"lifecycle" poems
pinecones are
childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests
folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination,
nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood -
a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums
where a version of me lived;
a version of me who delighted my mother and father,
a version who to me remains a stranger -
smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots,
sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose -
the present, a fragrance;
the future, a rolling pine forest.
pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like
in perennial wanderlust,
soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of
everything I felt and everything I thought;
everything I needed and everything I still want.
pine cones perfume the edges of a dream
dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands,
pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind
still building a new home for itself
in the basements of other people’s hearts.
pinecones are
platforms which I danced from,
leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near;
pine cones are a reminder that while
a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree,
the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free.
pine cones are
the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future
before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour
all over every unmade plan,
memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin -
the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins.
pine cones are young green and supple,
seeds of love lust and chance encounters
that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges,
every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker;
pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding
after a lifecycle of fires starting
and dying
within the embers of consciousness.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
Gloriously green in spring and summer, these leaves
turned to bright shades of flame, lit up the fall,
and autumn's winds tumbled them to earth.
Decaying, their remnants now enrich the earth,
and winter buds fatten for next year's leaves,
which in their turn, we know, will wither and fall,
an endless cycle of growth, decline and fall.
We too decline, return at last to earth,
and memory is all our existence leaves
until we rise in new leaves, and fall again to earth.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
the initial impact
the ruptured vessels
crying crimson
pooling up underneath the surface of your
fragile flesh
soft, breakable unlike the iron
that flows through you
then a swell
of black and blue
of violent violets
a nebula to remind you that you
are not invincible
are not invulnerable
will one day turn to dust,
a star of lost oxygen
tender to the touch
then the healing
a green gradation
yellowed edges
the swelling going down
the knowledge that nothing is permanent
that even your bruises pale
even your blood decays
even the galaxy imprinted on your skin can explode, collapse,
lost infinitely in infinity
the knowledge that even as you are getting better,
you are fading like the bruise
that once stained your skin
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
alertness that make perfect
lazy that takes away everything
crazy that destroy's everything
creativity that makes new things
dream weaver that dreams everything
scientist that invent something
life cycle that goes smooth fully
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
There exsists people
who live on the bread of
Inequality
Injustice
Hypocracy
Prejudice
Dear those people
I must say
you are really poor
A girl is borned
tangled in so many boundations
and these restrictions
are right from where
their lifecycle begins
to their deaths
Belive me these chains
which grab them
weigh them more than
anything
Some die
Some struggle
Some protest
These activities
are all variant
but why only girls
need to do all of that
why they have to beg for their
FREEDOM
why they are so desperate
for education
There is only one life
to live in this
beautiful world
let us not waste that
lets unleash those chains
lets break those cages
lets remove that handcuffs
and make this world more beautiful
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 5:45 AM UTC
By. Lauren
Ice cream.
Melting.
Dripping.
Falling.
Splatting.
Crying.
Creating.
Giving.
Licking.
Swallowing.
Smiling.
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 8:42 PM UTC
Deceit is
Woke made clickbait.
A punchline void of pugilism.
Manufactured.
Puffed.
& vision ill-corrected.
Poisoned.
Children so woke now;
Diaspora are sleepwalking,
Suffering Sleeplessness;
An insipid insomnia;
Waking others to death.
Eyes wide-open (fili-fili)
Hoodwinked in a depth of light;
Dark angel glory.
Bane.
Mediocre.
Hidden.
Malignant mult-I-media.
Woke?
© Qwey.ku
30th November MMXXI
አሁን በኢትዮጵያ አቆጣጠር
26 Kislev 5782
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 1:16 AM UTC
One day...
This beautiful body will be, just a heap of ash
My name...
Will be cancelled from formal papers with a single dash
It's a birth and death lifecycle that we all ride
Tho sometimes people cheat death, so they remain clocked at the road side
The things we are running after, claiming its ours
Are laid back once you've been put to rest after hours
Being rich, being poor doesn't change the color of ashes to gold and dust
The bones and aftermath are identical once in grave, while the imitations put on our bodies,
rust
The organs burst first followed by the rest
Laying in dirt, bodies coned, head pointing to the west
Life fulfilling with what we have gained
Death comes uninformed, souls get pained
Burnt, buried, sank or served dishes to vultures
Life flies between living games of cultures
Souls light up the world as stars in the universe
Sometimes I wish, if life could also be reversed...
©sim
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
morning contradictories: mourning our poems, falling stars
awaken to a sunshiny Saturday,
the lazys, their coverlet of flowers,
inhibit our movements, now, as it nears
high noon, we have yet from our bed stir
August has be-come, the grass pockets
of gray and green, swaths of sunburn brown,
reveal how far along the North American
summer has poetry passed, irretrievable
reading your messages and notes from
world over, lazy licking you poems so many,
delighting, ponderous and oft heroic, as well,
weeping as too many become fallen stars
each grass blade, from earth born and returned,
the nutrients preserved in our sandy soil, intended
to nurture next summer’s poesy new birthrights,
green+browned, weep+smile, mutual contradictories
these poem best friends, passing by each other at lifecycle’s
multi-paths, metaphors for our too many morning stirrings,
most to be falling like stars that, though in motion, need not
come to rest ever, their movement attracts a one…lasting look
it nears noon, it nears this poem’s timely finishing touch,
straighten its tie, smooth its skirted pleats, a forehead
implant kiss goodbye, sent on its way to find its own weight,
no parent ere admit, it leaves, with tear-burst showers falling…
August 1
2020
noon
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 12:06 PM UTC
You know the funny
Thing about life is that
Schools teach about science
Your parents teach you religion
Green grass teaches play
And leaves teach you about grass
When you move in an aeroplane
They seem small
But, to them you are another plastic bag
That flies by whenever no one is looking
Just like that life finishes
The music stops and the fire dies
All that remains are legacies and grave gestures
I may be a little far off topic
I think I am making a point
But something holds me back
It is the beauty of poetry
Or the medium of stories
Life is a bit of a journey now
Where everyone shares their stories
Along the way and they become your friends
I just don't know how I made enemies
Is it science, no
Religion, definitely
Apr 22, 2020
Apr 22, 2020 at 5:11 PM UTC
A girl who is lonesome on a regular basis, isn't based upon their own choice... But by their own desire to hold an identity bear without regulating (properly) the reasons as to why or how too essentially fix them?? Someone would say they aren't both comfortable and doesn't want to live this type of life... Except, they do, and they are very good at it. Do you not seriously think they aren't truly comfortable with it...?! Because by how I've gotten to know them, they seem entirely thrilled by this very aspect upon the features that drown them in sorrowful lust or delusional ecstasy for the illusional better!
Don't make me laugh.... You seriously think she "would" be comfortable with ANY of this...? WELLL.... DO YOU???!!! NO...! She simply... DOESN'T! And I wouldn't, either. Because I know what it's like to live in something that has tormented me right down to my very component cells. (Not truly knowing how to regulate the emotions that run those very component cells...DRY!) Something that ricochets the exposure over an entire even playing field that's become too GREATLY ODD! For something that doesn't make sense, doesn't also have too be the permanent source of lifestyle one has become standard upon (the now very normalized lifecycle of this very way of life itself).
So, what happens when someone who is lonesome and who's seemingly lost...while also supposedly meant too be good at it, simultaneously...? Well...isn't it obvious by now...?
"A lonesome girl who's good at being alone".....
Sep 24, 2020
Sep 24, 2020 at 9:56 PM UTC
Tell me a story
I want to fall in love with a character
And forget myself inside a sway of frightful emotions
Tell me a story
About sailors, lovers, monks, and businessmen. About the end of the world. About sleepless nights
Tell me about the poet
Who lived in the woods. The forgetful snow of Canadian Decembers. The lifecycle of a Grizzly Bear
Convince me
That life is but a dream
That if we only try hard enough
We could create a happy ending
Convince me
That life has a beginning and an end.
That every human being is unique
That all of us is worth remembering
Tell me a story
A story to be told in my deathbed
While I fight for an ounce of attention
To hear another human being
Dec 5, 2020
Dec 5, 2020 at 8:55 PM UTC
ather aether Katherine
quintessence she’s never been
confess profess depress
transgress the process
A lifecycle.
With little to no progress
repress to the oppress
Obsess the agress
Compress the mess
Say yes to impress
You’re not blessed
Be ready to face
The detest for this
Damsel in distress.
You’re not allowed to egress
We’ve all been trained to stash
All that we have had for the brash
Trash. thats what we are if not unerring
pristine is an acknowledgment to disguise
kitschy fustian ostentatious. Be that.
No less. No more.
Katherine tried but failed to fit anymore
We’re all Katherine. You and me.
we don’t abide. We don’t fit. We don’t belong.
Here.
There.
Everywhere.
Life’s not fair.
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
The lifecycle of a butterfly
is an odd but fascinating one
So profound and so remarkable
Is this symbol of transformation
Humble earthbound caterpillar,
Time and patience is the key,
For evolution is unfamiliar
But a natural part of esse
Born with little help or guidance
Begins phase one of three
A little hungry caterpillar
That sat upon a leaf
Into the distance it would stare,
As others flew far and beyond.
“Why can’t i fly?” it began to ask
Why do they not respond?
Why didn't it have the same magic,
That seemed to run through the butterflies,
That fluttered as gracefully as their
soft painted wings in the calm evening light
It knew it could do nothing to change,
It was a simple fact;
the caterpillar was helpless and unworthy
But what was it he lacked?
Wait, waiting, wait some more
The next stage will be longer,
Eat, eating, eat some more
Just to make you stronger
See caterpillar in the tree,
Life may be quite uneasy
But come a time where you will be
As you hope, as you dream
But don’t give up on these things i list,
Because time is one precious gift
And as you’ve grown
Enough to start, here goes the second part
A chrysalis you weave away,
A safety net, a place to stay
Long are the days you’ll spend in there,
Away from the world, held captive from the glares
In the cocoon of your thoughts,
Fears, doubts and regrets
Time to let go,
For there is an opportunity to change and to grow
You will find yourself at a midway,
That place between no longer and not yet
things may seem a little grey,
A little lonely, no light of day
It takes the utmost courage
to spread your wings and fly
But when the moment comes
Everything will align
Now you have reached the final stage
You may feel different and so you look,
You embraced the change and completed the cycle,
Your patience and courage was what it took
But keep in mind,
this cycle does not simply mean,
The end of the caterpillar
And the beginning of the butterfly
As for a butterfly to flourish,
A caterpillar must be born
They share the cycle
They are just as important
It was a powerful force of growth and development
But now a new cycle of your life awaits
The key is to not fear it or fight it
There are no more boundaries, no more gates
You limited your beliefs and your ideas,
But now you are free to fly, to achieve
In yourself you should find joy,
As you spread your wings, butterfly boy
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 7:32 AM UTC
The grief-beast wakes different today.
This is not the cold, creaky ache of bannister limbs in winter
No, this time it's the warmth of my parents' rocking chair, walnut and familiarity and an exoskeleton of memory and fairytale intertwined with the weight of a loss that sits heavy on my lap, immobilising but I'm in no mood to leave the sadness of my seat.
And though it hurts and it burns and it erodes at my insides
I accept it, resigned for the moment and resolve to leave this safe coccoon another day when the world seems less formidable and my coarse exterior more malleable
to new life and fresh growth
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 5:17 PM UTC
darling, I can still chart the precise geometry of your nose,
count the number of freckles underneath your thin green eyes,
delineate the lifecycle of the stubble on your cheeks,
and all I want is to come back home to you...
aren't you going to miss
the way I could slip your belt out from under you
with my eyes still swimming in yours
while you lay down, hot and panting in the dark?
who will caress your naked chest as tenderly as I have,
slide her hand up your shirt the way that makes you shiver
and kiss you everywhere like gentle rainfall,
warm and soft and fervent like poetry?
who will bandage the fall wounds
on your torn up knees and elbows
and wash your 22-year-old body like a baby in the bathtub
when you're so drunk and tired you cannot stand?
who will stroke your hair as you sleep with one leg bent in her bed and
scratch the back of your neck and
hold you close to calm your racing heartbeat and
remember the pills you take at night and where you keep your contact lenses and all your family stories and buy you Tylenol and your favorite Gatorade when you're sick and never,
ever,
ever leave
you the way that
I did
?
that morning, I was woken up by the beating of your chest
against mine.
it was faster and that meant you were awake,
my love, my darling,
you were
awake and thinking and moving again,
no longer just your soft, comfortable, sleeping body,
and I cried in your arms because I knew that
it was time to leave home.
Nov 24, 2021
Nov 24, 2021 at 11:58 PM UTC
Gunda, the lifecycle of bacon, I watched that
the first seven minutes in real time
then at ten second slides,
a fine modern invention for redeeming the time, we need
to know the life cycle of pigs,
we do,
I agree, and I applaud the audacity of the art, that allows
this expectation of the audience
to make of this the message pigs send in their plight, eh
they say, we got no clue, we are but food,
be sure to fool life hierarchical procedures, id est,
cook this white meet to death
to insure
no extra human life forms
whom we host with all benevolence,
as all life is welcome to whatever is digestible
and useful for nothing but humus,
final form, dried to dust…
the lowest of living substances once fed the highest minds.
Gunda ist dada in new medium,
fertile soil for feminized seed… turned with the compost
into us, mental pig thoughts, grunts,
once, chemistry is the witness
we are made
of the same stuff as pigs.
Oct 14, 2021
Oct 14, 2021 at 5:23 PM UTC
a friend's autocorrect described me as 'sweet soil'
technological mishap, misnomer
right on the money
sweet soil soul
clad in terracotta warmth
fresh mulch with new rain as seasons change
home and distant at once
ready for bare feet and dirt under fingernails
care is messy, didn't you know
mother. nature. as earth is nurture and support for fragile roots
tender stems, new growth thriving despite harsh winters.
i sense an embroidery project for new gardening gloves
and fresh bulbs for colder climes
with changing season so too does a storm brew in me
all I can do is hope barkskin heals
sweet sap keep contained
and leaf flesh plump
for colour among the earthen tones
and rebirth sprouts hope
in echoing trunk-chests that forgot
decay is part of the lifecycle
how technology can still blossom
new life, connection
organic and born of bytes
not thorn-prick integration
plant and palm
but a symbiosis of metals from the earth
and well-rooted saplings
ready to weather the moon's teary refrain
as autumn slips in on the back of hazy September blues to grey
Sep 7, 2021
Sep 7, 2021 at 3:08 PM UTC