"makings" poems
This is the core of industries
It's crazy oh you see assemblies before ores fall in the streets but
It's all for you and me
A steampunk nation
Baby pollution rises up then the loving comes arraigning 'cause
Our art's official and only partially artificial
And our heart's in the middle of sharp hardened shards of metal but
There's not where it settles
Because it's beating to the steaming of God's hottest *** or kettle
And now we face it, this creation we made to
To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's
Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation
In our steampunk nation
Our steampunk nation
It's places having creation
But with black metal makings
And wordsmith's an occupation like phrase on paper's the way we say she's
Making our hearts start raving and baby maybe even raging for
For beaming metals and
Yeah steaming kettles, Meccas of our cyberstation Hades
And now we face it, this creation we made to
To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's
Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation
In our steampunk nation
Our steampunk nation
Oh how do we face it, this creation we made to
To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's
Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation
In a steampunk nation
A steampunk nation
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Luna Tickle eats only pickles and ***** up all the brine
When her brother tells their mother she begins to whine:
“Yes I did it! And left no tidbit
Is that such a crime? My brother smells and raises hell
And leaves the loo full of slime.”
Now their mother dear began to fear her children were obstructions
Never listening, since their christening, and wished for their abduction
So she planned a slaughter and called her daughter
Outside to the woodshed, then chopped her neck in two
She put Luna’s head in her brother’s bed and said,
“Now, they’ll be no more Boo-Hoos”
Now you know of Luna and her tragic ending
But there’s more to this rhyme that’s pending
For the Tickle name is quite insane
And was never worth defending
But that’s just what her brother did
When Mrs. Tickle met Judge Knuckle
And almost flipped her lid
Screaming:
“I never liked that kid from the day she began to suckle!
Why she couldn’t be more like me, or her lovely sister Tess”
Twas all Mrs. Tickle could confess that day to Judge and jury
Until brother **** chimed-in and confessed his sin
And did so in such a fury, it was heard throughout and within
The entire state of Missouri:
“I am Richard Tickle and do confess I am not fickle
In fact I am quite pugnacious
If you do not see the circumstances like me
I’ll be forced to be disputatious”
Interjects Judge Knuckle:
“Boy, I’ll have you buckled this instance to electric chair
If you’re not scared I’ll be splitting hairs
In a place where the sun does not shine
So if you care, you’d best beware
Or your Gherkin will be in a brine”
Now Tess screamed out and her mother did shout
In perfect unison:
**** is my love and none the likes of any other hooligan”
At this there was a scuffle
Each dame was muffed and ruffled
They could not contain
All their angst and their pain
And it led to the ugliest tussle
For each thought ****
Was devoted to she
And apparently, this could not be
As we know of the trouble with Luna
So the jury was not out
Or even in doubt
Of these sinister makings and troubles
It was the sickest of affairs
Mass-producing glaring stares
From everyone within the court
Missouri Gazette’s headlines that day
Told of how they did slay
And burn the Tickle chalet
Leaving it in incestuous rubble
The lesson today to this horrific ballet
Is don’t live your life in a bubble
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
and were the ears so pleased when:
the iciclic needles dug into our skins,
fleshy cloths that, sewn together,
made the mask to hide the whole.
we wore them like the cheapest of trophies,
the basest of glories and the simplest of stories.
we wore them to contrast to the whiteness of space,
the empty black white gray of life's living littleness
with the reddened hardwork of claymade shells.
they glowed with the rusty red of millions of faces
free to make their mark as they see best fit.
we had found these skins
forgotten on the floor,
and so we picked them up
with our biglittle hands
and opened the door
to newmade makings and
brand new beings.
it was empty within us--
the beings of old
and the yearnings of yore
had retreated far beneath the surface,
burrowed deep below mountains and meadows and
hills pushed up like sand in a box,
crushed against the sides of our enclosure.
it was silent within us--
the screech-making moon
sang in time to chest-beatings
and the barking of stray dogs;
the melody of moments lost in time.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
How can you hold the very makings of disaster?
How do you ease yourself in finding trouble to hold onto?
You are gripping the hands that once
fumbled for a tearing of skin,
bore blood at the fingertips,
greeted the brick wall with excitement and shattering
my numbness along with it.
What comfort do you seek in weaving your fingers
with ones that tugged desperately on hair
and swept away floodgates of water from tired eyes,
proving to me I was weakened once again?
But I look down at the shaking documents of disaster
when your embodiments of happiness reach for them
and cover the wounds in an unhesitant embrace.
And I know those previous questions don't matter;
your infectious comfort of my hands rests in the palm
and spreads.
My hand is now only holding your hand.
Only.
And that's the only thing it should now do.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
"god, i hate everyone. i cant stand being around people"
"same here, they repulse me. lets hang out some time"
seems...contradictory
why would i want to better know someone who hates people
when i hate people?
isnt that a recipe for disaster?
sure its a commonality but...
i still dont know what the allure is
i feel like an audience member
my voice drowned out by the crowd around
is it lonliness?
cant be.
when im around people i look for that.
but when im alone i search for company
not even sure what i want anymore
bouncing around from different states of mind
wants and needs constantly changing...
accepting that i can never have a normal relationship or interaction with other people
acceptance is much easier than fighting
the makings of an antisocial
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
I shield my eyes
against the glare
and see the lighthouse
far distant
stand *****
beside the sleeping sea
the tired strand
where seabirds wade
children play and
parents guard their
moves and makings
. . . at my feet
the detritus of time:
tide-gathered wood,
salt-stripped,
sea-stained yet
polished by restless
turn and tilt
of the absent moon.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 3:19 AM UTC
fragile heart she lay ruptured in my lounge chair
grey faced i mumble a few parting words over her
before i lay out the finest bone china
all the makings of tea and biscuits
all the fixings of ******
with the sounds of the snapping of necks
sharp wet sound fresh on the air
she was here to mourn her lover-boy
gone astray
i was here to see the deed done
i was the grey faced hangman
come to get his pennys
in my song you can hear the rope snap
in my heart you can feel the fall from the gallows
and my hangman's noose swinging in breeze
has its own peculiar creaking sound that sounds
like love to me
i was the grey faced hangman
that knows no sympathy
come now you wicked ones
sing my song with me
grey faced i lead the procession
up the graveyard road
the overgrown and thick summer feel to it
claws at the senses
but i keep walking stiffly
with the sound
of snapping necks ringing in my ears
its my song
he had cried like a child as they carried him to the gallows
he had begged and wailed
but my hangman's noose had claimed him
cold comfort awaits
to the tomb they cried out with joy
to the tomb with the scoundrel
while she lay weeping her lost lover-boy
and while grey faced i cleansed the world
of scoundrels like him
while grey faced i silently mourned
for i had run out of rope
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
there was a little lion who one day would be king
the master of the jungle lovely little thing
he would have a crown of his very own
and just like a king he would have a throne
oneday in the jungle as he was passing through
he came across a rhino he was sad a blue
i have lost my way he said and dont what to do
lion he was clever and he knew his way
and he knew the place where all the rhinos stray
follow me said lion i will take you back
of they went together down the jungle track
they walked for while when suddenly in view
they saw a lot of rhinos there was quite a few
lion he was happy that he had found the way
and glad that he could help the little rhino stray
what the lion did was such a clever thing
proved he had the makings of a proper jungle king
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
A small one remembers
fingers taut and ***** rounded,
Smiles evened, amongst quickened hands-
Effective carrot peelers, snotty nose healers,
Heavy duty wrappers, cloaked in corporate
knowledge of dog breeds, how to clean your ears,
stain removal, vegetable purging tricks,
fairies, bus schedules on rainy days;
Full of mud pie ideas, bustled
in tidy makings of reading and feeding.
Oct 25, 2009
Oct 25, 2009 at 2:30 PM UTC
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.
His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.
It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,
Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.
1.8k
The makings-
all man-made illusions
Artificial lights
that imtitate my insides,
and they're hollow
like these ****** holes in my head.
When I die,
I want to stay here.
It's the only place my soul has ever felt safe.
The only place I truly fit.
I belong.
It cradles my existence.
I am property...
*"The ***** of morbid light"*
Wrapped up
in it's blinding,
beautiful energy
I'm the cherry inside of the emptiness.
Contribution to completion.
This is where I thrive...
In dead silence and isolation.
Fueled by adverse thoughts,
I ******
bend
and **** my mind
as my ink tube spits black -
Pure sinister damage.
I lick the pages.
kiss the letters.
and embrace the constant supply.
Call it a soul-sucking abyss if you'd like -
I'm still alive.
Dancing in this inffected nature,
getting drunk on filthiness,
sleeping around with insane company
and waking up with all types of diseases.
But I'm not afraid...
I'm inspired.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:00 AM UTC
This is
The end of a phase
The beginning of an era
Where hope is the villain
and everything bright with dreams
of happy endings
Is perused with intent to ****
I'm not your friend
I'm not your savior
I am the gun
buried in the hate
of everyone who's ever felt
the sting of betrayal, the whip
of hate searing it's name
into the bowels of your heart
I am the beginning, the ending
of everything to come
I am your friend burying the knife
in the back of everything you believe
I am a creature of your makings
Feed me, Keep me
Hate me HATE ME
And just before you forget me,
Remember all that's been done
before its too late and everything you love
becomes forsaken, destroyed
and is left in the wake of everything,
everything you've had me become..
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
I haven't told anyone that I still think about dying
Thoughts like that never make people comfortable
Even though death is natural
But when a teenager mentions death in the near future everyone wants to jump to the nearest conclusion
I'm not trying to say I'm suicidal
Believe me I have big plans ahead
I just think
More than I should
I think about how things would be if I just didn't be
If I just didn't be myself
If I just didn't be around
And if that makes me crazy
Then I have been crazy for quite some time
People never know
Never know true thoughts or someone's intentions
Until they expose themselves
Until they show the inner makings of their being
True feeling isn't always common
I just want people to know that they don't own me
And if I were to die today I could be confident in the fact that I expressed myself
I gave my life the effort of a solider and a peacekeeper
I pray that I see another day but if I don't that's okay
Colorado screams my name as if I'm destined to be there
Destined to find my way
Death is so easy
Life is what we have to be afraid of
And I have never been so scared in my life
Fear makes you stronger
So I'll continue the fight
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
This degree is a badge, not a tombstone
or it could me the makings of the next decade
I’ll procrastinate on being an adult
while my father leaves our house and
drives his new used Porsche around,
In the swells I play my Stratocaster
alone in the dark and I’ll make the sounds
of waves and
anger.
I’ll be lifted up by my collar bones
my speech will be the sounds of ripping paper
I’ll lose all contingency
And say good bye to serendipity
It will be my last known surroundings,
The trembling hands of human qualities
Be comfortable, creature, creator,
Let me back in.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
The Deerfield keeps me. My eyes follow the treeline testing my wit, tossing new exemplary corybantic lights. They zoom around me in hurried whirling motion. Then you appear. You can have my moon and my planets, my stars, and I haven't even spoken yet. In the midst of an earnest offering to the first of three heavy drinking boisterous uneasy types. I tell the stranger I'll drive him the, but what- .2 miles to his home- and your light exaserbates my speech.
Maybe you thought I'd go for your nose, but I'm after your breath. Rightly so, too many men have squandered much of the joy from being superfluously strangely with strangers. The drunk party exits screen left, and a new character, a Kennedy evolves from the shadows.
[This is where you begin conducting]
My thoughts brim with colors, patterns, shades, and hues. I paused to take in these profound chakras I thought had become the desiccate dusty footprints, walking around Foley's pond trying to find the best fishing hole through the rough and tangled undergrowth that consumed those hours of my life.
Your writing is far better than mine was at your age.
There is depth and richness in the vocabulary you choose.
Let me kidnap you for a day, present you with the places I like to let
My eyes gaze upon. Between the thatchwork of black and white and gray.
Where are my hands? The Earth is at my back, she begs me
To pry further, to know better the rejuvenating handy-work she
Has laid before me, and the noncom I mustn't reject either.
I cannot sleep. I wouldn't want to sleep if I could. I would reject it as I am. Drive until daylight casts morning into memory, I would recreate another
Fifty of exceptionally raw and indulgent exchanges. This is before the questions begin.
I inquiry myself to draw your story through the sparseness of details I ferociously gobbled up with excitement and profound wonder. I am absent in my own hours, and yet there is frothy balance, no bedevilments of the flesh, but even so we are only the skin and bone and makings of human. I commit to protect you from harm and show you beauty and humor amidst the chaos and crisis of life's evolution. It is your excruciating curiosity and lack of fear that draws me ever more near.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
Wounded fragments of shattered dreams stain the pavement and sidewalks while we all move in a pattern unknown and unseen.
Poised perfectly in the sky are the ends of strings that pull us along, and we follow, apathetic to the vile disgrace of not being in control.
The sun neither rises nor falls, we circle around to have him stare at us with curious and diminished eyes.
The stars wink and shine like diamonds in a fog, long after their reign has ended and their souls have departed.
Half forgotten synapses and faded photographs are the pinpoint of realization in the half written tragedy and comedy of man.
Can we feel the shattered slice into our feet? Do we drink of the cup of color or our we drowning ourselves in a cesspool of grey?
Frayed and patched we are.
The wolf is ignorant while the sparrow is enlightened. They chase each other. Dream by dream, thought by thought, reaction by action, into the depths of our souls. Neither can triumph over the other and perhaps that is the design. Blueprints hidden carefully by an architect far beyond comprehension of morality and sustenance are the makings of an encore, a time for roses after the curtain falls.
For none can know the beauty and mystery behind the short circuit of synapse and the ceasing of beats.
Perception of dimensions beyond us our limited and jaded, causing lies disguised as truth. Fear of the mystery causes fear of us all. We are all that is here. We are the tourniquet and we are the axe.
Oh child of wonder… Oh traveler of distance. See us all.
We are two sides of a spinning coin. We are everything and we are nothing. Perhaps the strings will be cut. We will overcome the misfortune of breathing in that which is farthest from the truth. Be the crack in the pattern. Be the narrow path.
Be better than us.
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
deep and carefree among the stars
vast dark carpet of endless universes
amidst our sprinkles of humanity
we drift along in certitude in our destiny
our inner being even more vast
than that what we gaze upon in wonderment
fear and longing
is there more for us or more of us
motionless we feel still yet
we rocket through this spinning nothingness
filled with all the monuments and
epochs of histories and calamities,
spartan and over flooded with grandeur
limitless adoration for being and seeing
what we have wrought and brought
nations and people and prairies
and all of nature's fine doodles
makings in ever flowing ever growing
profundity and fantasy
so we can ask "how is your day going"
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
Sally was a sailor
Who sailed the kool-aid sea
On the sweet treat boat she carved
From a lollipop tree.
Jack was just a wanderer
As lost as one could be
But hope sparked somewhere deep inside
When he saw Sally approaching his beach.
Sally tossed out her gum drop anchor
As she readied herself for shore
She saw in Jack the thing she lacked
The treasure she'd been searching for.
Sally wasn't looking at
His butterscotch toned tan
But rather what had lied inside;
The sweet makings of a man.
As they walked along the beach
Between candy castles of sugar sand
He took golden pearls from the glowing sea
And placed on her neck a strand.
A blush rushed to her cheeks
And a grin to his own
He said "I have something to say."
"This whole journey I've spent
not knowing of you,
yet I've thought of you
The whole way."
They sat together on the shore
Gazing at the candy apple sunset
Knowing they needed nothing more
than this love they had found, forever to last...
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
torrential teardrops join pavement
transforming surface to sheets of glass
patient trees plants flowers quenching their thirst
stray animals bemused hovering with caution
only to find shelter in the rustic shed
the good samaritan leaves scraps
through the makings of savory soup
passing cars washed in rain
will sparkle come sun
lounging indoors focusing through drenched windows
raindrops like opals
pattering on copper roof
cascade as peaceful shower
fairytale sound, sight and smells
invite nestling with a book
cup of tea and scone complete the pallet
with glowing candles
a sanctuary of chopin preludes
surrendering to peaceful sleep.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 9:13 PM UTC
Ms. Miss Me
Messes with the mess
Of Me
Messianic Masonic Messiah
Making mountainous modules
Manufactured from the make-shift
Makings of my soul
Which lifts me
Higher than before
It’s
Mysterious mysticallity
How you made me
After you met me
The misogynistic misogamist misfit
Meets Ms. Perfect
You misled me
You knew I didn’t want to fall in love
I mistreated you
And now
I miss seeing you
Mr. Missed Her
Mistakenly misunderstood
Her magic
For a trick
My mania must mean
I’m
Malevolently maiming my mind
Never mind me
NO!
Forever mind me
You’re forever mine
Even if only in the mind
My metal moccasins
Stump through
The mine field
On my quest to find you
Again
Constant explosions
Milling
A million
M-80’s to make
A metaphor
Of the fire within
The fireworks
I mean
Hopefully the fire works
I destroyed your
Mint commission
I meant condition
Your mint condition
Was devalued
From my mixed intentions
And messages
Monotonous tasks
To get you back
I get your back
And stay forever
In your past
Empty
M.T.
Mt. Empty
You built me
Just to leave me
Empty
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
I am what I am
An infectious spirit
Like the black widows’ venom
I will stun your senses
At the sound of my voice
The whole process begins
No matter your choice
You will give in
Try as you may
The venom is active
The contagions’ set in
The defenses cave in
Corrosion’s just happened
Within a few moments
You’re entranced by the
Virulent Being
Meaning the makings of me
I am “Shard The Virulent"
With a little piece of me
Your life becomes mine
And the infection spreads on
Sep 12, 2009
Sep 12, 2009 at 4:18 PM UTC
My sweet little gran-mire is 94 Years old.
She still works, as the chairwoman of the family trust
- you can call her “Godfather.”
The “frail old lady” is a humorous disguise she dons
to bamboozle the unwitting - think tiger stripes.
Don’t be fooled, or lulled and don’t ever try to BS her.
The business cosmos wheels behind those eyes.
Her heart was replaced with an abacus, centuries ago.
She’s met everyone in the world who matters.
She has body guards and minions.
Tonight there’s a small birthday party
at the Musée Marmottan Monet (museum) in Paris.
When she comes in, the 40 or so guests formed
an impromptu receiving line - so I queued up too.
Stewards regularly pass and I manage to gulp down
two flûtes of champagne while on line (I LOVE Paris).
This has the makings of a great party.
Finally, it was my turn. we cheek kissed (fait la bise).
I took her small, gloved hand in mine
and it struck me that little white gloves are genius.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said
inching closer because the music was loud,
“Nothing tops a big-budget party.” I said.
“We agree.” she said with a nod.
“Happy Birthday.” I mouthe.
We la bise again and I moved on so the conga-line could progress.
Ooo! Another steward!
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 2:43 PM UTC
She painted peace over the wounded mouths twisted with lies, truths unspoken, love never claimed,
She brushed them with the pink of a newborn baby's lips
She painted peace over the hands that held weapons, fingers that had pulled triggers to **** or maul,
She scraped them green as the new shoots from blades of grass reborn in the Spring
She painted peace in the hearts of those women and men who held broken pieces filled with sadness, scarred with inner rage
She colored them red of the rose in full scent and full bloom
She painted peace on the eyes and bodies of children stripped away from their life force, their source of mother
She traced them the purest blue found in the color of water at dawn's first light
She painted peace in families torn and broken
She swept them with all the colors of the rainbow appearing just after the rain, when the light shines through with hope
She painted peace in the indigenous souls torn from their culture and land
She circled them the color of the green flash-
the flicker of pure green born after the sunsets, existing only for a second
She painted peace in the unborn and the born whose differences bring challenges to them and their families
She skimmed them with lavender fields blooming in the swirling winds, with the sounds of the bees buzzing in joy and abundance
She painted peace over the wounds, the carcasses of animals fallen in a frenzy of human greed and misunderstanding
She whisked them golden as the sun rising in its glory to begin a new day
She painted peace over the ghosts of the forests and their inhabitants
She rolled them the brightest yellow of the night sky--the first star rising-guiding us though the whispers of time steering us in the darkness
She painted peace in the waters, the rivers and oceans who were littered with the makings of man
She glided them silver to reflect the light that is always around
She painted peace on the earth and women--places torn open and stripped, laying barren, vulnerable.
She covered them the rich colors of terra cotta- freshly made pottery from hands who love creation
She painted the air, the unfiltered air, clogged, imbalanced
She flowed it clear, the color of innocence - when we look into the eyes of the newborn, and those just about to pass.
She painted it all,
And when the summer sun melted the colors and subjects, she molded the forms, colors, scent, textures and sounds into the shape of love as eternity.
She sang the sweetest birdsongs into the new day bringing in renewal
She painted peace into all of life.
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 2:57 PM UTC
I met me a gypsy somewhere South of Poughkeepsie, and this hobo from Hoboken offered me his creased hand in a token of friendship.
We travelled out West in Box cars,made some dollars selling jam jars,slept under lilac trees and drank rotgut from the river bars.
Down in Kentucky we got lucky with diamonds,drew a full hand at poker,smoked Cuban cigars,spent more than money in bars and blew the whole *** on showgirls.
Then hobo got sick and he died awful quick,it was the pox and the rotgut that took him,but hell we had fun.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC