"leaded" poems
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?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 5:56 AM UTC
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 **
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
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" .
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 7:52 AM UTC
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
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
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
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 9:59 AM UTC
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.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
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.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC
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
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
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.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 7:17 PM UTC
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!
Sep 6, 2020
Sep 6, 2020 at 12:08 AM UTC
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.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC
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.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
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
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
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.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
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.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC
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
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
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.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC
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?
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
i have kissed too many girls, who,
between leaded lashes
and bloodied lips, begged me not
to fall in love with them
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
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.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
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
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
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.
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 7:55 PM UTC
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.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
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.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
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 **
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC