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"macadam" poems
When, like a running grave, time tracks you down, Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs, Love in her gear is slowly through the house, Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse, Hauled to the dome, Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age, Deliver me who timid in my tribe, Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape Of the bone inch Deliver me, my masters, head and heart, Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin, When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time Drive children up like bruises to the thumb, From maid and head, For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove, Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye, I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice May fail to fasten with a ****** o In the straight grave, Stride through Cadaver's country in my force, My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime, Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain On fork and face. Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool. No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer Descends, my masters, on the entered honour. You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar Tells the stick, 'fail.' Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam, The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever, Not city tar and subway bored to foster Man through macadam. I dump the waxlights in your tower dome. Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift, Love's twilit nation and the skull of state, Sir, is your doom. Everything ends, the tower ending and, (Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene, Ball of the foot depending from the sun, (Give, summer, over), the cemented skin, The actions' end. All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind With whistler's cough contages, time on track Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick, Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take The kissproof world.
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3.4k
Dylan Thomas
When, Like A Running Grave
When, like a running grave, time tracks you down, Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs, Love in her gear is slowly through the house, Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse, Hauled to the dome, Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age, Deliver me who timid in my tribe, Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape Of the bone inch Deliver me, my masters, head and heart, Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin, When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time Drive children up like bruises to the thumb, From maid and head, For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove, Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye, I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice May fail to fasten with a ****** o In the straight grave, Stride through Cadaver's country in my force, My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime, Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain On fork and face. Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool. No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer Descends, my masters, on the entered honour. You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar Tells the stick, 'fail.' Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam, The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever, Not city tar and subway bored to foster Man through macadam. I dump the waxlights in your tower dome. Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift, Love's twilit nation and the skull of state, Sir, is your doom. Everything ends, the tower ending and, (Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene, Ball of the foot depending from the sun, (Give, summer, over), the cemented skin, The actions' end. All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind With whistler's cough contages, time on track Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick, Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take The kissproof world.
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50
For the angels who inhabit this town, although their shape constantly changes, each night we leave some cold potatoes and a bowl of milk on the windowsill. Usually they inhabit heaven where, by the way, no tears are allowed. They push the moon around like a boiled yam. The Milky Way is their hen with her many children. When it is night the cows lie down but the moon, that big bull, stands up. However, there is a locked room up there with an iron door that can't be opened. It has all your bad dreams in it. It is hell. Some say the devil locks the door from the inside. Some say the angels lock it from the outside. The people inside have no water and are never allowed to touch. They crack like macadam. They are mute. They do not cry help except inside where their hearts are covered with grubs. I would like to unlock that door, turn the rusty key and hold each fallen one in my arms but I cannot, I cannot. I can only sit here on earth at my place at the table.
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2.6k
Anne Sexton
Locked Doors
For the angels who inhabit this town, although their shape constantly changes, each night we leave some cold potatoes and a bowl of milk on the windowsill. Usually they inhabit heaven where, by the way, no tears are allowed. They push the moon around like a boiled yam. The Milky Way is their hen with her many children. When it is night the cows lie down but the moon, that big bull, stands up. However, there is a locked room up there with an iron door that can't be opened. It has all your bad dreams in it. It is hell. Some say the devil locks the door from the inside. Some say the angels lock it from the outside. The people inside have no water and are never allowed to touch. They crack like macadam. They are mute. They do not cry help except inside where their hearts are covered with grubs. I would like to unlock that door, turn the rusty key and hold each fallen one in my arms but I cannot, I cannot. I can only sit here on earth at my place at the table.
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33
Darkness as black as your eyelid, poketricks of stars, the yellow mouth, the smell of a stranger, dawn coming up, dark blue, no stars, the smell of a love, warmer now as authenic as soap, wave after wave of lightness and the birds in their chains going mad with throat noises, the birds in their tracks yelling into their cheeks like clowns, lighter, lighter, the stars gone, the trees appearing in their green hoods, the house appearing across the way, the road and its sad macadam, the rock walls losing their cotton, lighter, lighter, letting the dog out and seeing fog lift by her legs, a gauze dance, lighter, lighter, yellow, blue at the tops of trees, more God, more God everywhere, lighter, lighter, more world everywhere, sheets bent back for people, the strange heads of love and breakfast, that sacrament, lighter, yellower, like the yolk of eggs, the flies gathering at the windowpane, the dog inside whining for good and the day commencing, not to die, not to die, as in the last day breaking, a final day digesting itself, lighter, lighter, the endless colors, the same old trees stepping toward me, the rock unpacking its crevices, breakfast like a dream and the whole day to live through, steadfast, deep, interior. After the death, after the black of black, the lightness,- not to die, not to die- that God begot.
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2.3k
Anne Sexton
The Fury Of Sunrises
Darkness as black as your eyelid, poketricks of stars, the yellow mouth, the smell of a stranger, dawn coming up, dark blue, no stars, the smell of a love, warmer now as authenic as soap, wave after wave of lightness and the birds in their chains going mad with throat noises, the birds in their tracks yelling into their cheeks like clowns, lighter, lighter, the stars gone, the trees appearing in their green hoods, the house appearing across the way, the road and its sad macadam, the rock walls losing their cotton, lighter, lighter, letting the dog out and seeing fog lift by her legs, a gauze dance, lighter, lighter, yellow, blue at the tops of trees, more God, more God everywhere, lighter, lighter, more world everywhere, sheets bent back for people, the strange heads of love and breakfast, that sacrament, lighter, yellower, like the yolk of eggs, the flies gathering at the windowpane, the dog inside whining for good and the day commencing, not to die, not to die, as in the last day breaking, a final day digesting itself, lighter, lighter, the endless colors, the same old trees stepping toward me, the rock unpacking its crevices, breakfast like a dream and the whole day to live through, steadfast, deep, interior. After the death, after the black of black, the lightness,- not to die, not to die- that God begot.
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56
beholding the tipping Big Dipper, with its dangling handle, traverse a midwinter northern sky rising in concert with a steadfast sword wielding Orion, mooring the southern firmament, I stand atop a splotch of black macadam, straddling the equidistant expanse of all ascending celestial spheres Music Selection Charlie Parker Estrellita Oakland 1/23/15 jbm
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Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
james-bradley-mccallum
equidistant
beholding the tipping Big Dipper, with its dangling handle, traverse a midwinter northern sky rising in concert with a steadfast sword wielding Orion, mooring the southern firmament, I stand atop a splotch of black macadam, straddling the equidistant expanse of all ascending celestial spheres Music Selection Charlie Parker Estrellita Oakland 1/23/15 jbm
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37
Almost yesterday, those gentle ladies stole to their baths in Atlantic Cuty, for the lost rites of the first sea of the first salt running from a faucet. I have heard they sat for hours in briny tubs, patting hotel towels sweetly over shivered skin, smelling the stale harbor of a lost ocean, praying at last for impossible loves, or new skin, or still another child. And since this was the style, I don't suppose they knew what they had lost. Almost yesterday, pushing West, I lost ten Utah driving minutes, stopped to steal past postcard vendors, crossed the hot slit of macadam to touch the marvelous loosed bobbing of The Salt Lake, to honor and assault it in its proof, to wash away some slight need for Maine's coast. Later the funny salt itched in my pores and stung like bees or sleet. I rinsed it off on Reno and hurried to steal a better proof at tables where I always lost. Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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1.9k
Anne Sexton
The Lost Ingredient
Almost yesterday, those gentle ladies stole to their baths in Atlantic Cuty, for the lost rites of the first sea of the first salt running from a faucet. I have heard they sat for hours in briny tubs, patting hotel towels sweetly over shivered skin, smelling the stale harbor of a lost ocean, praying at last for impossible loves, or new skin, or still another child. And since this was the style, I don't suppose they knew what they had lost. Almost yesterday, pushing West, I lost ten Utah driving minutes, stopped to steal past postcard vendors, crossed the hot slit of macadam to touch the marvelous loosed bobbing of The Salt Lake, to honor and assault it in its proof, to wash away some slight need for Maine's coast. Later the funny salt itched in my pores and stung like bees or sleet. I rinsed it off on Reno and hurried to steal a better proof at tables where I always lost. Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last.
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24
War; absolute This will be my macadam into re-assemblage For if I'm not on edge, I'm taking up too much precious space What wickedness lies beneath the surface of the skin? I should know this place better than anyone But my landscape has become mercurial Ever changing, impossible to map I am forced to navigate its pitfalls in ever complicating ways It has become a desolate place I alone should rule here, my sovereignty unquestioned Yet I've become content to be complacent, and have allowed a sickly intruder to slip past my walls They infect, demoralize: turn my skin to stone They must be expunged; cut out, snipped from the healthy flesh like a cancer As one removes a gangrenous foot to save the leg Though my tools at the moment are blunt, I sharpen them daily with the whetstone afforded to me They will not continue to expel bile into the bloodstream for long My strength returns by the hour They know this, and they tremble I am the goddess to whom this altar is devoted I am righteous fury, come to cleanse this blight with holy fire and flood The war drums sound as the gate is lifted The iron bell tolls -- judgement day cometh
0
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 8:25 PM UTC
CelestialTempeste
Valkyrie
War; absolute This will be my macadam into re-assemblage For if I'm not on edge, I'm taking up too much precious space What wickedness lies beneath the surface of the skin? I should know this place better than anyone But my landscape has become mercurial Ever changing, impossible to map I am forced to navigate its pitfalls in ever complicating ways It has become a desolate place I alone should rule here, my sovereignty unquestioned Yet I've become content to be complacent, and have allowed a sickly intruder to slip past my walls They infect, demoralize: turn my skin to stone They must be expunged; cut out, snipped from the healthy flesh like a cancer As one removes a gangrenous foot to save the leg Though my tools at the moment are blunt, I sharpen them daily with the whetstone afforded to me They will not continue to expel bile into the bloodstream for long My strength returns by the hour They know this, and they tremble I am the goddess to whom this altar is devoted I am righteous fury, come to cleanse this blight with holy fire and flood The war drums sound as the gate is lifted The iron bell tolls -- judgement day cometh
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22
In Nebraska, they are murdering transexuals those with necks red as blood and lipstick      This recording is the last of the words which are me      -Play on the air for all to hear or smash them between these two bricks these two red bricks of earth and stone      In Nebraska, they are murdering transexuals which you may think is funny when their lipstick gets smeared ridiculously across the macadam until you see their blood the same as yours until they come for you those "good old boys" with fists like bricks and necks engorged with hate and spit warm beer, **** and vinegar sun beating down on their angry, little brains        This is the final transcript of all that I am embellished with sequins and such scrawled in *****      These words are my lover's breaths floating in darkness above cold ears lost in cartoon-balloon blurbs a drama of gasps a flurry of snow and chipped nails upon the pavement across the prairie in Nebraska
0
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 5:26 AM UTC
-richard-j-treitner
Nebraska
In Nebraska, they are murdering transexuals those with necks red as blood and lipstick      This recording is the last of the words which are me      -Play on the air for all to hear or smash them between these two bricks these two red bricks of earth and stone      In Nebraska, they are murdering transexuals which you may think is funny when their lipstick gets smeared ridiculously across the macadam until you see their blood the same as yours until they come for you those "good old boys" with fists like bricks and necks engorged with hate and spit warm beer, **** and vinegar sun beating down on their angry, little brains        This is the final transcript of all that I am embellished with sequins and such scrawled in *****      These words are my lover's breaths floating in darkness above cold ears lost in cartoon-balloon blurbs a drama of gasps a flurry of snow and chipped nails upon the pavement across the prairie in Nebraska
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28
I cherish you like the feeling of cracking open the window on the first day of spring Feeling the warmth of the sun breathing in the smell of flowers and grass hearing the birds awaken from a slumber I cherish you like waking in the dead of night to the sound of a summer storm Listening to the soothing patter watching the lightening eluminate as you smell the damp macadam I cherish you like that moment of precipus before plumetting into sleep It's a calm filled with ambiance and warm enveloping bedsheets that emphasize the taste of mint on your teeth I cherish you like hearing a hearty laugh or putting on a new pair of socks because the little things the things we tend to take for granted was the way I loved you -- the way I cherish you.
0
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
c-e-smith
the way I cherish you
I cherish you like the feeling of cracking open the window on the first day of spring Feeling the warmth of the sun breathing in the smell of flowers and grass hearing the birds awaken from a slumber I cherish you like waking in the dead of night to the sound of a summer storm Listening to the soothing patter watching the lightening eluminate as you smell the damp macadam I cherish you like that moment of precipus before plumetting into sleep It's a calm filled with ambiance and warm enveloping bedsheets that emphasize the taste of mint on your teeth I cherish you like hearing a hearty laugh or putting on a new pair of socks because the little things the things we tend to take for granted was the way I loved you -- the way I cherish you.
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25
I have come to conclusion over sunpierced crust brittle as tobacco leaf astride mottled nag scraggling on loose gravel sandsoaked saltsteeped leadheavy in lid past dactyled tracks parallel cobbled macadam wavering shale lockjawed lava rock fractured cobalt lone juniper forgotten scrub open boil of tar and pitch halfburied bones of leviathan still shifting in the clouded boom of stone through grapeshot hail adobed pueblos thatchskinned women and straw men all witches flaying the gila pestling scale with cornmeal and fermented mescal desert sangria hallucinating sideways in the murk where coyotes yip and each star a conflagration mirrored in the captive eyes of floundered meteorites at the terminus where sun and moon merge I know the question and response from where do you come to where do you go
0
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 5:04 PM UTC
ari
Jose Cuervo
I have come to conclusion over sunpierced crust brittle as tobacco leaf astride mottled nag scraggling on loose gravel sandsoaked saltsteeped leadheavy in lid past dactyled tracks parallel cobbled macadam wavering shale lockjawed lava rock fractured cobalt lone juniper forgotten scrub open boil of tar and pitch halfburied bones of leviathan still shifting in the clouded boom of stone through grapeshot hail adobed pueblos thatchskinned women and straw men all witches flaying the gila pestling scale with cornmeal and fermented mescal desert sangria hallucinating sideways in the murk where coyotes yip and each star a conflagration mirrored in the captive eyes of floundered meteorites at the terminus where sun and moon merge I know the question and response from where do you come to where do you go
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39
The granular spittle that remains in my throat A long day between winter and spring My state known only by friends few of them My Love felt by every creature The ******** that sprinkles with their hatred And those that converts their names and faith This suffocating visible plurality of creatures and bizarre manifestations My spiritual nervation has strengthened Soul cells are dancing the muttered nation’s dance called Love Those who make *** in the air as flies’ foals hatred babies Can you **** babies is our question We the invisible plurality of divine creatures and manifestations We the perpetual Theophany coruscate in pure hearts As Sun in the dews of mornings full of vetyver, ambergris, limonene, fragrance and a slight skunk of civet, moschus and the sweat men by labor exhausted We speak we sing we paint With the act without exhaling a syllable from our holly mouths We sprinkle with the aureate dust Straight we look at Saturn ring color eyes and the color of peacock tale feather We built a cube temple and play chess in cube We love the terrain where the guests of Moses and Lot before him had passed through We sing with Seraph of high realms we sing in sync Here we bring joy in hearts of those who encroached in procession through emerald macadam Where you seldom pass We know by heart the Al Jaffr and ten Sefirots and we read the Liber Razielis We accompanied Adam Kadmon in his solitude prior to separation and embodiment in terrain that will be bloodied by human through centuries We have said to John to go in the river Jordan baptize the Christ and lead him on For those who knows a little We said to Waraka to prepare Muhammad to become the leader of those who seek the truth We said to Bahaullah to explain men to take after women and the mother Earth Otherwise in upcoming millennium the solely food of them shall be kernels and water We said to Gibran commence the Theurgy for upcoming millennium being as solely artistic repose for creative men We said to Fahredin write as much as possible and hush as a canyon stone Until he finds his echo point We…
0
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 7:37 AM UTC
fahredin-shehu
Theophany
The granular spittle that remains in my throat A long day between winter and spring My state known only by friends few of them My Love felt by every creature The ******** that sprinkles with their hatred And those that converts their names and faith This suffocating visible plurality of creatures and bizarre manifestations My spiritual nervation has strengthened Soul cells are dancing the muttered nation’s dance called Love Those who make *** in the air as flies’ foals hatred babies Can you **** babies is our question We the invisible plurality of divine creatures and manifestations We the perpetual Theophany coruscate in pure hearts As Sun in the dews of mornings full of vetyver, ambergris, limonene, fragrance and a slight skunk of civet, moschus and the sweat men by labor exhausted We speak we sing we paint With the act without exhaling a syllable from our holly mouths We sprinkle with the aureate dust Straight we look at Saturn ring color eyes and the color of peacock tale feather We built a cube temple and play chess in cube We love the terrain where the guests of Moses and Lot before him had passed through We sing with Seraph of high realms we sing in sync Here we bring joy in hearts of those who encroached in procession through emerald macadam Where you seldom pass We know by heart the Al Jaffr and ten Sefirots and we read the Liber Razielis We accompanied Adam Kadmon in his solitude prior to separation and embodiment in terrain that will be bloodied by human through centuries We have said to John to go in the river Jordan baptize the Christ and lead him on For those who knows a little We said to Waraka to prepare Muhammad to become the leader of those who seek the truth We said to Bahaullah to explain men to take after women and the mother Earth Otherwise in upcoming millennium the solely food of them shall be kernels and water We said to Gibran commence the Theurgy for upcoming millennium being as solely artistic repose for creative men We said to Fahredin write as much as possible and hush as a canyon stone Until he finds his echo point We…
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34
I have passed through The narrow canyons of cerebrum While listening odes of mature cells Vibrating slowly And a fresh Pine resin, Oak moss and fresh Ozone winded my hairs Inside my nose Plugged my alveolus ready to burst of indescribable pleasure I’ve heard sounds of sprinkling blood From my wounded feet Leaving blueprint of the thirsty soul… For Knowledge, Wisdom and Enlightenment That slowly bows in a front of God Only by us called LOVE In an emerald macadam to show the path To the following procession of creatures From all Gurdijeffian Octaves Which as a golden fig are blossoming from within? You may call me outpour of passion And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me lanolin extracted from merino And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me a broken porcelain soldier And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me a bee that soaks the nectar from thousands of roses And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me a yellow topaz A child of carbon And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me a felt petal of the white rose And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me believer who prays for the sins of human multitude And you’ll not be mistaken You may even call me human that mix with angels unaware of his innocence And you’ll not be mistaken But I know I know spirit does not have a gender The wind misses the color The grass is painted green by transparent rain Alchemy is a transformation of mother’s milk into blood Heaven is nature and man is Hell But the Mother is God in Heaven and Earth Thus I’m hardly a human.
0
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 7:43 AM UTC
fahredin-shehu
The Emerald Macadam
I have passed through The narrow canyons of cerebrum While listening odes of mature cells Vibrating slowly And a fresh Pine resin, Oak moss and fresh Ozone winded my hairs Inside my nose Plugged my alveolus ready to burst of indescribable pleasure I’ve heard sounds of sprinkling blood From my wounded feet Leaving blueprint of the thirsty soul… For Knowledge, Wisdom and Enlightenment That slowly bows in a front of God Only by us called LOVE In an emerald macadam to show the path To the following procession of creatures From all Gurdijeffian Octaves Which as a golden fig are blossoming from within? You may call me outpour of passion And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me lanolin extracted from merino And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me a broken porcelain soldier And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me a bee that soaks the nectar from thousands of roses And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me a yellow topaz A child of carbon And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me a felt petal of the white rose And you’ll not be mistaken You may call me believer who prays for the sins of human multitude And you’ll not be mistaken You may even call me human that mix with angels unaware of his innocence And you’ll not be mistaken But I know I know spirit does not have a gender The wind misses the color The grass is painted green by transparent rain Alchemy is a transformation of mother’s milk into blood Heaven is nature and man is Hell But the Mother is God in Heaven and Earth Thus I’m hardly a human.
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46
My inner tongue trips over her yesterday morning’s extemporaneous homily and its retelling rains down on me temporal anomalies through which I’ll slip the bleached monotony chasing me. Turn key, return me to the upturned glee of a midnight macadam. Unmanned, it’s where the manholes open up to me their traps of sunken yet stacked wire-mesh baskets. They’ve been left to catch a refused few turquoise-beaded strings mixed with ash feather-dusted by the lime, tangerine and grape wing beats of exotic birds too meek to fly upward. There the tensile tip of a sweet and fecund smell grips me and it squeezes out visions of too-soon dying in that bed where a stripped truth lies tenderly with the on-putting of my put-off lies. A low hiss heralds happy heat and radiating pings rap me down the shrinking-shadow hall away from Hedone’s keep. In the singular pleasure of this rhythmic pluralism my nouns and verbs find their final agreement: *All we’ve known is what a wanting wind’s foretold, but its chilly, willful voice can no longer hold us.*
0
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 9:36 AM UTC
francis-scudellari
It's in our dreams we'll find the way forward
My inner tongue trips over her yesterday morning’s extemporaneous homily and its retelling rains down on me temporal anomalies through which I’ll slip the bleached monotony chasing me. Turn key, return me to the upturned glee of a midnight macadam. Unmanned, it’s where the manholes open up to me their traps of sunken yet stacked wire-mesh baskets. They’ve been left to catch a refused few turquoise-beaded strings mixed with ash feather-dusted by the lime, tangerine and grape wing beats of exotic birds too meek to fly upward. There the tensile tip of a sweet and fecund smell grips me and it squeezes out visions of too-soon dying in that bed where a stripped truth lies tenderly with the on-putting of my put-off lies. A low hiss heralds happy heat and radiating pings rap me down the shrinking-shadow hall away from Hedone’s keep. In the singular pleasure of this rhythmic pluralism my nouns and verbs find their final agreement: *All we’ve known is what a wanting wind’s foretold, but its chilly, willful voice can no longer hold us.*
Continue reading...
44
The overture sounds: A muffled “thud,”        And scraping flesh against macadam. Un-rosined bows screech across nerves,                      Dividing molecules to atoms. Each neuron fires off, splicing into three The soul from the body,           and something indescribably between. Catching fire, he ascends -             "This is what it truly means to be!" Each piece, each side Breaking away in-finitely To somehow become more whole Through division, and in balance.                   Like a reunion, of holy trinity,                        Caught ablaze in fissile symphony.                    -  -  - And like a cork popped from a bottle, Rewound, and played reversed,        He careens with a whining pitch        And                  f                     a                        l                           l                             s                               From orbit,                                   Back to earth. Glimpsing God Only to be clawed back To the pains and pleasures of Samsara,         To taste the bitterness of my own blood,         Juxtaposed         With the ecstasy of Nirvana. This is how I came to know the realm      In which our feeble bodies lurch. Reborn as a phoenix from the ashes. From the rear cabin of a hearse.
0
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
bad-luck
Ablaze in Fissile Symphony (Phoenix from a Hearse)
The overture sounds: A muffled “thud,”        And scraping flesh against macadam. Un-rosined bows screech across nerves,                      Dividing molecules to atoms. Each neuron fires off, splicing into three The soul from the body,           and something indescribably between. Catching fire, he ascends -             "This is what it truly means to be!" Each piece, each side Breaking away in-finitely To somehow become more whole Through division, and in balance.                   Like a reunion, of holy trinity,                        Caught ablaze in fissile symphony.                    -  -  - And like a cork popped from a bottle, Rewound, and played reversed,        He careens with a whining pitch        And                  f                     a                        l                           l                             s                               From orbit,                                   Back to earth. Glimpsing God Only to be clawed back To the pains and pleasures of Samsara,         To taste the bitterness of my own blood,         Juxtaposed         With the ecstasy of Nirvana. This is how I came to know the realm      In which our feeble bodies lurch. Reborn as a phoenix from the ashes. From the rear cabin of a hearse.
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38
I am visiting a friend. I buy sweets. The bakery is good. I buy chicken cutlets too. Five of them. They are corrupted by time. If they are safe to eat By the evening, I am not sure. It’s already noon. “They are freshly baked,” says the sales woman. She is not just a sales woman. She is also the wife of the owner. So I trust her. Time is 1.00 PM. My wife is waiting for me to return. She is also coming with me. It’s our first visit after marriage. We are visiting our best friend. I raise a lot of dust With my tires As I rev the engine hard For a quick turn and a fast return. I pick her up at her home, one hour’s drive. From there, we took the most romantic route By the reserve forest, On a macadam road. From Panoor* to Peravoor**, She won’t feel bored, The road is fine, and the nature divine. My friend was told That we will reach by evening, at four. We are a half way when it’s three thirty. I try to smell hard for the chicken cutlets. Any variation in smell Meant they are lost to nature. I slam the accelerator. The car flies. The road is not straight. On both sides, Wild Life Reserves. If I drive any faster We may end up seeking room For our dead bodies Among the wilderness. I try to tell my wife. She is already nodding. So I keep focused on the road. I wanted to take the cutlets out And check them one last time. I pray they are patient Before they decide to give in To the instinct of nature To transform in an inedible form. By the time, we reach his house It was raining at Peravoor. Before greeting him The first thing I did Was to check on my chicken cutlets. I thought I could just leave The cutlets inside the car In case they are rotten. Before I could smell them, My wife snatched them away And placed them on a table For everyone to see. She seemed confident. Had she seen the owner’s wife? I urged my friend To take the banana chips first Wishing, he would forget Chicken cutlets until we left the place. That way I hoped to save my molten pride From spilling over The heated veins of the body. I decided to trust For the time being What I was told By the baker’s lady.
0
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
anu-lal
The Baker's Lady
I am visiting a friend. I buy sweets. The bakery is good. I buy chicken cutlets too. Five of them. They are corrupted by time. If they are safe to eat By the evening, I am not sure. It’s already noon. “They are freshly baked,” says the sales woman. She is not just a sales woman. She is also the wife of the owner. So I trust her. Time is 1.00 PM. My wife is waiting for me to return. She is also coming with me. It’s our first visit after marriage. We are visiting our best friend. I raise a lot of dust With my tires As I rev the engine hard For a quick turn and a fast return. I pick her up at her home, one hour’s drive. From there, we took the most romantic route By the reserve forest, On a macadam road. From Panoor* to Peravoor**, She won’t feel bored, The road is fine, and the nature divine. My friend was told That we will reach by evening, at four. We are a half way when it’s three thirty. I try to smell hard for the chicken cutlets. Any variation in smell Meant they are lost to nature. I slam the accelerator. The car flies. The road is not straight. On both sides, Wild Life Reserves. If I drive any faster We may end up seeking room For our dead bodies Among the wilderness. I try to tell my wife. She is already nodding. So I keep focused on the road. I wanted to take the cutlets out And check them one last time. I pray they are patient Before they decide to give in To the instinct of nature To transform in an inedible form. By the time, we reach his house It was raining at Peravoor. Before greeting him The first thing I did Was to check on my chicken cutlets. I thought I could just leave The cutlets inside the car In case they are rotten. Before I could smell them, My wife snatched them away And placed them on a table For everyone to see. She seemed confident. Had she seen the owner’s wife? I urged my friend To take the banana chips first Wishing, he would forget Chicken cutlets until we left the place. That way I hoped to save my molten pride From spilling over The heated veins of the body. I decided to trust For the time being What I was told By the baker’s lady.
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78
Calming raindrops Fall slowly Erasing on the macadam The memory of teardrops From the tragedy Crying Ad nauseam In the heart Of the hurt Dark fate Made love depart When the burst Terminate One drop at a time Nature reminds Us of beauty Forgiving downtime Our clock rewind Celebrating liberty The wash of nature Brushes away The traces in surface Hello future Blow me away Bring a smile on my face. April 23, 2013 G.
0
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
gerard-riveron
Weatherman (E)
Calming raindrops Fall slowly Erasing on the macadam The memory of teardrops From the tragedy Crying Ad nauseam In the heart Of the hurt Dark fate Made love depart When the burst Terminate One drop at a time Nature reminds Us of beauty Forgiving downtime Our clock rewind Celebrating liberty The wash of nature Brushes away The traces in surface Hello future Blow me away Bring a smile on my face. April 23, 2013 G.
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26
This is how our dreams end: Not an avalanche cascading around our ears, But the subtle shift of pebbles in a stream bed, An endless series of minute compromises with ourselves Which we justify to by raising any number of spectres: The weight of disappointment from unrequited expectation, The bogeyman of unintended consequence from our successes. So we make the box of our wishes smaller and then yet smaller, Until we do not recognize them as ours at all; Or, perhaps, we have adulterated them so often We can no longer ascertain At what point they stopped resembling our hopes and ideals, Not unlike when the batter, stepping to the plate, Scratches out the back line of the batter’s box Until its boundary disappears Into a confusion of dust and lime. One final wish, then; scatter me at the crossroads when I die, So that, if perhaps for only that one moment, I can rise above the gray and cracked macadam Of these too-familiar roads And float into a clear, blue unambiguous sky, No longer a victim of the gravity Of the workaday concerns that shackle us together.
0
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
wk-kortas
Scatter Me At The Crossroads
This is how our dreams end: Not an avalanche cascading around our ears, But the subtle shift of pebbles in a stream bed, An endless series of minute compromises with ourselves Which we justify to by raising any number of spectres: The weight of disappointment from unrequited expectation, The bogeyman of unintended consequence from our successes. So we make the box of our wishes smaller and then yet smaller, Until we do not recognize them as ours at all; Or, perhaps, we have adulterated them so often We can no longer ascertain At what point they stopped resembling our hopes and ideals, Not unlike when the batter, stepping to the plate, Scratches out the back line of the batter’s box Until its boundary disappears Into a confusion of dust and lime. One final wish, then; scatter me at the crossroads when I die, So that, if perhaps for only that one moment, I can rise above the gray and cracked macadam Of these too-familiar roads And float into a clear, blue unambiguous sky, No longer a victim of the gravity Of the workaday concerns that shackle us together.
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23
This early winter has already slipped from the macadam, Bloats the creek I see From the perch of rusted manhole covers Their tunnels rush with concrete. It falls over the v-shaped Two-Log dam, It whispers to me I’ve come close to Nothing, to nothing, to nothingness, I’ve heard the babbling, the incomprehensible echo Of my own voice In the abyss of being, that, if I spoke It taunted back, in a voice Rife With truth. Redemption of solidity has me now, This is where I grew up: Along the same creek, along the flow and course of man Crossing the winter’s water has proven Test, trial, and victory Every time. I never noticed it. Apathy is a vague blur in the saccade of the last few years, Self-destructed by the fault of feeling. I am more human now, returning to the shores of limitation, Of the piercing history Still young, but wizened, hard, a court At which I stood and begged for my head. I have but my name now, and nothing to return to But the temporary homes with temporary people. If I said I don’t care, I was wrong. They were my temple, But the god of me, the god of them, the god of sheer youthful joy Has been overtaken by grapevines, by ivy And I still proclaim victory, still proclaim I won the fight of isolation. From the frozen bed of silt and winter I pull concrete chips from the bridge They destroyed ten years prior, where once I stood And added my sorrows to the ebon stream, carrying it To the end of it, where end met end, And continued on end-to-end. But I have seen nothing and no end it quite like it, For every shore has its mirror, And beyond it is my voice, I cast out, Calling back, As it was.
0
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
jp-goss
Stone Bridge Verse
This early winter has already slipped from the macadam, Bloats the creek I see From the perch of rusted manhole covers Their tunnels rush with concrete. It falls over the v-shaped Two-Log dam, It whispers to me I’ve come close to Nothing, to nothing, to nothingness, I’ve heard the babbling, the incomprehensible echo Of my own voice In the abyss of being, that, if I spoke It taunted back, in a voice Rife With truth. Redemption of solidity has me now, This is where I grew up: Along the same creek, along the flow and course of man Crossing the winter’s water has proven Test, trial, and victory Every time. I never noticed it. Apathy is a vague blur in the saccade of the last few years, Self-destructed by the fault of feeling. I am more human now, returning to the shores of limitation, Of the piercing history Still young, but wizened, hard, a court At which I stood and begged for my head. I have but my name now, and nothing to return to But the temporary homes with temporary people. If I said I don’t care, I was wrong. They were my temple, But the god of me, the god of them, the god of sheer youthful joy Has been overtaken by grapevines, by ivy And I still proclaim victory, still proclaim I won the fight of isolation. From the frozen bed of silt and winter I pull concrete chips from the bridge They destroyed ten years prior, where once I stood And added my sorrows to the ebon stream, carrying it To the end of it, where end met end, And continued on end-to-end. But I have seen nothing and no end it quite like it, For every shore has its mirror, And beyond it is my voice, I cast out, Calling back, As it was.
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44
Must a boy become a man, paint a lifetime with sparkly night colors gray on gray, 
the time it takes to spill blood and tears listless onto 
one sandy, macadam street *Chase him, he’ll turn on you 
Confront him, he’ll fight 
Shoot him, you came ready
 to **** to feel hard flesh
 surrender, slacken, heart flutter, pressure lost* The street knows, drawn with chalk, what difference lies between man and boy Which is which, when dawn breaks, and why do angels 
weep at night unheard….
0
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Rivenheart
Tabula Rasa
Must a boy become a man, paint a lifetime with sparkly night colors gray on gray, 
the time it takes to spill blood and tears listless onto 
one sandy, macadam street *Chase him, he’ll turn on you 
Confront him, he’ll fight 
Shoot him, you came ready
 to **** to feel hard flesh
 surrender, slacken, heart flutter, pressure lost* The street knows, drawn with chalk, what difference lies between man and boy Which is which, when dawn breaks, and why do angels 
weep at night unheard….
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18
I roll a marble down Market Street from the hillside looking over the dusty city while the sun sets. It finds a central channel in the cobbled street and rolls beyond my seeing past the Kurdish boy on the curb plucking a tick from his stiff homespun trousers. The boy chews a sliver of wild onion grass he has picked from the feral garden behind the abandoned mosque my marble passes now. Across the street Kastorides stamps the tin lids on liter cans of olive oil bearing his name. From the corner of his eye, he sees the flash of my marble like a wet pea, wonders when they will pave over Market Street in macadam. He shouts for Andrei, out of earshot, marking cards in the alley behind the coffee shop downstairs from the flat of the student who glances from the yellowed wall clock to the Swatch watch on his wrist, then tenderly lifts the flap of his haversack to peer inside. He has smoked his last cigarette, is poking through the butts in the ashtray for a long one when the phone rings — only once. The student pulls a sweatshirt over his bare torso, grabs the haversack and dashes out. In the street he sees my marble, almost slips on it in fact, and stops to watch it running down its course toward the fountain in the square. The driver of the truck, distracted by fears of his wife and blinded in one eye by a speck of dust which was once a dog’s skin, takes the corner too hard, the left front tire giving imperceptibly over the rolling marble.
0
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:05 AM UTC
john-silence
Sweet Parade
I roll a marble down Market Street from the hillside looking over the dusty city while the sun sets. It finds a central channel in the cobbled street and rolls beyond my seeing past the Kurdish boy on the curb plucking a tick from his stiff homespun trousers. The boy chews a sliver of wild onion grass he has picked from the feral garden behind the abandoned mosque my marble passes now. Across the street Kastorides stamps the tin lids on liter cans of olive oil bearing his name. From the corner of his eye, he sees the flash of my marble like a wet pea, wonders when they will pave over Market Street in macadam. He shouts for Andrei, out of earshot, marking cards in the alley behind the coffee shop downstairs from the flat of the student who glances from the yellowed wall clock to the Swatch watch on his wrist, then tenderly lifts the flap of his haversack to peer inside. He has smoked his last cigarette, is poking through the butts in the ashtray for a long one when the phone rings — only once. The student pulls a sweatshirt over his bare torso, grabs the haversack and dashes out. In the street he sees my marble, almost slips on it in fact, and stops to watch it running down its course toward the fountain in the square. The driver of the truck, distracted by fears of his wife and blinded in one eye by a speck of dust which was once a dog’s skin, takes the corner too hard, the left front tire giving imperceptibly over the rolling marble.
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38
i never met my grandfather till today-- he dies in 1975 and today he was born at the bottom of a drawer in the kitchen, his coffin and crib: he is swaddled in moth-eaten dishtowels by a nameless undertaker or perhaps the autophagic author himself his crib and coffin: he was buried a lifetime, deaf to my own cacophonous et cetera amidst cardboard boxes he arises, stretches and sits on our couch, transparent and whispering his earliest recollections in ink from distant trenches: he eats sliced-up milky way bars, listens to little orphan annie and the manhattan rainstorms as they flood his empty pillowcase; my earliest recollection is a blank notebook, never happened, didn’t fall from the sky till three-quarters of a century later in drops of impossible invisible ink in 1934 i smell decades-old storms and tobacco smoked by children; today he tastes dough from hands of women he could have loved we break toys, apologize to our ghosts listen to drops on macadam phantoms. we think tonight was cloudy. we left identical sleigh tracks in identical snow laughed identical laughs whose echoes and imprints are separated only by city and by many, many newspapers. we remembered the same sun, the same rain and lightning and we both wrote that we may be heard over the century’s thunder but stopped, hid, tired, retired— shaking hands halfway to tomorrow, never touching— two strange strangers left sleepless and motionless in the same notebooks, the same house: in the same cradles and the same coffins.
0
Sep 22, 2024
Sep 22, 2024 at 5:56 PM UTC
blanketings
if you have ghosts (you have everything)
i never met my grandfather till today-- he dies in 1975 and today he was born at the bottom of a drawer in the kitchen, his coffin and crib: he is swaddled in moth-eaten dishtowels by a nameless undertaker or perhaps the autophagic author himself his crib and coffin: he was buried a lifetime, deaf to my own cacophonous et cetera amidst cardboard boxes he arises, stretches and sits on our couch, transparent and whispering his earliest recollections in ink from distant trenches: he eats sliced-up milky way bars, listens to little orphan annie and the manhattan rainstorms as they flood his empty pillowcase; my earliest recollection is a blank notebook, never happened, didn’t fall from the sky till three-quarters of a century later in drops of impossible invisible ink in 1934 i smell decades-old storms and tobacco smoked by children; today he tastes dough from hands of women he could have loved we break toys, apologize to our ghosts listen to drops on macadam phantoms. we think tonight was cloudy. we left identical sleigh tracks in identical snow laughed identical laughs whose echoes and imprints are separated only by city and by many, many newspapers. we remembered the same sun, the same rain and lightning and we both wrote that we may be heard over the century’s thunder but stopped, hid, tired, retired— shaking hands halfway to tomorrow, never touching— two strange strangers left sleepless and motionless in the same notebooks, the same house: in the same cradles and the same coffins.
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44
whorl and pool. pale light circulate around lamps to build a world between the black buildings street streaked,blacker, by tar macadam are flavour made as lit - whole oranges and, modern blasts of blue white fruits. blobs both. Old black thick oil bitumen based rock. lighter the other. made of energy bouncing into eyes as a scene. division is round at edge of energy and straight painted line. demarcation: my side your side for vehicles and, kiddies games. by day this place is singularly lit and shadows are directed one way but now under street-lights the shadows play
0
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
mrquipty
shadows play
whorl and pool. pale light circulate around lamps to build a world between the black buildings street streaked,blacker, by tar macadam are flavour made as lit - whole oranges and, modern blasts of blue white fruits. blobs both. Old black thick oil bitumen based rock. lighter the other. made of energy bouncing into eyes as a scene. division is round at edge of energy and straight painted line. demarcation: my side your side for vehicles and, kiddies games. by day this place is singularly lit and shadows are directed one way but now under street-lights the shadows play
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30