"lakebeds" poems - Hello Poetry

I see through your atoms. I collect data on your likes and engage in tactical warfare. I dedicate my hours to spotting weakness, then hop-jump-skip over them. I crawl at the feet of great folks who approach the world at full. I become inspired. Anti-protons and protons. Nuclear particles that make up the billions of thoughtful questions I have, all without a voice. Or an answer. I exist in something like a game but I never learned the rules. I hopped scotch because its all I know. I fight against the gravity that I create and instead I choose to orbit small moons and elegant stars. I crash into lakebeds and leave everything dead and gone. I am Man, or at least some guy, and that’s a good enough title for me.

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Feb 15, 2014

Feb 15, 2014 at 4:51 AM UTC

gusse

Gravity

I see through your atoms. I collect data on your likes and engage in tactical warfare. I dedicate my hours to spotting weakness, then hop-jump-skip over them. I crawl at the feet of great folks who approach the world at full. I become inspired. Anti-protons and protons. Nuclear particles that make up the billions of thoughtful questions I have, all without a voice. Or an answer. I exist in something like a game but I never learned the rules. I hopped scotch because its all I know. I fight against the gravity that I create and instead I choose to orbit small moons and elegant stars. I crash into lakebeds and leave everything dead and gone. I am Man, or at least some guy, and that’s a good enough title for me.

24

Lingering in clusters around the idle seas leaning inward dotted by dried, them channels of hyacinth rivers come like an old city emerging out of the clouds like hundreds of coloured cardboard boxes packed away parted by unruly lanes and withered lakebeds and winding roads laden with lamps the hunger for the sky has skived away granite, now lakes them empty quarries that grin like the old grandmother toothless, whitening hair thinned out those forests now reservationed rises a spire, aspiring for heaven from this mud rolled windwashed earth

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Jul 7, 2017

Jul 7, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC

prabhu-iyer

mud rolled, windwashed

Lingering in clusters around the idle seas leaning inward dotted by dried, them channels of hyacinth rivers come like an old city emerging out of the clouds like hundreds of coloured cardboard boxes packed away parted by unruly lanes and withered lakebeds and winding roads laden with lamps the hunger for the sky has skived away granite, now lakes them empty quarries that grin like the old grandmother toothless, whitening hair thinned out those forests now reservationed rises a spire, aspiring for heaven from this mud rolled windwashed earth

17

Indigo spilled through the arid cradle across scabbed lakebeds their life long ago robbed by errant dust devils sniggering back to their grottoes in the barren foothills through seemingly dead hands eternally arthritic arched up, and into the earth-filled wind of creation scouring the impurities from the land past the aeon-old titans clinging to thier final mountainous footholds weary from their trek from the Tide ready to descend into the valley to die with the dawn in every hidden oasis of life every subtle warren and clandestine nest where the small things, with every painful breath prove that existence is worth struggling for and out, under the broken edges of the sky whose shattered glass fell ages ago a septillion points of light ground by the endless cycle back into the loam but where Indigo goes so too goes her keeper mounting the cradle, flooding the valley hidden in their woven coffins, their buried crypts the small things bowed thier heads, and the land fell silent the malevolent sentinel had come monarch of the pit, lord of the ****** soaring to his azure font of judgement culling by flame those creatures found most wanting for this is his domain, it's denizens whisper: fed by the Hell-born river until he dies once more his dirt choked blood spilling into the horizon trickling down the desert's spine followed by the silent chime of stars, and a resurgence of life, waiting for thier own lord to rise it's here you will find him atop the granite seat that breaks the basin floor the man with evergreen eyes having found when facing North the Moon is always at his back

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Sep 9, 2015

Sep 9, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC

PadanFain

I'm Going Where The Trees Are Dead

Indigo spilled through the arid cradle across scabbed lakebeds their life long ago robbed by errant dust devils sniggering back to their grottoes in the barren foothills through seemingly dead hands eternally arthritic arched up, and into the earth-filled wind of creation scouring the impurities from the land past the aeon-old titans clinging to thier final mountainous footholds weary from their trek from the Tide ready to descend into the valley to die with the dawn in every hidden oasis of life every subtle warren and clandestine nest where the small things, with every painful breath prove that existence is worth struggling for and out, under the broken edges of the sky whose shattered glass fell ages ago a septillion points of light ground by the endless cycle back into the loam but where Indigo goes so too goes her keeper mounting the cradle, flooding the valley hidden in their woven coffins, their buried crypts the small things bowed thier heads, and the land fell silent the malevolent sentinel had come monarch of the pit, lord of the ****** soaring to his azure font of judgement culling by flame those creatures found most wanting for this is his domain, it's denizens whisper: fed by the Hell-born river until he dies once more his dirt choked blood spilling into the horizon trickling down the desert's spine followed by the silent chime of stars, and a resurgence of life, waiting for thier own lord to rise it's here you will find him atop the granite seat that breaks the basin floor the man with evergreen eyes having found when facing North the Moon is always at his back

47

~ deep dark water holds the entire spectrum heating sheets flooding shorelines deniers hide fat red faces drunk with power and ignorance under down-filled pillows and 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton granules traverse deserts eroding hillsides and depositing in swallowed lakebeds fossilized cacti whisper in the howl people crying out that change is a hoax everything remains eternally static a garden pre Adam their insanity hurts my head bending my neck into distorted positions I try to see their point my eyes bleed trying to see their side I would agree to disagree if the lives of my children and grandchildren were not hanging in the balance /

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Nov 22, 2016

Nov 22, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC

s-lyman-temple

Climate Idiots

~ deep dark water holds the entire spectrum heating sheets flooding shorelines deniers hide fat red faces drunk with power and ignorance under down-filled pillows and 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton granules traverse deserts eroding hillsides and depositing in swallowed lakebeds fossilized cacti whisper in the howl people crying out that change is a hoax everything remains eternally static a garden pre Adam their insanity hurts my head bending my neck into distorted positions I try to see their point my eyes bleed trying to see their side I would agree to disagree if the lives of my children and grandchildren were not hanging in the balance /

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