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Lawrence Hall Dec 2017
Premium Leaded, Leaded, News, and Weather

The talking gas pump down at the Conoco
“Please enter your zip code and press the pound”
Says the temp will be thirty tomorrow
“Will this purchase be credit or debit?”

And that snow is a possibility
“Please remove nozzle and select product”
And that we must watch the road conditions
“Begin fueling now (beep beep beep beep beep)”

In a whisper:

But that’s the number 6 pump saying so,
And that one acts all weird in Bible class
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
~for granddaughter Wendy on her first birthday~

mailman delivers a
a small bubble wrapped envelope,
an internet purchase made a long sometime ago  
accompanied by an enjoyable, self-served and self-serving,
"you're a good fella"
          pat on the back        

a spurting act of the what-the-heck,
trigger pulling, self-pleasuring,
donating a few bucks to saving poetry,
****** in by a suckers click bait

sent money to the
   keepers of poems;   
they even give something
in return.

sensible pencils.  

a non-rational purchase;
@ $6 dollars per leaded squib,
a wooden helping kiss rife with possibilities

all for a goodly cause
preservation band society poetic

this one-and-done impulse many weeks ago, 
followed by an immediacy forgeting,
then, an eye stabbing,
a widening wow weeks later
upon receipt
of an unexpected 5 pencil's all poems poetry reciting!

5 pencils. No. 2’s,
on each a phrase,
a poet's name and their singular words parsed
(see the notes).

paired passages from five poets,
deemed and distinguished to be
commemorated-worthy
and
what's more apropos than a dangerous  instrument of a
loaded leaded pencil,
that can be used to add to the  
Ever Expanding Universe of Verbal Liturgy
("and I helped")
.
once briefly dusted off the top of closeted dreamy days,
my notions of acclaim gone, silly gone,
my only marks now are erasures,
tiny rubber sheddings on paper
that's my marker,
a minus mark of deletion.

may yet come the day,
one will one gather up the
many survivors,
poem fauns, all my orphans,
give them to the
Wendy baby,

first,
she to metamorphose those
baby squeaks and  giggles,
weighty weightless poem noises,
clapping, waving, delighted and delighting, kiss-throwing videos and that milk covered face,
into her own living words

all these noises that makes even non-poets
smile ear to ear unabashedly,
nodding in delight agreement
to her own non verbal
original poems
:
perhaps
one day a little girl
will stumble on five pencils,
mixed in within fifteen hundred poems not particularly well hid,
between worthless insurance policies and other artifacts,
memoirs and pointless depositions,
hid between her older sister and brother's
crayoned keepsakes


  with pointed newly sharpened pencils
the very same,
this,
his Wendy,
might add
to the grandpere's poem collection with
pencils begging to be used,
for they are generationally and genetically,
pre-poetically enabled,
weighting the old memories
with new ballast and new balance,
from new verbal babies
all of her own.
What happens to a dream deferred?  Langston Hughes
Won't you celebrate with me? Lucille Clifton
Do I dare disturb the universe?  T.S. Eliot
I'm Nobody! Who are you? Emily Dickinson
Where can the crying heart graze? Naomi Shibab Nye

poets.org
My Heart is like a leaded stone
Thrown into a murky pool
Where anenomies and catfish
Slither in a salty dance
Driven by the Sea's wash
From above far away
Comes the sound
Of a piano, or such
Made heavy by waters' weight
I try to listen but can no
Longer remember melody
Or light
Just deep wet darkness
And eels as they wind
Through mud
My heart is like a leaded stone
Cast into a murky pool
barnoahMike Dec 2011
Far be it from me ~ to say that LEAD BALLOONS don't float !     For example,  how thick is the lead,   how big is the Balloon,   is it filled with Helium,  is it to be floated on earth ,  or perhaps the moon,  with much less gravity and,,what about aboard a space craft ?  SO,  just like I said,  I can;t say LEAD BALLOONS  don't float.     Could it be said,  that Man's feelings are like LEAD BALLOONS?    How Thick or Thin skinned are they,  how big and attractive are the temptations?   Who and what are the Tempters,  that will draw our attention  away from  truths ,  carried aloft by LEAD BALLOONS.    In any of these cases I ask ...." IS THERE A TETHER ATTACHED"?      SO,,,, for the floating portion of the test !!     Prepare as follows:  Snorkels,  Diving Suits,  Flippers,  Masks and Weighted Belts.    Just the things we need for Proper Diving { just in case}.   Fully suited Swan Dives may not seem in place at the Olympics,   BUT at these Major Finals,,A fully suited person is REQUIRED.    Double pike with a Full Twist help in escaping "THAT HUGE SUCTION SOUND".   And of course the Perfect Bathing Cap,  to keep hair out of FACE.   There is Something about having  a situation "RIGHT IN YOUR FACE"  .
copyright 2011    by barnoah     Mike Ham
Danielle Mimran Jul 2014
Thoughts inside the head,
to who they belong?
Hard decisions to take,
am i really here all alone?
Leaded, controlled, left alone,
confusion, what's your song?
Who are you for real?
Come out from that dream.
Is it me being you or just you being me?
Inspired by the movie "Being John Malcovich"
Mary Gay Kearns Aug 2018
The magnolia sways in front of leaded lights
And I lay here thinking that all this beauty
Is all that there is or ever will be, a sanctuary
Where nature blossoms and is freshly laden.
But we are fallen like the dragonfly on wing
Hoovering, waiting for another knat to ****.

And as the carnivores devour their pray, daily
The human species, ruthlessly, turns over good
For another slice of the apple pie and so repeats
A cycle of never ending temptation baring thorn
With sadness I realise that I too wronged beauty
So mistaken in my haste for happiness and joy.

Love Mary **
Aodhán Corr Jan 2014
What’s your poison, Judas?
Manhattan! I find myself now an integral component of the strangest coalition of strangers anyone could possibly imagine, from all different countries and backgrounds and walks of life, now wandering about, underneath and in and out of the streets and back alleys of this city of sin, from the fish markets to the brothels--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Irish Coffee! Never before has there been a better time to wake up, fling open the shutters of the musty, ancient houses on Main Street and smell the gorgeous plainness of the morning breeze in spring laced with simple undertones of violets and honey and dew all contained in a material essence of the awe-inspiring wonder of this perfect, elegant world--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Sidecar! Here I am riding with the king of kings to the great stone castle atop the hill with the peach trees and the plum trees and the juniper bushes out back that holds luxurious ***** in the luxurious ballroom every Saturday evening where all the loveliest of girls come to drink and dance and to rendezvous to the frozen pond on the edge of the property--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Old Fashioned! Those smug supercilious charlatans way down by the river at the old boys’ club with their tailored suits and their waxed mustaches all get mighty offended every time some young gun with an hopeful persuasion tries to stir the ***, tries to just start a ripple, dips his raw, gentle hand in the bowl for a measly ******* second--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Planter’s Punch! You’d think that we were common thieves by the way that we’ve been received lately, brutally being beaten like insolent slaves, earning scars on my back and my hands as punishment for speaking my mind, and sharing the wisdom I’ve been given while I toil in this unrelenting desert sun, hungry, poor and fatigued--

What’s your poison, Judas?
French 75! Tormented by the cruel pangs of doubt in the face of adversity, I wish day in and day out that I could keep the faith in this enterprise I had when we first began, but the suffering has become simply too miserable to bear any longer and I now feel a tremor in my bone marrow that urges me towards the rebellion on the horizon like a yellow-bellied turncoat--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Whiskey Sour! The air may be cold, and the winds may whip with biting fervor, but with every breath I desperately drag into my heavy, tar-coated lungs to cleanse myself with icy purity this bitter taste still refuses to surrender or concede, and my villainous mouth remains a moist, infectious cesspool harboring the basest of vicious, vile vermin and crawling roaches--

What’s your poison, Judas?
****** Mary! You could scrub the callous palm clean off of my left hand with a hideous clump of rusty, jagged steel wool and wash the wound through and through with vinegar and Borax and this cursed, godforsaken spot on my conscience and on my very soul wouldn’t fade a half of an inch, only sink itself deeper in the flesh and shoot out its brutal clawlike hooks--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Jack Rose! The sorry ******* ******* was doomed, ******, destined for the doghouse from his first innocent and infantile breath, but after thirty good years I had to be the unlucky one the powers chose to fulfill the predictions of the powers' sons, I had to put the leaded bullet in his bleeding back, I had to pull the devilish trigger, and testify--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Last Word! Is there nothing you can do to please just take it far away from me, where I can’t see it, where I can’t even imagine it, where it might as well not even exist, where someone who needs it can have it, where that someone is anybody with a lick of morality, anybody but a back-stabbing, treasonous, perverted, weaseling, ****-of-the-earth Benedict--

What’s your poison, Judas?
Wine with gall.
Aidan Corr Olsen (c) 2014
Mahra Sandir Jun 2015
Once upon a time,
There was a blue haired girl named Coraline

She moved to her new home,
that was totally made of wood and stone

Her parents were very busy with there works
They gave her no attention and were playing real jerks

On a random day, she finds a hidden door, very small
But with big disappointment it ended up on a brick wall

When she got woken up by a shadow in the late night- darkness
She followed its movement, totally harmless

The shadow leaded her to the little door
So, she maded herself really small, with her knees on the floor

But when she opend the door, it wasn't what she first saw
Behind the little door, there was now a little hall

On the other side of the hall, there was another small door
She wanted to go out there, but she wasn't so sure

Finally she decided to take the risk
So she crawled thru the hall, very whisk

She suddenly ends up in a special place, where it all looked the same.
She would soon found out, it all was not a game

Everybody had buttons instead of eyes
and lots of things were happening as a surprise

There also were 3 kids without a heart and soul
Although she liked it there she wanted to leave that black hole

But for that she had to pay a price
Her real parents had gone missing and to find them, she had to think twice

Her other mother locked them up behind a mirror.
Coraline didn't know what to do, so she asked her to make everything clearer.

The three soulless kids were also locked up
They never had gotten the chance to grow - up.

So she made a deal with her other mother
If she could find the 3 souls of the kids, she could leave with the others

During her quest she met a speaking cat.
But still, she wanted to leave that place really bad.

With a lot of difficulties
She had find the odd species.

But Coraline knew the mother wouldn't play fair
So she threw the speaking cat in the air.

the cat scratched the face off the other mother
She was screaming but Coraline didn't bother.

True the passage she arrived,
in her real house in the middle of the night
She closed the door and made now sure she locked  it very tight
Some information about the movie: Coraline is a 2009 American stop-motion animated 3D fantasy film based on Neil Gaiman's 2002 novel of the same name. It was produced by Laika and distributed by Focus Features. Written and directed by Henry Selick, it was released widely in United States theaters on February 6, 2009, after a world premiere at the Portland International Film Festival. The film was made with Gaiman's approval and cooperation. (Wikipedia)
gwen Sep 2014
breathing underwater has become a learned activity

those that you know but you never grasp fully

and if you do not hold it properly

it will

s
      l
              i  
                 p

from your grasp,

t
                                u
            m
             ­            b
l
                                             i
                   n
g

back to the arid land

that is my chest.


*

everyday I relearn the art

of breathing underwater

some days are more successful than others

others I drown in my relentless tears

others still, I succumb to the numbness in my leaded limbs

following blindly the static in my vision
D Lowell Wilder Aug 2018
There might have been a time
When I wasn’t full of fear so topped off
Like a gassy sombrero
like a burrito left in the
Sun to bake and there might have
Been a
Time
When I hadn’t yet eaten a burrito
landlocked
In New England, locked in a small state of
Fear and knowing that knowing
just isn’t
Enough.
There might have
Been
A time when luxury was a nickel
apiece paperback
Book at the Unitarian Church fall sale
to raise funds for
Their roof.
To raise their
Roof.
And there
Might
Have been a joy in my spark
Plugs,
A joy
In my canter
A Joy in
My legs that preceded my
Fears.
There might
Have
Been a time:
When I would pick one of the seven records we owned
And delicately put it on the turntable, thinking I will
Have my own money and
buy my own music.
When I idly lift the leaded paint
from the 200 year old wood
And scratch it to smell its sweet aroma.
And put my hand on the glass pane
Think hard enough and open your eyes and it will be
1838 again.
Oh where are the people?
Oh where
when there might have been a time
Did I not see who they are?
Or they did not register.
I must have watched them everyday
Observant
so keen to be seen
Is it possible to feel so much
for feeling so little?
Or did I feel gulfs of embrace
that were not there?
I wanted and I desired and I dug.
I craved and thought and speculated
and clung.
And there might have
Been
A time when I roared on my Schwinn down the long empty
Roads of my town.
Invoking our gods.
Invoking my claims.
There was a time when I stuttered with
Compassion and could
feel a touch observed
There was a time:
Across the street in a
lit house at dusk.
Their curtains are open, their lights are on.
Oh, the sun has settled down
There is that time, golden, when I
Look into your kitchen, and the wallpaper is
Blue and harvest gold with small pictures of oil lamps on
Them and your walls are mustard gold.
Your plates are unbreakable
I see them lustre in the
Overhead light, fashioned like a wagon wheel.
Guns ablazin’.
Trails awash.
There might be a time when I can slip back
Into your kitchen
lick the plates and then
Run my fingers over
the wall paper.
Tracing the outline of the oil
lamps imprinted.
Growing up in a small rural town in Vermont.  The boundlessness of it vs. the containment.
Harry Toye Apr 2014
Does God Love Me?
By Harry Toye

He suffered and He died for you,
An agonising death on a rugged cross;
Tortured and crucified for you,
To save the sick, the lonely and the lost.

Black hearted Pilate washed his hands in a dish of delph,
It could have been in blood as much as in water.
He may as well have nailed Jesus to the cross himself,
For it was he who gave the fatal order.

They surrounded Him in the dark of night,
Armed guards with torches aglow;
The crowds milled expecting a fight,
But Jesus said, “It is I you seek, let the others go”.

On His Head a crown of black thorns they did add,
Their tips dipped in a deadly poison;
A practice that could drive ordinary men mad,
As the Blood of Christ turned those tips to crimson.

The mass of bleeding tissue was revealed,
As ruthless Romans scourged again and again;
Strips of skin were torn and peeled,
But not even once did Jesus complain.

They mocked and insulted,
They ripped the cloak from blood congealed;
They pierced His Hands and His feet,
His back was like a furrowed field.

When they nailed Him to that cross,
They nailed our sickness and our sin;
They nailed your pain and your loss,
So you would learn the Kingdom of God is within.

His friends who loved Him looked up and cried,
The sky darkened and clouds gathered as if nightfall;
When Jesus looked down at the mob, just before He died,
His Heart of Love still forgave them all.

He had created the very wood and also the nails,
And even the merciless men who drove them through;
Despite the leather whip with it’s leaded tails,
He pleaded, “Forgive them Father; they know not what they do”.

They took Him from the cross and gave Him to His Mother,
She cradled and she held this Blessed Fruit of her womb;
She cried for her baby that once she lay in a manger,
But now she prepared to lay her baby in a tomb.

However three days later the impossible happened,
And Mary’s pierced heart was healed;
She screamed with Joy as the tomb was opened,
Jesus had defeated death, to all it was revealed.

He had endured and He had triumphed, this story is true,
How He dispelled darkness with the light of love that day;
And He would suffer it all over again, even if for only you,
So that you too can live again in a most abundant way.

Who is this faithful man who now holds out His Hand?
This man who is always honest, always true.
Who speaks to pain and misery and it’s forever banned,
He is the one who will never leave or forsake you.

You may not know Him yet but He knew you before you were born,
He knows everything about you, your strength and your frailties;
He loved you in the womb, before you were even formed,
And He will love you forever, and through all eternities.

For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
John 3:16

©Harry Toye 2014.  http://www.fivefoldministryireland.com
Kevin May 2017
fury, winds raged the treetops
threshing branches, approaching brush.
but from a distance, natural destruction,
looked like beauty in the forest.

and this was just a piece.
this is not the whole.

inhale, exhale,
increasing repetitions
repeat, repeat.
decrease and deepen.

pause in awe of the machine you're given
watch the forest faint, beatific ruin.

feel the fibers tear in effort
feel the area inside you swell
this is just a piece
this is not the whole.

process unto another day
with brighter light and seasoned winds
as repeated swells exhale an ending breath
gawk, inhale, hold, process, yawp; repeat.

understand this thing, know it truly
die through effort, repeat, repeat.

beaks with feathered wings swarmed in silence
Persephone cheers with distance, "defy their gravity"
here; pause; absorb the leaded revolution
weigh inside this mockery of death

"this is just a piece,
this is not the whole."

abandon seated distance, chase with fire
the unknown of the unfolding.
ravenously consume  the untouchable time
feed, inhale, pause, process, exhale, deepen

repeat, repeat;
endlessly repeat.
this is just a piece,
this is not the whole.
this was inspired by a sturdy wind, crashing into treetops of little distance, while riding on our local bike path. it was beautiful and sounded with weight. i had this thought, that every experience that could ever be had is only a piece of what life has to offer and, the lessons or observations tied to such an experience will only lead to a piece of knowledge, not the whole of knowing.
love  
dove
bird
hurt pain rain
washing laundry dryer  shrunk
too hot   summer  beach  tanned skins
bikini girls   lifeguards  bodybuilders  
Schwarzenegger
robocop criminals politicians votes
lobbyists corporations   special interests
stock exchange oil price pipelines
pollution profits   leaded water   oily shores
banking wall street   99percent
wealth CEOs distribution education defloration
exploitation union struggle macjobs
Walmart amazon   tax evasion    offshore banking
islands caimans reptiles alligators walruses
snapping turtles  manatees  albatrosses
birds
dove
love
just for fun, sort of ...
nikolas Sep 2015
Paris, France
October 12, 1889

It's been nearly a week now since the Le Premier Palais des Femmes has opened. I gander about, and see all the free faces. Misters in their best outfits slobbed themselves over the glories of an actual woman that was not their wife. They saw beauty and an opportunity for a feeling of strength and masculine power. Different attire worn by the women reveled much skin. The men gathered two or three mistresses and a bucket of *** and went off to their homes. I was disgusted and delighted to be here. I recently resigned the Misses just to do this tonight. It's 21:47. I look around for faces that I would be delighted in claiming my own for a night and two. Nothing caught my eye. I started to gather my stuff and leave, but suddenly a face I hadn't seen appeared in front of me. Her breath smelt of mint leaves and joy. She spoke to me and asked me for the night. Asked me! Such a remark from a woman of that low should earn a punishment, but she seemed like she was innocent. As rude as it was, I took her offer since I had no other plans for that night. She took me back to her home where she had set up a fire and food. It was as if she had planned it for me. It was so beautifully laid out. I looked around her home, it was astonishing. She then leaded me to her bedroom, where she left rose pedals on the floor and one candle lit. She grabbed me. That's when I met my Mistress from the Moulin Rouge.
Its 8:30 in the AM
The Corn Moon
is being routed by a
Manassas cloud bank

NPR be barking
Irma this, Irma that
my tremblin Rav4
stuck in the rush
is idling behind
a pair of gray hairs
spewing
leaded premium
out the back
of a big old black Buick
sportin Florida tags

inching north up I95
I’m relieved to be
a thousand miles
ahead of the
monstrous *****
denuding Barbuda
deflowering the
****** Islands
and threatening to topple
the last vestiges of
Castro’s Dynasty
by disrupting upscale
bourgeois markets
for cafe Cubanos,
cool Cohibas and
bold Bolivars

she’s a CAT 5
counterclockwise
spinning catastrophe
churning through
the Florida straits
bending steel framed
Golden Arches
shaking the tiki shacks
gobbling lives
defiling tropical dreams

the best
meteorological minds
on the Weather Channel
plug the Euro model
to plot a choreography
of Irma’s cyclonic sashay

they predict she’ll
strut her stuff
up a runway  
that perfectly
dissects the  
Sunshine State
ransacking
the topography
venting carnage
like battalions of
badly behaved frat boys,
schools of guys gone wild
sophomores, wreaking havoc
during a Daytona Beach
spring break
droolin over *******
popping woodies at
wet tee shirt contests
urinating on doorstoops
puking into Igloo Coolers
and breaking their necks
from ill advised
second floor leaps
into the shallow end
of Motel 6 pools

but I’m rolling north
into the secure
arms of a benign
Mid Atlantic Summer
like other refugees,
my trunk is
filled with baggage
of fear and worry
wondering
if there’re be anything
left to return to
once Irma
has spent herself
with one last
furious ****
against the
Chattanooga Bluffs of
Lookout Mountain

Morning Edition
Is yodeling a common
seasonal refrain
the gubmint is
just about outta cash
congress needs to
increase the debt limit

My oh my,
has the worm turned
during the Obama years
the GOP put us through a
Teabag inspired nightmare
gubmint shutdowns
and sequestration
shaved 15 points
off every war profiteers vig
it gave a well earned
long overdue
take the rest of the week off
unpaid vacation
to non essential
gubmint workers
while a cadre of
wheelchair bound
Greatest Generation
military vets get
locked out of the
WWII Memorial on the
National Mall

this time around
its different
we have an Orange Hair
in the office and there's
some hyper sensitivity
to raise the debt ceiling
given that Harvey
has yet to fully
drain from the
Houston bayous

the colossal cleanup
from that thrice in a
Millennial lifetime storm
has garnered bipartisan support
to  clean up the wreckage
left behind by a
badly behaved
one star BnB lodger
who took a week
long leak into the
delicate bayous of
Southeast Texas

yet we are infused
with optimism that our
Caucasian president
and his GOP grovelers
now mustered
to the Oval Office
will slow tango
with the flummoxed
no answer Dems
to get the job done

pigs do fly in DC
Ryan and McConnell
double date with
Pelosi and Schumer
get to heavy pettin
from front row seats
beholding droll  
Celebrity Apprentice
reruns

The Donald, Nancy and Chuck
slip the room for a little
menage au trois side action
transforming Mitch and Paul
into vacillating voyeurs
who start jerking their dongs
while POTUS, and his
new found friends
get busy workin
the art of a deal

rush hour peaks
static traffic grows
in concert with
a swelling  
frenetic angst
driving drivers
to madness
terrified
they won't
get paid if
the debt ceiling
don't rise
they honk horns
rev engines
thumb iPhones
and sing out
primal screams

unmindful drivers
piloting Little Hondas
bump cheap Beamers
start a game of
bumper cars
dartin in and out
of temporary gaps
uncovered by the
spastic fits and starts
of temporary
decongested
ebbs and flows

A $12 EZ Pass
gambit is offered
the fast lane
on ramp
has few takers
just another
pick your pocket
gubmint scheme
two express lanes
lie vacant
while three lanes of
non premium roadway
boast bumper to bumper
inertness
wasted fuel
declining productivity
skyrockets
the  wisdom of
the invisible hand doesn't
seem to be working

DOJ bureaucrats
In Camrys and Focuses
dial the office
to let somebody
know they’ll
be tardy

gubmint contractors in
silver Mercedes begin
jubilantly honking horns
NPR has just announced that
Pelosi and Schumer
joined the Orange team
the rise in the debt ceiling
will nullify their 15%
sequestration pay cut

NPR reports the
National Cathedral will
deconsecrate two hallowed
stained glass windows of
rebel generals R E Lee
and Stonewall Jackson
it's a terrible shame that
the Episcopal Church
will turn its back on the
rich Dixie WASPS
who commissioned these
installations to commemorate
the church's complicity
in sanctifying the
institution of slavery,
WWJD?

as I ponder
this Anglican
conundrum another
object arrests my
streaming consciousness
upsetting an attention span
shorter and less deep
than the patch of oil  
disappearing under the front
of the RAV as I thunder by
at 5 MPH

to the left I eye a
funny looking building
standing at attention
next to a Bob Evans

I’m convinced
Its gotta be CIA
a 15 story
gubmint minaret
a listening post
wired to intercept
mobile digital
confabulations
from crawling traffic
inching along
beneath its feet

this thinking node
pulsing with
intelligence
reeking with
counterintelligence
the tautological
contradiction
guarantees the
stasis of our
confused
national consciousness

strategically positioned to
tune into the
intractable Zeitgeist
culling meta code
planting data points
In Big Data
data farms
running algos
to discern bits
of intelligence
endeavoring to reveal
future shock trends
knows nothing
reveals less

the buildings cover
is its acute
conspicuousness
gray steel frame
silver tinted glass
multiple wireless antennas
black rimmed windows
boldly proclaim
any data entering
this cheerless edifice
must abandon all hope
of ever being framed
in a non duplicitous
non self serving sentence

the gray obelisk a
national security citidel
refracts the
fear and loathing
the sprawling
global anxiety
our civilization's
discontent
playing out
in the captive
soft parade
ambling along
the freeway jam
imobilized
at its stoop

Moning Edition jingle
follows urgent report of
FEMA scamblin assets
arbitraging Harvey and Irma
triaging two
tropical storm tragedies
and a third girl
just named Maria
pushed off the Canaries
and is on its way to a
Puerto Rico
homecoming

while
gubmint  bureaucrats
anxiously push on
to their soulless offices
the rush hour jam
has peaked
my WAZE
is having a
nervous breakdown

next lane over
a guy in a gold PT Cruiser
is banging on his steering wheel
don’t think this unessential worker
will win September's
civil servant of the month award

Ex Military
K Street defectors
slamming big civie
Hummers
getting six mpg
lobby for a larger
apportionment
of mercenary dollars
for Blackwater's
global war on terror

Prius Hybrids
silently roll on
politely driven by
EPA Hangers On
hoping to save
a bit of the planet
from an Agency Director
intent on the agency's
deconstruction
the third 500 year hurricane
of the season
is of no consequence

obsolete
GMC Jimmy’s
are manned by
Steve Mnunchin
wannabes
the frugal
treasury dept
ledger keepers
pour good money after bad
to keep the national debt
and there clanking
jalopies working

driving Malibus
DOL stalwarts
stickin with the Union
give biz to GMC

nice lookin chicks
young coed interns
with big daddy doners
fix their faces and
come to work
whenever they want

my *** is killing me
I squirm in my seat
to relieve my aching sacroiliac
and begin to wonder if my name
will appear on some
computer printout today?
can’t afford an IRS audit
maybe my house will
be claimed by some
eminent domaine landgrab?
Perhaps NSA
may come calling,
why did I sign that
Save The Whales
Facebook Petition?

The EZ Pass lane
is movin real easy
mocking the gridlock
that goes all the way
to Baltimore
a bifurcated Amerika
is an exhaust spewing
standing condemnation
to small “R”
republicanism  

glint from windshields
is blinding
my **** is hurtin and
gettin back to Jersey
gunna take a while
GPS recalcs arrival time

an intrepid Lyft driver
feints and dodges
into the traffic gaps
drivin the shoulder
urging his way to the
Ronnie Reagan International
I'm sure
gettin heat from
a backseat fare
that shoulda pinged
an hour earlier

Irma creeps
toward the Florida Keys
faster then the
glacial jam
befuddling congress

I think I just spotted
Teabag Patriot
Grover Norquist
manning a rampart
bestriding a highway overpass
he’s got a clipboard in hand
checking the boxes
counting cars
taking names
who’s late?
who’s unessential?

man
whatta jam we're in

Music Selection:
Jeff Beck: Freeway Jam

Orlando
9/21/17
jbm
written as im stuck in jam headin back to jersey
nick armbrister Feb 2018
leaded
right now i miss you very much
this feeling inside that
i feel you will shrug off
for too much has happened
we've seen too much
done way too much
for this to matter to you
or me but it's there
right inside me
not going but residing
the feeling that i miss you
and we should of done more
gone to more places
cared for one another more
loved the other more
instead of fighting
but don't they say
those who fight are like lovers?
i'm not sure i agree
tho this feeling is there
is it coz things are changing?
as new events form
and come into being
let's forget the fights and rows
we'll do it all again
from the beginning
the right way
where we only turn left
down the correct path
not the road paved with lead
that leads to wrack and ruin
with false temptations and fakery
let part 2 begin...
梅香 May 2019
i may be vulnerable
but know that i'll always be able
to help you carry the loads
from the never ending odds.

my sincerity may not be evident,
but do know that my love is fervent;
our time in this world may be limited,
but to you is where i'll always be leaded.
despite vulnerability,
against all odds—
i'll always be yours.

daily poems! ♡
Lee Janes Jan 2013
So once more he appears before my eyes,
And I am well aware he is no friend
Of mine, but a companion that I do not wish
To view; a companion that hovers around
In a reluctant mist; although never fails
To reveal his foul breath, his harsh whispers,
Together with his depressing stench of odour.
For I did not summon his deeds;
Never sought his favour; nor offered prayers
Nor burnt incense; nor gave from out
My own batch, the warm gift
Of wine to his altar; never in song
Have I praised his pale face,
His rotten black teeth; never bathed
My bare ankles, nor quenched my thirst,
In his poisoned waters. Yet he found weakness
Within a humble heart, an equally willing mind;
For he latched upon my soul, bearing
Fierce claws; and now, with his stealth clasp,
Arm in arm refuses to grant me space;
Feverously denies release.

Oh! How I do pray I could banish him
From my daily thoughts, my woeful strife;
For he seems present more recently
Than ever I can recall from drifting memory.
Be sure, he does not reside
On one of heavens branches; he would,
With all his deceit, be not allowed
To even graft upon the blissful airs
Most lowly of roots. His dulled stare,
Adamantly pierces through any desire
I have for the light ahead. A grey
Dusty cloak, that he wears draped
From his shoulders, like bitter winters
Shortened sun which shrouds the heavy leaded clouds,
And plunges the sky into deep sodden colour;
Saps any inspiration, which my dreams,
With kindness, revamp anew in sweet slumber.

My mission I do know sincerely, to be
Holy honest, is not entirely a struggle;
And shown before my sight appears
Respectively clear, is however, weighed
Toward the earth with added pressure
By his ****** presence alone. A strategy formation,
Delved from battlefields past, is a want
That seems out my grasp. Shall I
Soothe him with tender lyre strokes,
And with kind words may he leave my side
Willingly, at his own leisurely pace,
In unhurt peace? Why does he have such
Effect on me? How do I relinquish
Him from my sight? Shall I guide him
With me to fresh slopes of pastures green,
Showing his cruel appetite, the beauteous feast
Which bountiful Nature banquets? Do I
Attack him with all force at my disposal?
Unsheathe the sword? Balm protection
Around my clench fists? Do I ignore
His embrace which rivals a death-grip
Engineered from a lioness’ jaw, breathing
Smoke from her nostrils, clasping down
On her prey- unyielding, prey essential
To subdue pains that torment her hungry cubs?
Shall I believe him foe? How do I proceed?

I do realise with no barren shadow,
That he must be nursed into a corner,
Trapped, and halted, for if continuation occurs;
I fear Happiness, a fleeting sense,
Will never approach with ease, nor greet me
With a wave of her snowy hand, nor ever
Blush her lovely pout lips, and settle
Her most welcome custom, within my heart again;
And though my pathway be tedious,
Raised to the brim within a golden goblet
Of questioning; let my last task be this:
With a calm prayer to relight fading embers
From my *****. Kind souls, delicate muses,
Come to me, come to my aid,
Help relieve me of his burden.
Heap upon him glittering song,
Bow his cowardly head further down
From whence it came, and place
The dying mournful strains of the Swan within;
May dark unveil an ebbing stream
Of wondrous hue; let summer sun
Break through thick woods; may no shade
Shield me from intense light; let notes
Resound aloft upon high peaks;
May you pour nectar down my throat,
Place fragrant rich petals from perfumed flowers
On my tender tongue; and therefore,
Knelt before you, sister maids,
With submissive eyes gazing the hallowed ground
Beneath your feet; bathe me in tuneful grace
Once more; assist a humble servant,
Hear one solemn slave voice; for you
Will be praised within my lily-scented verse;
Forever will you be fed on my gentle honey-dew
Measure; if I only be granted solace
Within your flowing spring, deep
Between your sacred gardens fruitful caress.
Glenn Currier Sep 2020
I hear the piano playing softly
pulling me from these rutted plains
into a moist green meadow
a vision of a flowing brook down the hill
makes me believe the words of the Prophet:
“Your old men will dream dreams, your young men will see visions.”
yes, I am old, but I see and feel the rising gentle treble notes
lighten my leaded limbs
awaken my spirit
and ****** me into the realms.
It is the touch and glide of the pianist’s fingers
across the ivory skin of the keys
that transports me
in the waning hours of this day.
How sweet it is!
I started out this day in the dark valley, but this is the way I end it. Joy!
Sombro Nov 2015
Nothing hurt like
Finding you another time kissing
Nothing felt like
You when you weren't there
Making charcoal of my heart.

Nothing turned like
My stomach when I found
Your sick love letters
Half for me, half for him.

Nothing scarred like,
Leaving when I did,
Nothing broke like
The headlights on my fortune 'van'
You and I felt
Like a rope that pulled at my neck
I was leashed and leaded
Heavy feet aplod

Nothing happened when
I came back
Nothing familiar felt when
I had changed so much
From the pain
Different words flowed
From my cleaner lips
And little passed when
I saw you once more.

But we talk
But we see one another
But I turn aside
But you don't,
I see your smile
Your dew dropped laughter
Perhaps the morning cold
Froze the heat within you.

Nothing flickered when
We looked deep in each other's eyes
Nothing flew when
Words skipped between us
Nothing sparked when
You took my hand in yours
Nothing forgotten, but
It felt so good for you to hold me again.
Wow, I made myself sad with this one. It's not even about me -  it's about a character on a tv show I'm watching! Strange where these things come from, isn't it?
Zemyachis Mar 2014
so noisily these nights
I cannot sleep
But when I put in earplugs
My heart beats just as loudly

shouldn't I be comforted
the presence of my friend's breathing
shouldn't I be glad
I'm alive, my heart's beating

but all I can think right now
is I wish we could sleep like the dead
and get some peace and quiet
in my weary leaded head
2:04 AM let's party. just kidding. *face plants into pillow*
Tony Davalos Mar 2013
I walk through this journey called life
Filled with its ups and down, laughs and cries
Leading me to happiness that lies in the end
Remembering those whom I love and offend

Throughout my life I’ve seen those who run and fall
They all have a special place in my heart and wall
There’s always been that one girl who got my attention
I lost control and took the wrong way in my heart of desperation

The fork in the road that could have leaded me to you
But I took the wrong turn and it leads me to something new
The fork in the road that has changed my life forever
The slightest choice in life can keep us away from each other

The road I’ve been on never seems to take me home
Catching fireflies in the night and tossing rocks and stones
The dark makes it so **** hard to see
But I know at the end of the line I’ll be free

The moon never shines as it did when I was with you
A change in the world that has started over new
But so far wrong turns have lead me to worse
The crows that screech have laid a curse

The fork in the road that could have leaded me to you
But I took the wrong turn and it leads me to something new
The fork in the road that has changed my life forever
The slightest choice in life can keep us away from each other

I trusted my gut to find the right path in the road
But the love I had is gone it’s taken its final toll
The rain from heaven has blurred my vision that leads me to you
Its seems now that my heart and soul doesn’t have the slightest clue

The fork in the road that could have lead me to you
But I took the wrong turn and it lead me to something new
The fork in the road that has changed my life forever
The slightest choice in life can keep us away from each other
Zedler Sep 2013
Gripping dark leaded pencils
with tips as sharp as the razors
estrogen slit their wrists with.

Mischief produced
due to the size this heart
has been reduced to,
and deduce that she left
after growing weary
of the same being she's seduced.

Serotonin levels low.
Drugs will bring them up,
and perhaps under their
influence this [derelict]
will encounter the verb ****.

Endless void of
disappointments have
left him poignant, causing
an appointment to sell souls
to fictional individuals.

Admire the horizon while
he's wasting time rhyming.
Crying to keep haunting
spirits alive and using them in
literature in pitiful attempts to thrive,
simply to leave the entire world who's
abandoned him behind.

27 club. Second attempt
at having [conversations] with death.
Patrick McCombs Jul 2010
Open your eyes and look around
Let all the colors seep through you
Let the warmth spread its all you can do
Help your feet off the ground

And just fly fly fly
And see were being leaded by the blind
It time to leave them behind
Time to ask why?

Every storm must end
You just have to see hot to get out
Eyes age, our eyes are fresh see past their doubt
Who knows whats around the bend

In the end everyone goes blind
Before you do look around one last time
See the colors feel the warmth. see the lack of grime
Then let the young see and mold there minds
Cali Jul 2013
every word that comes tumbling out
of your superfluous lips
is loaded with wholesome irreverence,
weighing leaded and cruel upon my heart
by the pale recycled light of the moon.

déjà vu lingers before my bleary eyes
again,
as crumbs of flightlessness
slip through my fingers, again.
and I can see you unfolding us,
dissecting us, laying out all of the pieces
in a heart-wrenching vivisection.

and I know you can't really **** something
that's been near death for years,
but when do you give up
on resuscitation?
Cat Fiske Dec 2016
car ride,*
to,
your house,
to,
your yard,
up,
the stairs,
to
your front door,
to,
enter,
to,
step inside,
to,
look around,
to,
be leaded,
up,
stairs,
to,
stop,
to,
open the door,
to,
enter,
to,
wait for you,
to,
sit with my friend,
in,
your room.
to,
watch you enter,
to,
ask you about your day,
to,
be your friend.
but,
you, lay, down,
to,
pull, me close,
to,
not, let go,
to,
get, on, top,
to,
go, down, my pants,
to,
take, off, my top,
to,
not, hear me, when I screamed,
**STOP.
i got out of their. and I am fine. just thought it would be a powerful story to share.
Tori Mar 2019
Sleepless dreaming, framed by screaming.
Is she breathing?
Take the time.
One. Two. Three.
I wonder…
Four. Five.
Is death kind?
Six. Seven.
Will she make it?
Eight. Nine.
Never mind.
Marble eyes roll in their pockets,
Arms and legs seizing their sockets,
Groaning breath sends lips aquiver,
Her tiny figure writhes and shivers.
Ten. Eleven
How much longer?
Twelve. Dear God!
Let her be stronger.
A Toneless voice of mock assurance,
Won’t deter these pulsing currents,
Tongues detained by ball and chain,
Massage the air to ease the pain.
Thirteen comes.
Now slowly, easy.
Fourteen.
The sound of gentle breathing.
Dimple-drawn, her mouths sweet boarders,
Pull that weak smile from its cask,
Inhale relief, a hard won nectar,
Her limbs all leaded from their task.
One nod from death,
one swift departure
and for the moment, all is fine.
The clock's cold hands
continue turning,
So don't forget to take the time.
jimmy tee Feb 2013

young but weary were the eyes
that witnessed the desert dawn
and heard the ancient village cries
of sheep and goat and cattle fawn

fatherless, without the skill
to plane and join the wood
used to gather up earths till
steps short of where his father stood

his efforts to drill and plug rough plank
awaited the harvesters scorn
who offered him this one slim chance
to cease the funeral horn

while mother lay in quiet sleep
purloined fresh figs, he stole away
to walk the barren sandy keep
avoiding the words she would not say

he reached the dusty tans and browns
that painted the scorched earth
through dunes and strife and sinking mounds
and fell beneath the suns full worth

so low was he, so lost in spirit
eyed by the death bird, the sharp shinned wing
life’s loud call, he would not hear it
his repose intent on surrendering

then, one last time he raised his head
up from the blistering sand
and spied a vision in coppered red
a fishers boat, perched on parched land

the sight was the spark that fired instinct
that hovers beneath each soul
our hearts homogenous, yet distinct
on chance that one has found his goal

he raised himself with his last strength
and headed for the land locked ship
mindless of the shimmering length
entranced in  dreams shadowed grip


the craft was gray, and far from foam
it’s tethered mast twisted and bent
the hull was gashed, keel and deck undone
from which harbour had this wreck been sent?

the young man reached the sheltered ship
and fell beneath it’s sparse shade
then felt a cup brought up to dry lip
who dreams of water in a desert glade?

the weathered mate was old and broken
much like his stranded  vessel
his words were uplifting, a happiness spoken
his boats plight a small obstacle

whiskered white, crooked in bone
strength hidden beneath frail tendon
the task is great but not alone
could he send the boat, a new sea beckoned

work with me  as we attempt
full sail this craft beneath the windy lair
when labor’s shared, knowledge is kept
my age, your youth and a little repair

why debate the young man thought
events are only but a dream
a chance to practice what he father taught
eye the board, swell the peg, lift the beam

so, that next day in rolling heat
they began their ventured labor
square, line, bit and mallet beat
wood sinew joined with neighbor

and through it all the old man shared
far tales of risk and glory
offered comfort and compared
the mystic with the daily story

the days slipped by, he knew no count
only splintered hands and shoulders weary
their work was slow yet no amount
could turn the craft to sea worthy


a crazed endeavor to sail on land
the bond between us lies untapped
our connection now leads to this command
walk this earth, fulfill the prophets rapt

the sky then shivered, the aura to thin  
and rising from the boat appeared
a red wrapped head o’er charcoal skin
she towered, bright smile adhered

the old man spoke: our love supreme
now walks this ground, w’ no gentle wake
I choose to break the sublime extreme
for I fancy birth, creation’s take

the young man gazed at the African woman
eyes bent upward, she dressed in red calico print
by all that had happened, he began to fathom
a powerful force in her white eyed glint

the work progressed, the craft made whole
guided by only her silent smile
by firelight the young man poured his soul
his laments were heard and felt erstwhile

the day had come to begin the voyage
sun burning high, yet keel on sand
cryptic psalm spoke by the sage
earth and sky bent fully under his command

the blue of the sky fell in shimmered drops
replaced by gray earth shot toward the firmament
transformed to foamy wave from bleak hilltops
the air from dusty pall to green sea scent

cool spray filled breeze under leaded cloud
opened canvas cloth bound with simple tackle
the craft bobbed, new joints groaned aloud
for the sea had fallen to sail the stranded vessel

the young man stared, at heavens new plaque
the red draped figure who steered from helm
guided the boat from tack to tack
crowned and throned in her fresh made realm


the sage was silent, physical sense broken
content to sail the deep brine
sea and sky majestic spoken
new coarse now set,  subject to time

yea ! yea ! celebration is inherent !
laughter emits at the joys of fate !
the young mans laments, gone and spent
fruit, bread, dance, and singing elate !

the journey of these wondrous three
led to adventures, too numerous to here collect
amended the testament and set free
each soul, which when heard, stands boundless to select

steps led to his mother’s mud brick abode
from the young man’s heart, his numinous story leapt
but she knew all, without benefit of being told
and all these things, into her heart she kept
The cry for help broke my balance
my legs buckled, I fell to the ground
I felt the dead walk through me
and my soul seemed to splinter

Like a crack crazed puppet
I span around on my knees
crawled up to the door
beating it hard with my fists

Inside they howled like Banshees
willing me to break them out
my fists, blooded from the pounding
imbedded with glass, yet I had no care

I saw little plastic hands
banging on the leaded windows,
through the silver letterbox
pale hands tried to egg me on

Their frantic screaming
their hollow lives
their desperate hour
calling me to save them

Wanting freedom from this most unholy shop
for all within were the souls of the living
those who had sinned
and deemed unforgiven


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Keely Anne Oct 2014
i have kissed too many girls, who,
between leaded lashes
and bloodied lips, begged me not
to fall in love with them
9/6/14
Daniel Magner Jan 2018
I write in pen,
for fear that lead would fade,
slowly scraped from the page
as ages pass.
Maybe grasping the inevitable,
whether leaded or penned,
moves my hand toward ink,
marks me for the passion to float,
not sink.
Despite that bite, I'm toothless
half the time,
a spaceship primed for travel,
but un-fueled.

So,
this notebook is your fuel,
empowering you to fill
from end page to end page,
engaging your will to strive,
thrive,
rise,
continuing to pen rhymes.
Not to live,
but to exist.
Daniel Magner 2018
Atlas Sep 2013
A rush of a million causalities
Beyond anyones comprehension
A stirring emotion
Pulsing through and through
These aching limbs

Violent swaying
Thrashing towards the skin
A broken body
Lies deep within
Gashed but still moving
Their heart is slowly beating
A sad, hopeless beating

A struggle to hold onto
The light that is up ahead
A weak limb mightily
Wastes the last bit of energy
It once had

Crumbled now
The body is leaded
Stiff and ******
Simply trashed
Towards the ground.
Mona Jul 2015
Heavy eyes heavy soul
Leaded eyes leaded soul
I'm tired of this tune constantly ringing
The old life seems far the best
Please leave from my mind and leave from this place
You can't survive here
They don't even notice you but you don't even notice yourself
Thanks
A whole journal of my works written as a diary entry
SE Reimer Jan 2014
you’ll cross the bridge near the center of town,
from the constable’s door just a few paces down; 
at the bend near the corner of Ash and Vine,
Ye Olde Sweet Shoppe of Verses and Rhymes.
its here you will find it, my favorite store,
its soft warmth beckons through a leaded-glass door;
your arrival here announced with a chime,
at a desk near the fire lays a writing slate.
here, a tall, frail poet sits in his chair
his sweet bonny lass stands beside him in wait,
both greet each guest with deliberate care.
a sign at the door tells of an experience rare,
“pairings of sweets for tooth and ear”;
be it chocolate and wine, for a rendezvous fine,
or crumpets and tea, for a moment of ecstasy,
each tasty treat shared with verse and rhyme
each custom creation, an encounter sublime.
the ambiance... flawless, the company... sweet,
the perfect encounter, is the word on the street.
the shelves here are filled with tastes overflowing
candles are trimmed, the fireplace is glowing
sheets full of verse, of sonnet and psalm  
sales may run short, but the hours last long
yet, each customer’s entrance is met with delight
giving no mind for any work through the night
for payment in full is made with their eyes
the giggles, the dances... the satisfied sighs.
for what would you give to know you’re the one
to restore another’s hope, the place life’s begun
and what would you sacrifice just so you’d hear
each delightful cry, see each joy-filled tear
knowing so many go hungry, and never will know 
the comfort that’s brought from a heart that’s restored, 
for hope is alive, and its hope that is shared
in each word that is writ, in each line that is paired
to each one who finds their way to this couch
whether man, woman, child, need little or much 
a custom concoction to each one unique
for this singular purpose, its a poem they seek
whether free verse or rhyme, a chorus, a song
for a mother, a brother, or a loved one gone on
for some it's a present to a lover or spouse
for others the poem is a gift to themselves
yet, whatever the reason, the purpose propelling
each word is revealing, some even foretelling
for with insight and honesty, and peace of mind,
great comfort and solace they find in each line 
there near the corner of Ash and Vine
at Ye Olde Sweet Shoppe of Verses and Rhymes.
Post script.

though you may have difficulty finding it, this shoppe certainly exists in my mind.  I have always imagined such a combination here, not too far from where I live.
Jackson Cavalier Jul 2017
Wander worried rambler roam.
Wander down the path of a riverside wood.
Step by step,
Shuffle to and fro.
A Forgotten industry remains.
Man made mines,
Dug out quarries,
Fencing, barbed wire, power lines, and pressure treated wooden poles.
Littering the landscape.
A blood letting favor, favored low.

A hydroelectric dam.

Murky and historical waters enter its mouth,
and then,
exit from its other side.
Constantly *******, and spitting, and churning turbine whine,
Spinning gear stuck,
clamped to the spine.
Luck may have it that these waters may never go dry.
Luck may have it that these currents stay 'live.
Merrily manic, it flows.
Strong and bold,
sparkle, sprung, sold!
Pushes and rolls,
gives and goes.
Cold.
Electric mother glow.

Neon, argon, blazing blast,
to give city speckled lights a mast.
A grip to grasp, to squeeze, to cast,
shadows in the night.
Yellow, orange, red, and blue,
the shades of dreamers,
with their sorrows leaded, heavy,
holy truths.
Unspoken tomorrows, last goodbyes,
mouthed silently at last
in their heads a film score out of time.

The air is baked, the land is spry.
The sun is shattered through prism pines.
I carry myself upon the leaves, of dead footsteps, make believe.
Native footpaths of long ago
and red sandstone trail of men to behold.
Come to this place and let sights be known,
Come to this place and let sights be known,
histories of ours, histories bygone.
Hiking thoughts put into words. The Red Sandstone Trail is a trail that follows along the Raquette River. The trail-head is located in Colton, NY. The hike is one of historical nature. Many remnants of business and industry remain abandoned along the riverside. A picturesque picture painted by the clash of man made industry, and the awesomeness of nature.
I saw a star it drifted by it made me jump it made me crya delivered shock a beating heart, took my breath right apartmy eyes are open I think I see, I hear a voice I know its not mei see you standing moving your lips,i go to talk but alas.. be still my lipsI move so slow im sure its a dream, leaded arms too tired to screamI find my voice and force the tone, all around yet i am aloneI do the job its over at last, as the clock tics what time has pastI move to the next it soon their turn, for a bed i soo do yearn..By Deeanne **
SøułSurvivør Jul 2019
Of chancellery
Egyptian charm
Rosetta stone
Within his arms
He never thought
He'd do her harm
He kept her safe
His special cairn.

Upon his altar she was set
Phylactery, his amulet
Tears of gratitude he wept
For such a prize
As what he kept

But though she had
The center stage
All the time
She fumed with rage
He was a fool
She was a sage
So he kept her
In a cage.

Then one day
Whilst fool was sleeping
At her feet while
She was weeping
She spied a weapon
He was keeping
He had sowed...
... now he was reaping!

A candlestick
Of leaded weight
She reached out
Of the cage's gate
Though she was
In prisoner's state
She knocked it off
And sealed his fate!

This was not wisdom
To break his bone.
For she was then
Quite well alone
Yes... she'd put him
In his tomb
But, caged, she had then

Sealed her own
.
Be careful what you make an idol...

Sorry I haven't been around. I don't write poetry so much anymore. I'm working as an artist now. Thanks for understanding.
TKO Nov 2016
there                                                            ­        you are,
wandering  alone                                            ­      in life,
a make-shift rucksack                             unburden by    
-- leaded stone
dreams                                                     ­           
filled with                                                             ­ radiant
forgotten poems
and of                                                               ­           love
-barren shelves
of forgotten
tomes                                                           ­, once shared.
I wanted to share something different, as it has been a while. This is still a work in progress, but I tried to produce something with several different readings as a conceptual challenge for myself. Hope you enjoy!
Julia Brown Oct 2011
The flames that stick
The lies that lick
Ten and six years have gone
And yet only now I begin
To find the truth
In scars among the ashes

You hand me truth on a silver platter
Yet you cross your fingers
That the hideous stain on the underside
Will scamper out of sight

The truths have for four less a score
Been the threshold
Of what I thought was real
You raised me in a bed of flowers
And never bothered to remove the paint
As the petals turned to lead

The leaded falsehoods,
The poisons that corrupted,
I wasted my years
Building among the ruins
What I thought was true
Only to have reality
Eat my lungs out

Nothing seems different
Yet nothing is the same
You don’t know I know
You don’t know I’ve forgiven you
You don’t know that the truth of your secret
Eats me alive.

The worst part?
No one can know
Lest war should break out

So what do I do
Now that the lies
Which provided the foundation
Of the reality upon which I grew
Have been exposed?

Where do I run
When I am imprisoned
With nowhere to hide
In the Hell you expect me to call home?

The bane of my childhood,
These bitter truths,
The ones you have forced me
To realize on my own,
They’ve induced
Humiliation and pain,
Rage and suffering,
Disappointment and shame,
In the dignity of the trust
That was once nearing two decades in the making.

But behind even the darkest veil
Doth the bittersweet cloud hide a silver lining.
Thus it’s been concluded:
Neither in this dwelling,
Nor in that of another,
Not even in this world
Lies my home.

Alas, it seems
All mankind is homeless
Lest he find the satisfyingly loving Presence;
That which can be found
Not by sight, nor sound,
Neither touch, nor smell, nor taste.

Still the remarkable untruths of the past remain
They smolder and glare and snicker and jeer
As they burn my heart out

The silver soothes ever so slightly
Only to maintain balance minimal
Equilibrium numbs the agony ever so gently

Yet as I hack out the blood
While your jagged sword is drawn ever so slowly
From the feebly thumping ***** which in my ***** resides,

The toxic smoke of your despicably blatant lies lingers on…
**Written 10/9/11**
Plagiarism is illegal. You have been warned.
Rose Petal Feb 2014
I loved him in pieces of me
Like bits of an empty leaded
Crystal vase
Clumsily glued together
He inched closer
Knowing
I could cut his soul in half
How could he say
That I was beautiful
Did he prefer
Broken things
Was he enticed
By the scattered prisms
Of light reflected back
In his eyes
Maybe he thought
He could dull
My razor-sharp edges
That he could catch
And hold onto me
Unscathed
He sought pleasure
Yet settled for pain
My colors danced
In the chards of mosaic glass
It beckoned him to reach out
Only to tear into his hands
Over and over again
A knowing look remained
As if he had graced me
With acceptance
And the last bit of me
Slipped from his grasp
And shattered
Like a billion shiny stars
Already dead
Before they hit the ground
He deserved more
Than empty
Bloodied hands
Not all things that shine
Are precious
Not all beautiful things
Are meant
To be touched

— The End —