"leaflets" poems
Five years go by
Me and my best friends
Or so I thought
Fake fake fake fake...
All of them
Pretending to care
Me trusting them
Had I known it possible to lie like that
For five years and no less
I'd have kept my mouth shut
Secrets shared
Would have never been told
This is a learning curve
(As one might say)
That one should never hand out trust like leaflets
Trust is to be earnt
Over a long time
I had to learn this the hard way
I should have listened originally
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC
in the middle of nirvana, ashima wakes up
she doesn't know how she reached this sphere
full of silver lights and black silhouettes
everyone she knows seems to be present
greyly shimmering leaflets are floating
through the air, gently, like mist
and red fireflies are clapping their wings
the crowd of shadows is starting to sing:
"ashima, you have come a long way to us
we are the voices of nirvana, listen
nirvana is the deep core of your soul
the land of your most secret wishes
sometimes, in your dreams, you reach out
when you are waiting for a train and the
rays of the sun are reflecting your thoughts
you never find us but we know where you are
you may call us your wishes, we belong to you
as **** as branko and your mom do
are you the imitation of your dreams, ashima?
or do your dreams imitate you, our girl?
certainly, you will become the thing you dread
we know that you took revenge recently
when you were slashing the pedophile's throat
as his blood was slowly flowing into the sheets"
in the middle of her apartment, ashima wakes up
she becomes aware of a crinkled and dark leaflet
it is more than twenty years old, informing about
something that ashima can not read anymore
the letters on the leaflet have become dust
ashima is taking a deep breath and sighs
her pitbull branko is strolling towards her
his wet tongue, ashima thinks, feels cute
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 11:04 AM UTC
Leaves
Murmuring by miriads in the shimmering trees.
Lives
Wakening with wonder in the Pyrenees.
Birds
Cheerily chirping in the early day.
Bards
Singing of summer, scything thro' the hay.
Bees
Shaking the heavy dews from bloom and frond.
Boys
Bursting the surface of the ebony pond.
Flashes
Of swimmers carving thro' the sparkling cold.
Fleshes
Gleaming with wetness to the morning gold.
A mead
Bordered about with warbling water brooks.
A maid
Laughing the love-laugh with me; proud of looks.
The heat
Throbbing between the upland and the peak.
Her heart
Quivering with passion to my pressed cheek.
Braiding
Of floating flames across the mountain brow.
Brooding
Of stillness; and a sighing of the bough.
Stirs
Of leaflets in the gloom; soft petal-showers;
Stars
Expanding with the starr'd nocturnal flowers.
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there is a tree
growing in this
womb
its roots cracking
from fissured earth
the trunk, in layers
unwrapping
sprouting solid
from ancient rebirth
Breathing light
into branches,
unfurling -
not always
with ease, yet
always in a rising,
not always in comfort
but in the end
a widening,
lit horizon
of past blood lining shed
of crimson cycles renewed
of old patterns,
gone and dead
of mosaic seedlings strewn
and now before
sacred eyes
a photosynthesis occurs
revealing leaflets, tender
reaching into
grounded universe
I am a star-system
a stellar orbit landscape
a singing cosmic rune
a ring of phosphate fire
under tourmaline moon
rubies, garnets, onyx
all pouring from this
innermost, feminine cavern
liquid gold, in lava form
precious metals,
a righteous storm
wild dancers
around the blaze
swaying magic
in midnight haze
and here I stand,
in uterine gleam
the fruit of my soul
the queen
of my
dream
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
She was the strangest football fan I'd ever met,
Between match programmes and leaflets she hid Nietzsche and Thoreau;
Philosophy being a bright passion of hers,
It all seemed so natural in her visage.
On days, she'd hum You'll Never Walk Alone
While turning delicately the pages of a new text,
Smiling at the words that appeared before her on the page.
Dorian Gray, she took time to point out,
Kept her fascinated—
But it was always going to be Nietzsche,
And the first time she strummed the pages of Thus Spoke Zarathustra it was as if the humming had turned to fire,
And she was melded with the page.
I would believe only in a god who could dance.
If you asked her who she favoured,
she would reply back with a chirp,
the Russians!
And hold to you a copy of Dostoyevsky,
Crime and Punishment, she said, was her fascination
And she'd as fluidly as ever switch back to the fixtures.
Never passion, always fancy.
It was as if viewing herself through a third party lens.
Her passion for the game,
As mysterious as her gentle touch on softer pages.
How could she love so drastically?
