
But he grows fast when he reaches a certain age.
I am a function of a straight line.
A big constant slope since the beginning,
But I also have a y-intercept way bigger than zero.
Let our age be the inputs,
And our maturity be the outputs.
At year zero,
We didn’t know each other.
We didn’t know we would cross each other one day.
We have been working so hard.
We have been living in different countries.
We were like two parallel lines,
Which would never meet each other.
But at year 20 for me,
And at year 30 for him,
We finally crossed each other,
And we were smart enough to find our intersection.
We are still growing into different directions,
Because that probably will be our only intersection.
But we only need that one intersection,
Because we are all independent now.
We don’t need other people to input data anymore.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
Roses are hidden in buckets
a child could put one in her hair, a child could
create sandcastles up to their knees with
such. Yet these
creatures do not use his or her thorns
to intercept the road from garden to factory lines.
Funny to think one's skin shall
became tainted by something
that sleeps in peace right outside. Then, I think
about packing man into a bottle of mist
and would like to harvest my love's breath.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
What can I say?
This Tendered Theme
Sliced Me up this Way
Although this Injury
Be self Sustained
Extremity on Display
Tendered Themes to Do
Sensitively
Rearrange my Attitude
Keep me right on Track
Must I Confess?
Intercept & Mirror Back
Images Promising
See again~The
Violence of Blossoming
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
I woke up thinking about this.
A Thought About Loyalty
I’ve been thinking about loyalty:
A many-sided world of nuances,
The subtle differences.
We all know it means faithfulness,
A sticking-to devotedly.
Unfurled it shows its nasty sides,
The negatives that worry me:
Allegiance and adherence -
-Ism’s steel prepared to go to war
Against all criticizers,
-Isms’ others
Carving up the brotherhood
Of man.
Not for nothing
That a missile system drawn
To sense and intercept an enemy:
Is named the Patriot:
A system to annihilate.
I worry ‘bout obedience,
Compliance and submissiveness.
I like reliability, dependability,
Dedication if it’s not perverted
Duty, if it leads to thought,
A moral sense,
An ethic that agrees with life;
Loyalty without the strife.
Loyalty to think about.
A Thought About Loyalty 9.10.2017
Nature In & Of Reality; Out Times, Out Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
Alone;
Intermitted silence
Has a sound
Of nothingness
It exists in its
Non-existence
In the very same
Way as you and I
As we realize we
Are only objects
In other’s worlds;
Only noise to
The ears that
Intercept us
We exist in
Nothingness
When we exist
As sound does
In silence
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 9:12 PM UTC
a lone something in the sky
flies near, just by mischance
dazed by the smog,
bowing
and diving
downward
into the parting, cracking,
quaking
bellowing of tar
from the firy, sputtering lungs of these alps
eons worth of cries released in mere mouth-ajar gasps
of the earth diverging and converging
into the debt of always running clean,
running me
always downward,
as in the deep
deep
tessellations of rock
I become.
too still for my own good,
I guess –
another voice on the ash-flow tuffs of
breath to fill the mosaic
of sinewy
stripe-patterned goodbye and bygone
plating into the deep,
deep,
deeper caverns of the unseen sea
slipping off the mantle, an accident with intention,
as an echo caving downward into
nothing,
nothing,
more
nothing
polluting the depths from the palisades,
scripture rupturing lowshore into
surrounding tissues like
igneous stone
dreams of clinks ringing,
of noise
a voice
on the ash-flow tuffs
in the always running-clean water
the purity of which I intercept,
the clear-ness of it;
a sinners window.
through what's left,
I see the clam
another mouth for and of the sea
unseen,
the pearl
as unsoiled as ever
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 5:19 PM UTC
i may be jump starting
into a fast play here
but this ain't no ordinary game
i’m playing,
i ain't got no geechee tricks
up my sleeves
or a curve ball in sight,
with you
it’s just me and my straight pitch
so imma throw it to ya
like this
i’ve been traveling
across the court
waiting for you
to be wide open
for me to free throw
this to you
i love you
man
did you see that pass?
that shot i made
all the way
from half court?
you gonna
catch it &
come over here
slam dunk it
like i want you to
or let these words
rebound off your chest
like a third rate player
with uncoordinated hands?
cause right now
its the third down
in the last quarter
baby
& you still don’t see
how much yardage
you have gained
&
I'm still waiting
for you to
intercept me
dontcha know,
i wanna do
more than
just sack you?
but
don’t get it twisted
this isn’t some obsessed
lovesick fan
aching & destined
to show up
at your door
like a groupie
unannounced
cause
i’m not about to chase you
this ain’t track &
i don’t run after nothing
that can’t catch up to me
first
but **** don’t you know
i’ve got words for you papi
like goaaaalllll
& oyeeee
i might let you play
in my centerfield
but only if you can come
kick it hard enough
i wanna know
how do you
wanna
play this game?
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
They built me, standard-grade,
But with one crucial chip missing.
While other models are made
Programmed for social networking.
Laughter and jibes, except
This variant groping in the dark.
Much signs to intercept,
Machine simmers, overheats, sparks.
Every version upgrade,
Alas, still just one step behind.
Patience in every trade;
Stranger, if you could be so kind...
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 6:19 AM UTC
When the dunes turn to jazz
And the grains dazzle in the moonlight
The scorpio circle mating-dance
No straight paths
For a desert snake
No chance for a fragile man.
No refuge for the Citizens of Eden
Newton's hand would deter The Fall
Intercept gravity's apple
And the ceilings of the world
Would be far lower.
The earth is the ocean oasis
Panoramic, oceanic, vast
The desert dunes of space expands
The wood bends; the paper folds;
Objects collide; the tempest storms
And whips the sand.
The dunes turn to jazz
The Mystic Rose and the Magnolias dance
The desert hand expands, expands, expands
Raw power.
The Dunes Turn to Jazz
And the humans cower.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
recollecting collections projecting selections injecting protection infection dejection
dyslexic narcoleptic rejecting dejections ******** complexion complicating interjections
perplexed inspectors intercept pterodactyls relaxing in backpacks extracting disillusion
contortionist philanthropist dejected transgression implementing eradications of moss buying patrons
eclectic perfectionist rests limp-wristed whispering disparaging remarks to the wait staff
trombone percussionist impressed and impoverished gravelling wistfully mimicking Rickles
I sit half disheveled grinding my wisdom teeth feeling the fleeting muse sitting in disbelief –
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
Borne abreast a Valkerie
Astride the crested steed,
Ascending high to maelstrom
Where fear transcends the greed.
Where the very fire of being
Elevates the spirit's quest
And the steel of high endeavour
Puts all good men to test.
Where the visceral is torture
To the threshold of the strain
In engaging guts and tolerance
To intercept the pain.
So vanquish all the vanities,
Banish all the loud
For the wonder of endeavour
Is what makes we people... Proud!
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
24 September 2010
A poem for my
Darling daughter,
Robin
..Who turns
Sweet forty two
Today!!
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 11:46 PM UTC
I always thought I knew what love was.
Then I met you.
You could reach places of my soul
that even I didn’t know existed,
each smile was another reason to live,
Every time you laughed
I fell more in love.
every time I looked into your coke-and-whiskey eyes
each pant after a kiss carried a thousand poems
about those eyes in it.
You gazed at me like an artist
would admire Van Gogh,
you held me like I was the answer
and for a while, I thought I was, with
Your fingers pressing into my hips
in a way that I later found out
was to intercept the thought of your hands
on her hips.
You played me
like I was the last cello on earth-
but not in a good way.
And I know it’s pathetic,
but you’re the heaven
and the earth to me,
because you were the only person
that could make me smile the way you did.
It was supposed to be just ***
but I’m in love with you-
present tense.
I want to lay in bed with you
under sparkling blue Christmas lights
strewn out across my walls like everything
I never thought I could say
but found the opportunity to,
I want to kiss your scars,
I want to fix your broken hearts with
duct tape and a song,
and I want to admire every inch of your body
because it’s perfect,
even if you don’t think so.
I want to do things to you
that I’ll never have the opportunity to do again,
because while everything about you
wrecks everything about me
in what I thought was
the best possible way,
I turned out to be a rebound.
A substitute
for a girl who gave you a murky puddle
just big enough to catch the reflection
of you two hand in hand,
while you drowned me in the clearest ocean
I could have given you.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
After all, poetry is a savage calling.
-Edel Garcellano
Let poetry be an interstice.
Say, an intervention to the gap of loneliness. Depressive. Let bitter medicines dissolve or, madness will make its ultimate call. Convulsive patterns of mental spasms. Schizophrenic impulse hitting the nerves.
What is known to be rational flees. Enough to learn from the burning of its wings and Youth.
Say, pulling a magic trick under the hat. You know you are being fooled but why enjoy such spectacle or, better enjoy than masking the truth.
Say, a glimpse through an interstice—from Whitman’s poetry.
An intervention to the rashness of day. An intercept to the chaos of the soul. A reminder that we are not assemblages forever desiring.
A poetry fumbling to the course, enough to welcome the rain of sad realizations.
“The task is heroic. Poetry is a minor matter” (E. Garcellano) – an intervention/interstice, the negotiator to the ultimate task of poetry.
We are savage gods. We feed on the detritus of truth, those are, lies.
Consider this poetry as an epitaph. To the disremembered victims of El Sidro. We dealt the cards of fate. We intervened to live. We pierced our stones to their hearts so cold.
Darwin’s prophesy always reminds us that in every epoch there are some interventions we cannot avoid. After all, we are his favorite animal.
We are gods feeding on loneliness. We are agnostic souls entangled in caves of shadows.
Say, are we forever trapped in the compulsive dimensions of ourselves? In love, for example.
To answer this question is the task of poetry.
Let poetry be an interstice.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
They have tried to conceal our love,
they've thrown up roadblocks, and smokescreens
to keep us from finding each other again,
but yet we always do. Our love has its own radar.
I can sense your heart beating, like an angelic drum
through the haze, and I know you can always hear the love
in my voice, even through the harsh foul static.
Even when you cannot respond, I know you know
my love is always glowing, like a lighthouse in the night.
Guiding you back to my harbor of eternal affection,
where my lips never tire of sounding the horn of our happiness.
I have stumbled for women before, like a blind man descending stairs.
But I never fell, until I tumbled head first into the bottomless pool
of your beauty. The only waters in which I would gladly drown,
have drowned, only to be rescued and resuscitated by your kisses.
Those who do not speak the language of our love, point their antennas our way,
they intercept our transmissions, but their code books are missing the pages
that explain how such emotion can be decoded. They only catch the grand communique,
always missing the short, but ever so loving messages, that come in daily
over the teletype of passion. Feverishly at this very moment, they wrack their brains
wondering at the deeper context of our words, but their is no hidden meaning,
behind the expression of affection. Love is its own context, and if they cannot translate it
then they are the ones at fault, not us. We have our own frequencies, and wavelengths.
Our Love shall always ring out in the darkness, even if we have to switch channels,
It will be there, to comfort us, and relieve the ache of our longing. I already have enough
in this world. Let them have the rest. All I need is our tiny daily broadcast, all I need is...
Our love.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 7:20 AM UTC
As the Sun has its place
In the clear, halcyon sky
Your mind resides here
Please don't resist to comply
Intercept each divagated thought
Interconnect with my waves
Vibe with my presentiment
Upon each other, we're slaves
"Hooked" on each other's hooks
As our conscious rocks and cradles
Sharing minds as we flutter
Animated fantasies, but no fables
I think the way you think
You coast adjacent to my vibe
Our mental surrounds each other's
Mine and yours, a dear circumscribe
We entwine as a tightly woven braid
Entangled upon a common bond
We savor of our intuitive thoughts
Your every move, I'm surely fond
Enriched with pleasurable closure
In summer's embrace, we wallow
In this psychological playground
My angel, your position is hallow
We're two minds that amalgamate
Gratified with not one discrepancy
Only our mutual brains keep subtle
A deep, infrangible, sweet telepathy..
© Michael P. Smith
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
Stormy darkness emerges from your wide open eyes .
Dark clouds are coming.
The whistling wind of your words is druming in my ears.
Planes of tears pouring on unshakable ground.
You put on today dress woven with rain drops
and gloves sewn from fog.
Sky-blue color of your eyes transfigured in livid.
I see no difference between night and day.
Let disappear's your loud anger.
I would like to see the horizon and sun.
The heavens melted with the ground.
I hear the noise of too bluntly spoken words.
I'm ready to scream with fear of lightning of your complaints
but this is not middle of the night to wake up someone.
Storm and leaden sky reigns in the valleys and on the hills,
do not let to sleep at night.
You go too far, my love.
Time for me, I need to intercept umbrella.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
I cry because I needed to be
to release something in me.
Every tear brings moist to my dried lands.
For I, a mere man
seems so damage, yet so normal
or perhaps just fragile, easily breakable
and sometimes emotionally unstable.
You laugh because it’s fun,
Looking on a dreaded face
saying such a waste
then disregarded for my bitter taste.
I smiled an emptied smile
I laughed a pretend laugh
That’s my response to your jokes
As if it didn’t hurt
For I don’t want to upset you with my unpleasant retort
In time I learned to tolerate the vicious screams of my thoughts
Then mold them into candles
Hold them near, embracing it as part of my soul
And burn each shameful experienced into smokes
Now wrap with melted wax
Relax in this shell I created
a prisoner of my own doing
It’s ok, I am fine
I am strong enough to accept
enough will to intercept
the flooding negativity
with my passive cry for unity
and through my spacious heart,
the pain is bearable.
© Pax
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC
playing cards, flinging numbers on the table
conversations leading nowhere
and i sit on the outside, watching us
and analyzing the game
i see your head tilt, i see your mouth crack
wide open and speak
and i see the words, read their shape
and watch the colours fade in the air
to match the grey of today
and i wish that i could reach out
and touch them, try to brush
the colour back into your voice
but instead
no matter how hard i try
the words are stale, the cards are bent
by the time they reach my ears
and land lightly upon the inside curve, soft and dark
still nice, still present
and i guess i don’t mind the lack of colour
besides, i know that if i really wanted to
i could move closer and catch the words
catch your voice
as it leaves your lips
and intercept it before it can fade
taste the colours instead
and it’s nice to know i have that option
so i stand here and watch this interaction
watch the card game, hearts and spades
and analyze each move
black and red and white
and colourful
just waiting for the game to end
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
the woven intercept
*the crescendo soft ascending,
commandeers our riveting,
we do not surrender, taken, nonetheless,
our deference to an elegant wand wave,
combo hopeful and all encompassing, the helplessness
both well understood
the progression higher, steady on,
a rapture going to a defined ending,
concluding voyage occluded, for now,
but the setting sun rays us a plan, a path,
teasingly, soto voce lips moving, “this way”
follow on the unsteady water
restraining resistance failing, flailing weakly,
it is both early morning and late afternoon,
the light warms, but each, a timbre different,
the pitch and intensity tho one and the same,
yet, order confused, still, we are given-in
giving in unwillingly
absolution unrequested, but awarded anyway,
shelter from the storm of safe and warm,
children begin first school day, but adults
know better, beginnings full of risks unforeseen,
the season changes, normalized, but would be refused
if we could
the waiver offered, the woven intercept read,
emotional intelligence so fragile, on and on,
sidekicks, lovers, connected by a dotted line highway,
the space between permitting anything we want,
but contradictories say, wanting everything, impossible
but the viable solution singular
how do we leave it then? we leave it thus, clarified,
separation is a kind of attachment, voidable, when,
kissing comes calling, from all around the world,
the crescendo ends, we each have read the intercept,
it concusses, interpretations differing, yet we don’t care
lying through embracing lips*
our tune is a mismatched matching,
a vision ending and yet anew hatching,
this is love, understanding, undefinable, undefeated,
a changeling definition, paths possessing multi-endings,
loving is the unceasingly, desirable imperfect struggling
unique, singular just like everyone else’s
9/4/19 9:07am
nml
(she'll know)
Sep 7, 2019
Sep 7, 2019 at 2:14 PM UTC
negative b plus/minus square root b² minus 4ac over 2a, the quadratic formula;
the numbers don't lie.
10th June, 2002; my birth.
the numbers don't lie.
when y equals to 0 you can find
the x-intercepts;
the numbers don't lie.
#03-04; my unit.
the numbers don't lie.
I am better than everyone but
1
person in this room;
the numbers don't lie.
when y equals to a times (x-h)² plus k,
(h,k) is the vertex;
the numbers don't lie.
157 cm; my height.
the numbers don't lie.
negative b over 2a,
the axis of symmetry;
the numbers don't lie.
16th April, she told me she would love me forever,
23rd May, we kissed,
14th February, she told me to leave her forever;
glassy-hearted valentine;
the numbers don't lie.
negative b² minus 4 times a times c,
the discriminant;
the numbers don't lie.
43 kg; my weight.
the numbers don't lie.
my value is exponentially depleting but
I am still better than 7 out of 10 of you;
the numbers don't lie.
when x equals to 0 you can find
the y-intercept;
the numbers don't lie.
3 times, my drowning attempts failed;
the numbers don't lie.
I think my days are numbered;
I don't lie.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 5:24 AM UTC
Tax is a concept
By which you measure governance and each cent from each pocket
Tax is a concept
By which you measure a homeless man’s pain and the hard rain
Tax is a concept
That only adds up but sometimes doesn’t
Tax is a concept
A technique to intercept the poor man’s invasion
Tax is a concept
That funds a government servant’s evasion
Tax is a concept
That requires frequent revision for the privileged 1% division
Tax is a concept
For the rich to market their wealth as a sales pitch
Tax is a concept
That is open ended that helps lawyers find a niche and sometimes a gaping ditch
Tax is a concept
That helped the Untouchables put away that whiny *****
Tax is a concept
That takes the interest out of the spooks
I don’t believe in being rich
If I have to pay more I think that’s a glitch
I don’t believe leaving it all to the middle class
If I criticize it the government shows a lot more sass
Tax is a concept
If it wasn’t it wouldn’t be in books and in the salaries of prison cooks
Tax was a concept
That kept out of it the clergy mooks
Tax was a concept
That kept a nobleman’s coffers’ ostentatious good looks
Tax was a concept
That kept death at bay
Tax was a concept
That contributed to the dead everyday
Tax was still a concept
If it wasn’t then in Germany there wouldn’t have been any bread for each day
Tax is still a concept
It still pays the rich and takes from the rich *****
Who has the lawyer who is smarter than Tom Sawyer
I don’t believe in law and order
I just believe in world order and peace
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC