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Michael Benton Aug 2010
Life’s about the adjectives,
it’s how we know the world.
Nouns, you see, are only names,
with adjectives - life is knurled.

Think about the apple,
just fruit upon the tree,
red ripe skin with tasty pulp,
better lets us see.

Providing us the texture,
of color if you will,
ADJ allows us space,
to give our lines the fill.

Life’s about the adjectives,
spice for the written line,
Verbs, you see, are motion,
and index things like time.  

Think about the race car,
going around the lane,
zipping fast with lightning speed,
better feeds the brain.  

Providing us the feeling,
of nature if you will,
ADJ gives the taste,
to writings we distill.  

Verbs contain the action,
and nouns have the heart,
adjectives add the flavor,
for cooks of written art.  

Life’s about the adjectives,
how else could it be,
that words paint the pigments,
in poems for us to see?
Copyright © 2007 MH Benton
Carsyn Smith May 2015
The line for the local convenience store
Stretched out to Market Avenue’s dirt curb,
Past makeshift street clowns juggling the poor
And the ***-stench of “Population Curb.”

We make like big balloons who self-implode:
Fires to fight fires, guns to fight guns,
Fighting for survival makes mores erode
When a dark illusion has fooled billions.

Little John waits in line with his mommy,
No more than a decade, he learns to shoot.
Life was quiet like a dark raging sea,
Now we shake from a screen and men in suits

Fear not, trembling people of the world,
There is a way to end the gun violence,
To stop making canyons of the knurled:
Guns for all! Shun to think of gun absence!

Automatics in the professor’s desk,
Two pistols strapped to Sally’s little thighs,
End common fear with something more grotesque:
Endless rivers of red and eyes for eyes.
An assignment for my English class satire unit :3
Annie Jan 2010
I found your black tie
Between the warped slats
Of the dresser drawers
And a curled
Of you in Blackheath
A hopeful day
Head filled with the universe
But that was you
A dreamer they said
And all around you
Harder types
Their spades clanging
With symphonious legerity
For the few bob
They drank on Friday.

You left that place
And moved home
To the frozen sod
Of your birth
And still you smiled
Your fists knurled
Around a shovel
Splitting turf for the fire.
And all around you
Harder types
With reins and whips
They only sought to protect you
From the pain of wanting
What you could never have.

But still I loved your stories
You made me believe
That the cawl and grog
Was pheasant and port
And everyday an adventure
A bud on its axil
You made me
Into you
A dreamer
A sybarite
And all around me
Harder types
Eyes stuck to their shoes
So they can watch their step
And charge me to
Watch mine
Noah Jan 2015
My favorite sun is the one during sunrise because it looks like it's on fire.
it reminds me of the viciousness of the world,
the power of space,
the power of space

My favorite sun is the one during sunrise because it doesn't burn
as much to look at
and it doesn't burn as much when I step outside
and I can drive without sunglasses on and breathe in the air and hold my coffee and look at that rising sun and I can feel
as small and insignificant as I need to
It feels good
I feel better
I burn my tongue on my coffee and spill some on my sleeve
it gets on my fingers but I don't rush to the sink's cold water
I stand and stare at the sun and feel it's heat
and it's like we're holding hands

My favorite sun used to be the one during sunset
but that one is death and the end and sunrise is
beginning and reincarnation and the comfort that
there is always a second chance
and I know of course that that is not the case, that is not true
but I let myself feel it anyway because it's warm

Warm like my bathtub, which I turn too hot and burrow in
and sunrise makes me want to curl under the bubbles and never come out
I do that sometimes
Shut my eyes
cover my ears so everything's quiet and dry there
and drop until my lips and nose are the only things above the water

I lay there for minutes and they feel like hours
and I hear the quiet drum of my heartbeat and breathe with it
and just like watching the sunrise I feel small
and it's good

Sometimes it's different and dark
and I cling to the sides of the tub and push and pin myself as far down as I can
I curl my toes until they cramp
and squeeze my eyes so tight bright lights flicker behind the lids
And try to escape the cold between my shoulder blades, knurled and knotted at the base of my neck
and just like watching the sunset I feel like I'm dying
and it's good
Sin Feb 2016
Speak not of dark things under your bed
For little child they're all in your head
But don't tell mommy
Or she will see
The madness that grows from the seed

I'll hide until night when all asleep
Then I'll come out for you to keep
A plaything I am but not a toy
Just a special demon
For you to enjoy

Don't be frightened of my looks
Or try to hide behind a book
I'm here always as night draws in
Waiting for playtime to begin

So early to bed and close those eye's
Pretend to sleep and get your suprise
As knurled hands reach up for you
And drag you down to your dark tomb
Sin Feb 2016
In the woods by the knurled burnt oak
Hides a shadow in the blackest cloak
With bent up spine and boney fingers
And a rasp like a hell hound in his throat

Don't look his way just pass on by
Sneak around the moon so high
Hide beneath the breeze that chills
Look out for the shadows that ****

Once you pass the stench of death
Turn to the weeping willow
Kneel down upon earth so soft
And rest your weary head on earth's soft pillow

Close your eye's and let him pass
Hear his twisted bones chime the hour
As he looks for you to take tonight
And drag you into the boggy crag
Thomas L Holland Oct 2017
Do you remember when last we walked here together?
When the fitful winds blew and the leaves fluttered like
Small birds in your hair?
It was in the autumn and the leaves were red and gold
And caught in your hair, blowing about every where.
Behind us, our footprints, so close together, left a
Trail in the damp  sand. Your hand was clasped in
Mine and we were inseparable as the clouds and the sky.
The wind swept up your skirt and you
Danced about, gathering it about your legs.
That was long ago in the time of our youth...
We were so young, and so too, was our future;
All the years were so new. We seemed to have
Forever; the new years stretched out before us.
Time was ours. The future was ours to be
Lived together, to be held tight to our
*******, marked only by the beat of our hearts.
Where have you gone?
Where has our time together gone?
Now I am old.
My body weathers.
My hands are knurled and twisted in pain as I grasp for
Memories of you.
We spent our years unwisely and now must
Pay forever for our aimless youth and our hurtful words.
When did we grow apart?
Why did we not regard with understanding an love the
Word each of us swore to the other?
Zukiswa Mvunguse Nov 2018
When I say I’m afraid of loving you
What I mean is I’m afraid of loving anyone
You are not the problem
I’m the broken one
With a bruised, twisted, knurled muscle
I barely recognise as my heart
How can I expect you to love me
When I can’t love myself
Michael Jun 2019
One grain of sand at a time
has built up to make this rhyme.
Slowly and steadily gaining weight
the burden seemed to be my fate.
Then my poor heart had broken
when forced to have feelings unspoken.

Everywhere was selfishness and spite,
others acting like they have the right
to take without giving back.
It hurts inside, making my mind rack
and making my only solace be night,
when her and unkindness weren't in sight.

No, no, no, no. No! NOOOO!
She was driving me below.
All of the good was becoming dead,
every day disappointment and dread,
sadly dragging through my only life.
I desperately needed more from my wife.

So, I started moving on and looking out
for ways to quench the drought.
Nothing seemed to be out there
that provided the warmth and care
my mind needs to counter the world.
Nothing to fix what got knurled.

Then one day I met the impossible,
life I didn't think was cognoscible.
Now I'm drinking sangria in the park.
There is light were once there was dark.
A brightness that shames the suns sunny
I met my honey honey.
Harriet Cleve Dec 2019
In the medieval earth beneath the altar of the church lie the remains of those whose donations secured them the closest seat in the house of heaven although it is crowded and more a pit than a grave.

a touching stone rests to one side worn with indelible suffering of those who chose to test the Gods and call as witness to their lives those spirits who dwelt in the floors below the pews upon which knurled knuckles and knarled knees kneeled as though their prayers would contain and command the dead below to raise up and join the congregation.

a mass is offered and all the memories are poured into the pious walls whose piety is beyond reproach.

eight hundred years and eight times eight hundred candles have burned within these walls and their glow is a luminescence of what can be and what may be and perhaps was or will be or could be if only we burned enough tallow although tallow is a rare commodity in a church whose redemption is divied up by the annual accounts of clerical bookends and stipends and the weeping and gnashing of a surplus amount of tea stained teeth grinding out novenas for the lost souls of a new paradise guaranteed to all whose only task is to believe that they are they of the most holy they and not just chosen but purpose built in the factories of prophets whose only concern is to reduce the defect ratio to an acceptable level compatible with the laws of nature and nurture and a guaranteed life warranty if the rules and regulations are adhered to.

As for me I am on the outside looking in at the inside looking out and above me is a tree whose timbers and weeping leaves have kept me company these many many weary years. It is not for all to enter the heavens or have access to the gilded lilies of suburban dreams although it is courageous to carry the hope that existence is hope dressed in the clothes of a beggar looking for a kingdom.

— The End —