Football, her passion,
But her books were her mystery to all, to even herself,
And the quiet murmur of Nietzsche, her nectar.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
Coral leaflets sway through my attention, singing with the wind's path. Lemon accents separate as sting rays of warmth and light swim toward the earth. 88 degrees tickle my skin as small beads begin to perch upon my brow, patiently, until they join the body of crisp bits between myself and the trees around. Or it may simply evaporate into the embrace of Autumn.
Above, black veins creep through the lemon and coral maze, snuggly holding onto their nestlings, ready at any moment to let them fly.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
_
I want to tell you that I love you,
every minute of the day
Shout it from the highest roof top,
let my echoes float your way
Sing it in a perfect love song,
lyrics written from my heart
Say it to you as you finish,
whisper it before you start
Yell it all across the valley,
graffiti it upon the walls
Paste it up on every billboard,
leaflets scattered in the halls
I want to tell you that I love you,
so that you will know it’s true
And hope that when you read this poem,
it will say the same thing too
_
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
How strangely coincidental,
it is, how nothing inspires you
with age,
that a shy, withered leaf parting sedentary waters,
is dewy-eyed dead yet unconsciously graceful;
such profanities of nature,
no longer expands your soul
like a burgeoning bubble which whisks you to write
carelessly-composed poetry over forgotten dinner plates....
it's a tragic symphony of desperate piano keys,
a blurring condition of blacks and whites,
age, and nothing but overused, age, is.
And so on lonely train journeys,
you craft a smattering of shorthand poems,
about how crackled, aged people on trains only have capacities
for whimsical jokes,
and nothing but dear,
dear whimsicality as life's
gilded philosophy,
when their bodies are no longer covered with
magic leaflets of hand-strung poetry,
for they are barren,
and if gods were gods of stanzaic hymns,
they'd open bloodless wombs of literary nymphs,
or so boldly believed,
the aged once-artist say.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Rain plummets from your branches
to my face,
Overflowing leaf's chimb
Onto unvigilant ish limbs
While my blinking eyes are dim,
You long for an embrace,
Without word yet of rejection,
You are ever bold.
You've thrown your achy breeze at me
And now you throw those icy leaves at me
Cause this pain to freeze in me.
With your icy hold.
I do not have a love for you
Deluging tree.
Stay close to your own stem,
You're a cold love I condemn
Leave me in my lonesome,
Can you not see?
I do not want your flowers, berries,
branch nor bark
I don't want your petals' play,
Nor your leafy locks to sway,
I want your leaflets to on this day
remain at far.
Your frosty touch on my skin
it blanches
I'm not ready for love so steely
I suspect I never will be
So stick to your own tree, please
Rainy branches.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
They call me blessed,
But then I wonder;
Is being unlucky called being blessed?
Then they call me lucky,
Just because I survived;
Do they compare me with someone who died?
They want me to rejoice,
But what they call life,
Is always being in a mood to celebrate called life?
No.
It's called lies.
Incapacity to face the real truth.
Yes.
I will rise,
To give a surprise..
When the Sun rises at dawn,
When the darkness falls off,
When the memory fades away...
As the story goes on,
New leaflets are turned,
The suspense can only deepen!
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC
My life is a conflict,
for instance, I'm anti-
prefix and I print thou
sands of leaflets to end
waste and promote recy
cling.
Is nothing sacred? No
thing ventured, nothing gained.
Even the cows appre
ciate the milk of hu
man kindness. Nothing is
sacred. The snare drum in my
heart has lost its tautness, the
springs have become strings that
are pulled not by heartwarm
ing scenes but the slowly
chilled grip of calipers.
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 1:28 PM UTC
91
So bashful when I spied her!
So pretty—so ashamed!
So hidden in her leaflets
Lest anybody find—
So breathless till I passed here—
So helpless when I turned
And bore her struggling, blushing,
Her simple haunts beyond!
For whom I robbed the ******
For whom I betrayed the Dell—
Many, will doubtless ask me,
But I shall never tell!
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Buttercups running aloof
in mi cluttered mind
of discomfort
Leaflets flapping
as the world turns
mournfully
on its side
Turnstiles of my life
flipping through
the pages of time
and all i can see is
misery
Flowers cresting
in the space they’re
allowed
hoping for the light
the rain...
the time-
Memories wafting
by the impulse of wind
billowing, bellowing
the new season
begins
yet all i can see is the
scenery of despair
Tormented tides
slapping upside mi head
drowning mi tears
as if i were dead
Wandering dreams
of days future past
i’m trying mi damndest
to make mi life
l...a...s...t...
But all i can see
is languishing fear
******** and moaning
not seeing the light
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 3:50 AM UTC
Convent detour
Covenant deviance
Context raconteur
Sterilized meat threads
Over deviled straight legs
Sharks breath beast head
Maximize....
Left alone - best unsaid
maybe off better spread
way out
O--- Rrr - way dead
Casually
concave bird chest,
shock waved cheap threats,
threadbare leaflets,
Modern day
Old hex
Big space and cavity baking ovens full of clutter extended hand and logic tempest temporarily teetered toward a soft chair and ice cold vanity savaged manually...
Or,
Womanually,
for that matter
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
When did loneliness in a crowded room become a goal?
Eavesdropping on inspiration; indolence.
Like my art, pockets of brilliance are found
in the wreckage of a market town
with nothing left to sell. All those discordant
ideals of escape and of nothingness.
Still waiting for that ***** of light
which must always break through.
Isolation becomes a component of personality;
a need for space in overpopulated surroundings.
Like my art, pockets of living
congregate in moments torn from the clock face,
in lines of laughter and grief; the five o'clock champagne.
All that revel in maladjustment,
all who laugh at death,
those who had given up on The Lie.
When did my life reduce to words and symbols;
stealing poetry from the street-preacher's leaflets?
Like my art, pockets of reason
form amongst the senselessness of meaning;
how love sits different on every tongue,
how wine hits sweetly only in the need to run.
I have grown tired of running away,
this stalwart need for acceptance.
A want for a panic room,
a need to fall to pieces, undisturbed.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
I walk through my room
touch each book on my shelf
thinking of you in the shower
touching yourself
With an open book, I wish
these pages were your skin
I'd caress each one until
our narrative could begin
with your hand on my knee
and your lips on my wrist
I'll beg for you to take me
in our sweet summer tryst
your fingers trail lines
up and down my thigh
until I can bear it no longer
my lips produce a shaky sigh
a hitch in my breath
as I become wet and ready
and you'll push into me
keeping me steady
and whisper the filth
of all you'd like to do
tell me I'm beautiful
watch my pages unfold
and all my bindings break
and all the books shatter
leaflets fly through the room
you always knew how to flatter
and when my daydream cracks
alone, hour after hour
wondering if you think of me
when you're in the shower...
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 12:24 PM UTC
Pinnated clouds
spread like wisteria
along the horizons
waning axis. Farmland
is smothered
in arbitrary
purple leaflets.
The
humic red fabric
of a fallow field
convulses
on my eye under the
discordant,
astral confetti.
A sombre greyness
reclined and presided
over all: joyous
summer rain-cloud
but for the early years
icy resolve.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
Once in the wind of morning
I ranged the thymy wold;
The world-wide air was azure
And all the brooks ran gold.
There through the dews beside me
Behold a youth that trod,
With feathered cap on forehead,
And poised a golden rod.
With mien to match the morning
And gay delightful guise
And friendly brows and laughter
He looked me in the eyes.
Oh whence, I asked, and whither?
He smiled and would not say,
And looked at me and beckoned
And laughed and led the way.
And with kind looks and laughter
And nought to say beside
We two went on together,
I and my happy guide.
Across the glittering pastures
And empty upland still
And solitude of shepherds
High in the folded hill,
By hanging woods and hamlets
That gaze through orchards down
On many a windmill turning
And far-discovered town,
With gay regards of promise
And sure unslackened stride
And smiles and nothing spoken
Led on my merry guide.
By blowing realms of woodland
With sunstruck vanes afield
And cloud-led shadows sailing
About the windy weald,
By valley-guarded granges
And silver waters wide,
Content at heart I followed
With my delightful guide.
And like the cloudy shadows
Across the country blown
We two fare on for ever,
But not we two alone.
With the great gale we journey
That breathes from gardens thinned,
Borne in the drift of blossoms
Whose petals throng the wind;
Buoyed on the heaven-heard whisper
Of dancing leaflets whirled
>From all the woods that autumn
Bereaves in all the world.
And midst the fluttering legion
Of all that ever died
I follow, and before us
Goes the delightful guide,
With lips that brim with laughter
But never once respond,
And feet that fly on feathers,
And serpent-circled wand.
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I was given, at my first birthday party,
a gift sublime, a lovely, lush garden
I played among its fonts and flowers,
traded baseball cards with Atlas and Athena,
rolled in high grass with iridescent dragons
Then one fine day through leaflets high,
I spied a fat juicy fig, haloed by Summer sun
The tree was poison, I knew, its sweet fruit
most likely bad as well, but in my arrogance
I climbed the trunk, got tangled in its branches
I lost control, lost something never truly held,
and fell, through viney snarls and vicious thorns
Fell farther than I ever rose, to putrid death,
moldered slime beneath the canopy
of verdant paradise on gentle hillside above
I crawled about in mud and earthen warrens
Slowly, year by year, learned to walk again
But arrogant I remained—had not my
lesson learned, and so I doubled-down,
made mockery of this chance for redemption
All the sweet virgins did I **** and teach
our children sin, in crystalline waters
I did shat on mulched fields, amber and green,
with cigarette butts and baggies blowing
listless on Autumn winds
When Winter finally came, as winters must,
to **** off weakened souls, and make
the garden ready for new attendants,
I did not learn, I did not take the blame...
It's Him, I cried, I have not power to do this!
But then my youngest daughter sobbed
She watched, sadly, out clouded, grimy windows
and, looking up at my limpid, sullen eyes
crawled into my arms one last, lonely time
to face what I could not...
Behold, the Silent Spring
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 11:16 AM UTC
the sensation of the wires hanging loose from your headphones gently brushing up with the blonde hairs on your neck like little hairthin whispers- spiders crawling on you throat
leaflets
blankets
fleece summercamp sweatshirt
the a/c rumbling
crisp fallings
hatchlings
seeds
wax paper tracings-rubbings of leaves
downstairs
pageling
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
tender little plant,
you weep and sway with the bluster of a wind.
and when night falls,
you clench your shivering petals,
wishing the sun would kiss you once again,
and while dreaming, aching for that safe warmth,
you withstand
the dark, cold air,
long empty silence,
and the relentless clattering of raindrops.
remember,
frightened little plant,
that morning will rise.
your proud green leaflets will soak up the blooming sunlight,
and churn the elements into a life-force.
you are a powerhouse.
the bright warm atmosphere
seeps
deep
into your lungs,
and fills you,
pouring into your spine, your fragile stem,
collecting
into your baby-hair roots,
soft and thin, as they hug the cold, callous soil
that encapsulates you.
sometimes, you are to be painfully lonely.
remember,
brave little plant,
that it takes patience to become a tree.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
blue nights
and blue feelings
full of thoughts
but blue is not the warmest color
it is a clandestine coalition fraught with
the fear of losing my mind
goosebumps plague my arms
lined with midnight tinted rivers—
blue that is
who blew my cover
an ocean mist
canned
set to do my healing
a stinging shock prior to progression
hot flashes integrated indefinitely
right as rain and
cold as coal
choking on my own greasy innards
sapphire, she screamed
tear stained leaflets of mundane
satisfaction
with the inability to recall
her calling
am I she? and is she
me?
skylight reflecting a genuine
taste for ruby slippers
an insane asylum for
marketing matters
****** upon the
heroic cape
of toxic kryptonite
silly sentiments of the nighttime winds
shades drawn concealing
periwinkle despair
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC
And these things that we speak of shall be written on walls in our minds. Our graffiti. Terms that only we understand. For it is prophecy. A prediction of what is to come and a promise that it will be good. Good like revolution. And leaflets. And protest signs. Good like fires and flags. Good like anthems and marches. Good like songs on our palms. The sheet music on mine. The lyrics on yours. And music when they touch. So, shall we go? Hand in hand into the subway tunnels to the rest of this? We'll have the truth to keep us busy as we fumble for the next word and step. Awkward like children, dancing around fires. Foot before foot, until we match rhythm and run from it all. Because running away is as much my blood as poetry and red wine. And you are not only the journey but, sometimes, the destination as well. Listen to my hand on yours as I pray for peace while you sleep. The walls of the tunnel passing behind us as we forget who we are for what we will become. This will evolve. This will evolve.
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 12:37 AM UTC
She wore a silk yellow chiffon Cancan flare dress
With yellow ribbons in her hair
From the look of her brittle fingernails
And the way she held the hem of her mother’s skirt
I knew that she was a nervous one; with her watery eyes
Her mother kept up that old familiar fake smile
The nervous one keep repeating
“There a big fly under my dress;
I often wonder why the visitors
Never attends our churches
But would come calling on the neighbors in the afternoon
A stack of leaflets in one hand and a black sachet case in the other
I always thought of them as a demanding group of worshipers
My grandparents seem discontent
With their teaching; so to ease the charade
It came off like Bible bashing
My nana would offer them a glass of lemonade
While my grandfather debate the lectures
They call themselves Jehovah Witness
"Hogwash said Grandpa"
A Jehovah's Witness must walk the walk,
not just talk the talk.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC