"markers" poems - Hello Poetry

"markers" poems

I write my identity in gluestick and markers I am a lamb raised by wolves swaddled pulsing cosmos girl-child My limbs are rebuilt like a 7 year old birdhouse with garish colours and bubbling pride I am pouring glitter onto my future the kaleidoscope cannot exist inside In the end I think there would be no nobler cause than to have a life worthy of taping on the refrigerator that I can swell with ever-young joy to know I have created with trial and forgiveness.

0

Jul 10, 2012

Jul 10, 2012 at 2:26 PM UTC

Existential Elation (and the Art of Glitter)

I write my identity in gluestick and markers I am a lamb raised by wolves swaddled pulsing cosmos girl-child My limbs are rebuilt like a 7 year old birdhouse with garish colours and bubbling pride I am pouring glitter onto my future the kaleidoscope cannot exist inside In the end I think there would be no nobler cause than to have a life worthy of taping on the refrigerator that I can swell with ever-young joy to know I have created with trial and forgiveness.

Continue reading...

And here we walk the invisible road No land markers tell of the way Except the pressed earth of ghostly footprints All these little troubled things; We press on further We walk the road before the dawn And without a noise to disturb The lethargic world around We walk without a stir and without the notice of the life nearby.

0

Feb 23, 2015

Feb 23, 2015 at 6:01 AM UTC

The Invisible Road

And here we walk the invisible road No land markers tell of the way Except the pressed earth of ghostly footprints All these little troubled things; We press on further We walk the road before the dawn And without a noise to disturb The lethargic world around We walk without a stir and without the notice of the life nearby.

Continue reading...

the bus poets we are the modern day chimney sweeps, the ***** black faced coal miners of the city, digging up its grit, toasted with its spit, the gone and forgotten elevator operators, the anonymous substitutable, still yet glimpsed occasionally, grunts of urbanity provoking a surprised whaddya know! once like the bison and the buffalo, we were thousands, word workers roaming the cities, the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds across the land of the brave, free in ways the founders wanted us to be us, the stubs and stuff, harder working poor and lower cases we were the bus poets, sitting always in the back of the bus, where the engines growls loudest, seated in the - the most overheated in winter time, so much so we nearly disrobed, and then come the summer, we were blasted with a joking hot reverie from the vents, but vent, no, we did not! no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard, passion overheated by currents within and without, recording and ordering the snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers, into poem swatches; the goings on passing by, the overheard histories, glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved, inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook, for all eternity what the eyes sighed and saw books ever passed onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket, attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys with our names writ indelible with the magic of black markers if you stumble upon a breathing scripter, let them be, just observe, as they, you, these movers and bus shakers, as they, observe you tell your children, you knew one in your youth, then take them to the attic retrieve your mother's and father's, teach your children how to read, how to see, the ways of their forefathers, the forsaken, the bus poets.

0

Sep 29, 2017

Sep 29, 2017 at 7:53 AM UTC

the bus poets we are the modern day chimney sweeps, the ***** black faced coal miners of the city, digging up its grit, toasted with its spit, the gone and forgotten elevator operators, the anonymous substitutable, still yet glimpsed occasionally, grunts of urbanity provoking a surprised whaddya know! once like the bison and the buffalo, we were thousands, word workers roaming the cities, the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds across the land of the brave, free in ways the founders wanted us to be us, the stubs and stuff, harder working poor and lower cases we were the bus poets, sitting always in the back of the bus, where the engines growls loudest, seated in the - the most overheated in winter time, so much so we nearly disrobed, and then come the summer, we were blasted with a joking hot reverie from the vents, but vent, no, we did not! no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard, passion overheated by currents within and without, recording and ordering the snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers, into poem swatches; the goings on passing by, the overheard histories, glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved, inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook, for all eternity what the eyes sighed and saw books ever passed onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket, attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys with our names writ indelible with the magic of black markers if you stumble upon a breathing scripter, let them be, just observe, as they, you, these movers and bus shakers, as they, observe you tell your children, you knew one in your youth, then take them to the attic retrieve your mother's and father's, teach your children how to read, how to see, the ways of their forefathers, the forsaken, the bus poets.

Continue reading...

I heard the bullets scream Smashed by the moment Silence as the pin dropped His head had hit the pavement ****** in the window Blood spattered wall Brother taken before me Intrepid moment takes us all Held his hand within mine Closed his open eyes Angered by the second Said my final goodbyes Bombing in the distance Death cuts through the air War is such a ***** and life isn't fair Ribbons fill the trees Markers field the green Memories not forgotten Brothers forever seen

0

Nov 11, 2014

Nov 11, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC

War is such a *****

I heard the bullets scream Smashed by the moment Silence as the pin dropped His head had hit the pavement ****** in the window Blood spattered wall Brother taken before me Intrepid moment takes us all Held his hand within mine Closed his open eyes Angered by the second Said my final goodbyes Bombing in the distance Death cuts through the air War is such a ***** and life isn't fair Ribbons fill the trees Markers field the green Memories not forgotten Brothers forever seen

Continue reading...

In fair Verona where Will set the scene Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down. Two households both alike in dignity Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground. When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance Events were set in motion that, perchance, Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride but ultimately result in her suicide. With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead, And Capulet and Montague estranged. Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed not knowing of her loss of maiden-head. Romeo was banished for his crime, a sin for which a peasant would have died Their two households, joined because they wed, remained divided by their foolish pride. Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air, oppressive in the absence of a breeze. With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead, as if struck down by some unknown disease Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets. A draught of deadly poison he obtained So they might sleep together once again. When Romeo met Paris at her tomb, Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead. Would not the world have been a better place if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead? Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down- the only son of Montague now dead. Perchance just then fair Juliet revives Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead. Authorities, arriving at the scene, could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost. Capulet and Montague were reconciled Their amity bought at a fearful cost.

0

May 22, 2013

May 22, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

Juliet and Romeo

In fair Verona where Will set the scene Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down. Two households both alike in dignity Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground. When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance Events were set in motion that, perchance, Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride but ultimately result in her suicide. With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead, And Capulet and Montague estranged. Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed not knowing of her loss of maiden-head. Romeo was banished for his crime, a sin for which a peasant would have died Their two households, joined because they wed, remained divided by their foolish pride. Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air, oppressive in the absence of a breeze. With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead, as if struck down by some unknown disease Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets. A draught of deadly poison he obtained So they might sleep together once again. When Romeo met Paris at her tomb, Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead. Would not the world have been a better place if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead? Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down- the only son of Montague now dead. Perchance just then fair Juliet revives Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead. Authorities, arriving at the scene, could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost. Capulet and Montague were reconciled Their amity bought at a fearful cost.

Continue reading...

I wonder if the color green releases calm and renewal energies because it is the earth's carpet, magnetizing us down to earth. I wonder if the color red wraps around passion and chaos because the blood in our veins rush evermore when we see something we love, and it rushes to our brain when our world turmoils. I wonder if the color blue spreads hope for the sky as a crutch for those who have nowhere else to look but up to their god or to the formation of clouds that one cannot make sense of their cotton candy essence. I wonder what color we are. What color does the earth reflect on us? Are we chameleons, morphing into different shades by the hour or are we permanent markers, bleeding deep? Maybe we are gray and receive color by what we surround ourselves with. That's how science works, right? A reflection of light in our retinas. I am purple. There is a cloud of mystery and romanticism that shields me like a cloak, but my emotions run like rich velvet. Maybe one day I'll find a yellow who bursts rays of warmth. I think I would like to be with a yellow one day, the golden hour of colors.

0

Jul 23, 2018

Jul 23, 2018 at 9:19 AM UTC

I wonder if the color green releases calm and renewal energies because it is the earth's carpet, magnetizing us down to earth. I wonder if the color red wraps around passion and chaos because the blood in our veins rush evermore when we see something we love, and it rushes to our brain when our world turmoils. I wonder if the color blue spreads hope for the sky as a crutch for those who have nowhere else to look but up to their god or to the formation of clouds that one cannot make sense of their cotton candy essence. I wonder what color we are. What color does the earth reflect on us? Are we chameleons, morphing into different shades by the hour or are we permanent markers, bleeding deep? Maybe we are gray and receive color by what we surround ourselves with. That's how science works, right? A reflection of light in our retinas. I am purple. There is a cloud of mystery and romanticism that shields me like a cloak, but my emotions run like rich velvet. Maybe one day I'll find a yellow who bursts rays of warmth. I think I would like to be with a yellow one day, the golden hour of colors.

Continue reading...

Broken crayons still color the same. I mean- isn't that really the aim? Finish coloring the big picture- our life picture. We're all crayons, or markers, paint perhaps. Everyone's a little bent, cracked. Snapped, in some way shape form. It's really kinda the norm nowadays. But in a box full of crayons- when they are used, when they live- they snap. They crack. They break. But they still work, just the same. It may be a bit tougher for them- but they're tougher from it. We're tougher from it. We're all broken crayons filling in our own life line. But broken crayons still color fine.

0

Jul 25, 2018

Jul 25, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC

Broken crayons still color the same. I mean- isn't that really the aim? Finish coloring the big picture- our life picture. We're all crayons, or markers, paint perhaps. Everyone's a little bent, cracked. Snapped, in some way shape form. It's really kinda the norm nowadays. But in a box full of crayons- when they are used, when they live- they snap. They crack. They break. But they still work, just the same. It may be a bit tougher for them- but they're tougher from it. We're tougher from it. We're all broken crayons filling in our own life line. But broken crayons still color fine.

Continue reading...

Come on ! Come on ! Let's go ! . . . row upon row do the red poppies grow Red ! Red ! the petal fed taken from the lives of the young and dead The white bones bleached of dreams and forgotten sins , everything Row upon row of white the markers go drenched in poppies the dead in red grow Bleached bone dreams no breath no whispers of "dear" that death's spear pierced Their's , no longer the years , the fears , and tears where the red poppies grow row upon row

0

Aug 13, 2015

Aug 13, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC

South-by-Southwest

Where The Red Poppies Grow

Come on ! Come on ! Let's go ! . . . row upon row do the red poppies grow Red ! Red ! the petal fed taken from the lives of the young and dead The white bones bleached of dreams and forgotten sins , everything Row upon row of white the markers go drenched in poppies the dead in red grow Bleached bone dreams no breath no whispers of "dear" that death's spear pierced Their's , no longer the years , the fears , and tears where the red poppies grow row upon row

Continue reading...

It's the colour of little flowers in a field It's the colour of the old easter dress in the back of my closet It's the colour of princess sneakers most four year old girls stomp to get the little lights to flash It's the colour of innocent dreams kept by six year olds It's the colour of the marker I wrote this with It's the colour that I used to say was my favorite, but can't anymore It's the colour of my two favorite nail polishes that I always ruin as I paint it It's the colour that I put on my cheeks to show more happiness because I can't show enough It's the colour I feel when I twirl in a dress and the skirts fly up around my knees It's the colour I wish I could be, young, innocent, stupid, carefree, laughing with friends on the play ground on a spring day, getting small flowers from the boy in my first grade class, who says he likes when I wear my princess light up shoes It's a colour I want to call "ME" It's the colour that surrounds my mind when all I can think about is something that I thought was cute It's the colour behind my eyes when stories that I want to write keep my mind from shutting down and sleeping It's not the colour that graces my lips during the day, but in the morning when the day is fresh and I have yet to see the world It's not the colour I wish to be, it's the colour i'm going to strive to be Pink cheeks, Pink light up shoes, Pink skirts, Pink drawings on the walls, Pink flowers in a field of green, Pink dreams, Pink nails I always ruin, Pink markers and crayons, Pink hair I had before everything went down hill Pink was the colour of my innocence and i'm going to get it back

0

May 20, 2014

May 20, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC

supernaturalcutie

It's the colour of little flowers in a field It's the colour of the old easter dress in the back of my closet It's the colour of princess sneakers most four year old girls stomp to get the little lights to flash It's the colour of innocent dreams kept by six year olds It's the colour of the marker I wrote this with It's the colour that I used to say was my favorite, but can't anymore It's the colour of my two favorite nail polishes that I always ruin as I paint it It's the colour that I put on my cheeks to show more happiness because I can't show enough It's the colour I feel when I twirl in a dress and the skirts fly up around my knees It's the colour I wish I could be, young, innocent, stupid, carefree, laughing with friends on the play ground on a spring day, getting small flowers from the boy in my first grade class, who says he likes when I wear my princess light up shoes It's a colour I want to call "ME" It's the colour that surrounds my mind when all I can think about is something that I thought was cute It's the colour behind my eyes when stories that I want to write keep my mind from shutting down and sleeping It's not the colour that graces my lips during the day, but in the morning when the day is fresh and I have yet to see the world It's not the colour I wish to be, it's the colour i'm going to strive to be Pink cheeks, Pink light up shoes, Pink skirts, Pink drawings on the walls, Pink flowers in a field of green, Pink dreams, Pink nails I always ruin, Pink markers and crayons, Pink hair I had before everything went down hill Pink was the colour of my innocence and i'm going to get it back

Continue reading...

He struggles and ponders, reads and re-reads, My markers fail before his eyes, his naivety takes over, A fruit? he queries, I burst out in laughter, Can be, I agree, but I await for more, he peruses and my ribs tickled, amused and curious, I stayed, at his innocence that shined. A Mango! he exclaims! No! I equally enthused 'A woman, a fruit, delicious and mystical, for a man who craves'. 'Oh' the meek sigh, a tiny sound, concurred or dissent, I know not, In a flash came a verbal rebuff, back to his annoying self. He annoys and appeases, A friend I have known for years, Mine forever, I know for sure, no matter what he says.

0

Jul 23, 2018

Jul 23, 2018 at 5:50 AM UTC

Him, his surmise, Dear Ol' Andy

He struggles and ponders, reads and re-reads, My markers fail before his eyes, his naivety takes over, A fruit? he queries, I burst out in laughter, Can be, I agree, but I await for more, he peruses and my ribs tickled, amused and curious, I stayed, at his innocence that shined. A Mango! he exclaims! No! I equally enthused 'A woman, a fruit, delicious and mystical, for a man who craves'. 'Oh' the meek sigh, a tiny sound, concurred or dissent, I know not, In a flash came a verbal rebuff, back to his annoying self. He annoys and appeases, A friend I have known for years, Mine forever, I know for sure, no matter what he says.

Continue reading...

Here we lie beneath the poppies Blowing in the Flanders air Do not forget our sacrifice Do not forget that we were there Young men forged in heat of battle Neighbors, brothers, sons Lost in time, with just our markers Lost to lie, beneath the sun Remember us as men of valor Remember what we came to do We came, and died, do not forget us We gave our lives up, just for you Forget us not, beneath the poppies Where the sky is no longer dark Remember us as long dead heroes We came, we fought, we left our mark Forget us not, please pass the torch on Forget us not, more than this day Forget us not, we were all soldiers And we remain so....all the way!!! Forget us not....

0

Nov 4, 2015

Nov 4, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC

Here we lie beneath the poppies Blowing in the Flanders air Do not forget our sacrifice Do not forget that we were there Young men forged in heat of battle Neighbors, brothers, sons Lost in time, with just our markers Lost to lie, beneath the sun Remember us as men of valor Remember what we came to do We came, and died, do not forget us We gave our lives up, just for you Forget us not, beneath the poppies Where the sky is no longer dark Remember us as long dead heroes We came, we fought, we left our mark Forget us not, please pass the torch on Forget us not, more than this day Forget us not, we were all soldiers And we remain so....all the way!!! Forget us not....

Continue reading...

Cold stone statues of all shapes and sizes Chilled to the moss covered bone Standing ***** markers of time Weather worn words, passages of years A place of disasters, heartbreak and crime All gathered there, forgotten by time As the trees bend to the seasons And the passing of years A lone figure dressed in black Stands above an unnamed gravestone Reflecting on past memories Of someone he had known. Brown wet clinging clay lies Heaped by the side of a black hollow Waiting for another invited guest As the bell tolls, mournfully

0

Jan 9, 2015

Jan 9, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC

Cold stone statues of all shapes and sizes Chilled to the moss covered bone Standing ***** markers of time Weather worn words, passages of years A place of disasters, heartbreak and crime All gathered there, forgotten by time As the trees bend to the seasons And the passing of years A lone figure dressed in black Stands above an unnamed gravestone Reflecting on past memories Of someone he had known. Brown wet clinging clay lies Heaped by the side of a black hollow Waiting for another invited guest As the bell tolls, mournfully

Continue reading...

Govan bar banter: Awa' with ye fankle eejits that blether to naw whit they dinnae naw crabbit, drookit moanin, drouthy yer Havers-yins! each unto their ane an' aye bin. Tell markers scoured an' crowned with glee "alas nae blessing naw bolt of wisdom will er'e to strike thee - tis poor soil an' loads o toil an' broken backs" Ach awa with ye! Fir me the skies an' tracks o wilds an' winds that curl yer lugs Hielan mountains glory summers toty story an' bonny lassies dancing - a gallus stoater! that’s fir me. Party racket in Da’s laden jaiket jangle change fir a dram an' enough tae get the Clockwork Orange hame - times hae changed a wee bit no? Seldom ventured tis seldom gained an' aw the while the wee bairns wail Still, life is yin what yin makes of that which drives the world that breaks yer back Remember love! ma banters free to give an' thats all the mare important when it costs so much tae live.

0

Nov 5, 2012

Nov 5, 2012 at 8:20 AM UTC

Voices from the North part 6

Govan bar banter: Awa' with ye fankle eejits that blether to naw whit they dinnae naw crabbit, drookit moanin, drouthy yer Havers-yins! each unto their ane an' aye bin. Tell markers scoured an' crowned with glee "alas nae blessing naw bolt of wisdom will er'e to strike thee - tis poor soil an' loads o toil an' broken backs" Ach awa with ye! Fir me the skies an' tracks o wilds an' winds that curl yer lugs Hielan mountains glory summers toty story an' bonny lassies dancing - a gallus stoater! that’s fir me. Party racket in Da’s laden jaiket jangle change fir a dram an' enough tae get the Clockwork Orange hame - times hae changed a wee bit no? Seldom ventured tis seldom gained an' aw the while the wee bairns wail Still, life is yin what yin makes of that which drives the world that breaks yer back Remember love! ma banters free to give an' thats all the mare important when it costs so much tae live.

Continue reading...

the barker in charge is sniffing markers & the dog's the one in the shock collar. good god. I'll come back tomorrow. galapagos, I'm sorry. rocketship jalopy wrote a handbook on banana boat cutthroat reconnaissance exotica, abominable beast of tropic atrophy broke folk casualty engulfed in telescopes & TV shows being monitored thru a monocle the theatrical apathy & topical misanthropy can anybody understand me?

0

May 26, 2015

May 26, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC

the barker in charge is sniffing markers & the dog's the one in the shock collar. good god. I'll come back tomorrow. galapagos, I'm sorry. rocketship jalopy wrote a handbook on banana boat cutthroat reconnaissance exotica, abominable beast of tropic atrophy broke folk casualty engulfed in telescopes & TV shows being monitored thru a monocle the theatrical apathy & topical misanthropy can anybody understand me?

Continue reading...

*The mile markers sound like a fan in the wind Was that last one three eighty-eight or four-hundred and ten? They go from green to black and back to green again I'm so tired the colors are starting to blend Do you know the soul of a truck driver? He's starin' straight ahead and drivin' forever Can you feel the heart of a truck driver? He's got scars but you know he's a survivor It seems I can't out-drive my problems It's an undying bush with unwanted blossoms I never see my kids because this road never ends So I keep driving and lie about not needing friends I know I got my issues But then don't we all? When I think about the world's Mine seem kinda' small I'm gonna' quit complainin' 'Cause I got some work to do Yeah I got my problems I'm gonna start solvin' the one with you I used to throw the ball with my boy after work But they cut back my hours and my wife thinks I'm a **** So I decided to jump back into my old rig I'm tryin' to get out of the hole I decided to dig Do you know the soul of a truck driver? Starin' straight ahead and drivin' forever Can you feel the heart of a truck driver? He's got scars but you know he's a survivor I've never been a dreamer But this black-top has turned white Floating above the clouds where I'm free I wonder if I can trust the light I realize how angry I am That's not me but it's who I've been I know I can be the man my mom raised It's not a matter of if it's a matter of when Do you know the soul of a truck driver? He's starin' straight ahead and drivin' forever Can you feel the heart of a truck driver? He's got scars but you know he's a survivor I don't mind burning my heart on the road It simmers as I reap what I sowed I'm trying to save the hearts that I protect For my children I'll suffer; but never neglect* Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved. Mark Lecuona

0

Jan 31, 2012

Jan 31, 2012 at 10:58 PM UTC

The Soul of a Truck Driver (country song lyrics)

*The mile markers sound like a fan in the wind Was that last one three eighty-eight or four-hundred and ten? They go from green to black and back to green again I'm so tired the colors are starting to blend Do you know the soul of a truck driver? He's starin' straight ahead and drivin' forever Can you feel the heart of a truck driver? He's got scars but you know he's a survivor It seems I can't out-drive my problems It's an undying bush with unwanted blossoms I never see my kids because this road never ends So I keep driving and lie about not needing friends I know I got my issues But then don't we all? When I think about the world's Mine seem kinda' small I'm gonna' quit complainin' 'Cause I got some work to do Yeah I got my problems I'm gonna start solvin' the one with you I used to throw the ball with my boy after work But they cut back my hours and my wife thinks I'm a **** So I decided to jump back into my old rig I'm tryin' to get out of the hole I decided to dig Do you know the soul of a truck driver? Starin' straight ahead and drivin' forever Can you feel the heart of a truck driver? He's got scars but you know he's a survivor I've never been a dreamer But this black-top has turned white Floating above the clouds where I'm free I wonder if I can trust the light I realize how angry I am That's not me but it's who I've been I know I can be the man my mom raised It's not a matter of if it's a matter of when Do you know the soul of a truck driver? He's starin' straight ahead and drivin' forever Can you feel the heart of a truck driver? He's got scars but you know he's a survivor I don't mind burning my heart on the road It simmers as I reap what I sowed I'm trying to save the hearts that I protect For my children I'll suffer; but never neglect* Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved. Mark Lecuona

Continue reading...

The dermatologist demands a pre-summer scan of my visual delights fully magnified. Peering into places where no one else has ever peered, even me, reminds me that this is a potentially "disruptive" process. Eye don't know what his eyes have seen. He works in silence pin punctuated by the occasional mmmm or throat clearing rumble. Snappy removal of neutrally colored gloves signify conclusion, he opines as follows: "Were you aware," he inquires, "that the lines, the furrows on a your forehead correspond to the life your have lead?" "You have three, deep deep tracks, and that's a fact." Yes, eye know, and each one is a tree ring notation of my existence. Each a different year, each a different moment fearful, a death and a birth, a passing, a regaining. No, not children or parents, illusions. Markers of our lives are the birth and death of our illusionary, our revelation minutes, that measure and scribe what dug those furrows is now officially, no more. Until we start anew, a different Pretense, a channel commenced to commemorate. Living the dream, they say, aren't we all, eye think, and so inform him. The doctor did not bill for this visitation.

0

May 23, 2015

May 23, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC

A Full Body Examination: Tree Rings

The dermatologist demands a pre-summer scan of my visual delights fully magnified. Peering into places where no one else has ever peered, even me, reminds me that this is a potentially "disruptive" process. Eye don't know what his eyes have seen. He works in silence pin punctuated by the occasional mmmm or throat clearing rumble. Snappy removal of neutrally colored gloves signify conclusion, he opines as follows: "Were you aware," he inquires, "that the lines, the furrows on a your forehead correspond to the life your have lead?" "You have three, deep deep tracks, and that's a fact." Yes, eye know, and each one is a tree ring notation of my existence. Each a different year, each a different moment fearful, a death and a birth, a passing, a regaining. No, not children or parents, illusions. Markers of our lives are the birth and death of our illusionary, our revelation minutes, that measure and scribe what dug those furrows is now officially, no more. Until we start anew, a different Pretense, a channel commenced to commemorate. Living the dream, they say, aren't we all, eye think, and so inform him. The doctor did not bill for this visitation.

Continue reading...

Often times I’m staring Awing in the curves of full blooming lips Carved jawbone covered with deepening dark moss The journey through the damp forest after warm rain It is all awake alive and breathing clearly Rising and falling like the rare drops from deciduous leaves I cannot tell you how inhuman you feel to me Your skin darkens around your eyes from nights up Long evenings too many and whiskey that never even made it to a cup Sometimes I cannot break a gaze from the casement around your pupil The pools of honey drip further toward me My feet find it impossible to remove themselves So much like quicksand but sweet calming and warm Smooth and simplistic in youth the way skin drapes Hangs over structured bones in the most phenomenal way Just as your eyes are lavished in graham brown You stay glowing even in the cold weather from blessed ancestry Down to tender arteries and muscle where I’ve placed lips a thousand times Shoulders swoop outwards like broad boulders Distinguishable markers play connect the dots toward inked surfaced skin Permanence of scarred lines forming a hot air balloon and anchor pulling it down It’s from your favorite band, I’m noticing synapses collide on the concept Elongated extended vines lead to tools that hold and create masterpieces Strong slender hands with fingertips that press and pluck strings Coat themselves with paint on late evening or early mornings Tread lightly on my skin and illuminate my face with a coaxing touch You are the rain forest from sunrise My heart thumps to the sense of danger behind a corner But I know such things and if they were to **** me, I would be treasured in becoming a tall Kapok With roots buried miles deep

0

Sep 19, 2015

Sep 19, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC

The Rain Forest

Often times I’m staring Awing in the curves of full blooming lips Carved jawbone covered with deepening dark moss The journey through the damp forest after warm rain It is all awake alive and breathing clearly Rising and falling like the rare drops from deciduous leaves I cannot tell you how inhuman you feel to me Your skin darkens around your eyes from nights up Long evenings too many and whiskey that never even made it to a cup Sometimes I cannot break a gaze from the casement around your pupil The pools of honey drip further toward me My feet find it impossible to remove themselves So much like quicksand but sweet calming and warm Smooth and simplistic in youth the way skin drapes Hangs over structured bones in the most phenomenal way Just as your eyes are lavished in graham brown You stay glowing even in the cold weather from blessed ancestry Down to tender arteries and muscle where I’ve placed lips a thousand times Shoulders swoop outwards like broad boulders Distinguishable markers play connect the dots toward inked surfaced skin Permanence of scarred lines forming a hot air balloon and anchor pulling it down It’s from your favorite band, I’m noticing synapses collide on the concept Elongated extended vines lead to tools that hold and create masterpieces Strong slender hands with fingertips that press and pluck strings Coat themselves with paint on late evening or early mornings Tread lightly on my skin and illuminate my face with a coaxing touch You are the rain forest from sunrise My heart thumps to the sense of danger behind a corner But I know such things and if they were to **** me, I would be treasured in becoming a tall Kapok With roots buried miles deep

Continue reading...

with moonlight, he travels mostly at night, past snoring hikers and embers of fires that cooked their food, kept darkness at bay, and heard what they had to say if the coals could only speak, perhaps he would find the right circle of stones, a black heap of carbon that once glowed red and gold, and her tale would be told at least he would know the last words she spoke in this wilderness--whether she chose to vanish into the deep wood, fodder for the scavengers or was the prey of evil men, who lurk at every turn--in bustling city and quiet forest as well--vipers who strike without warning, without curse or cause when the moon's light wanes, he moves yet in darkness, feeling his way, a nocturnal detective, hoping to find what the others have given up for lost and registered among the dead: sign or scent of her--black coals or white bones, a piece of tattered clothing, the canvas backpack with her name, the hiking boots he laced for her which left tracks he forever yearns to find...

0

Apr 23, 2017

Apr 23, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC

Appalachian trail markers

with moonlight, he travels mostly at night, past snoring hikers and embers of fires that cooked their food, kept darkness at bay, and heard what they had to say if the coals could only speak, perhaps he would find the right circle of stones, a black heap of carbon that once glowed red and gold, and her tale would be told at least he would know the last words she spoke in this wilderness--whether she chose to vanish into the deep wood, fodder for the scavengers or was the prey of evil men, who lurk at every turn--in bustling city and quiet forest as well--vipers who strike without warning, without curse or cause when the moon's light wanes, he moves yet in darkness, feeling his way, a nocturnal detective, hoping to find what the others have given up for lost and registered among the dead: sign or scent of her--black coals or white bones, a piece of tattered clothing, the canvas backpack with her name, the hiking boots he laced for her which left tracks he forever yearns to find...

Continue reading...

No quibbling siblings musing in the shallows, patriotism must be dealt with at it's route markers. They are all twisted. It is the duty of right thinkers to untwist and shout, All ye, All ye or Oy ye, Oy ye Outs (never Ox) in free. The ransom has been paid, the game of hide and watch is played. Touch, eh? Nature's what? Original state? Perfected state? Fractured state patched with circuit breaking dams and weirs. Nature's God, the mind behind Nature. whose were the buffalo the servants of christmas replaced with sacred cows offered and eaten in Outback Steak Houses at Indian Casino Super TAs from sea to shining sea? Whose God commanded that? Whose God permuted that? Who has sown bullheads in the squash? Shall we pull them up? Let the children pull them up. Teach them to see the tiny round leave, which is to be squash or watermelon, sosweet, or water-stealing, sticker-making **** Goatheads in little running feet all summer long, ouch. ouch. ouch. Knowledge is power. Power is not lost. Is that enough to know and grow to know more and to spare? Is enough abundance enough to spare and share? Yes. On a broken planet, men of both model may make enough of anything they desire, or sire in their best happy ever after scheme or schema. That part never broke. The tongue-mind interface, that fried. Listen. Wisdom never shouts, you know.

0

Mar 1, 2018

Mar 1, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC

Nature and Nature's God, everybody knows what that means right?

No quibbling siblings musing in the shallows, patriotism must be dealt with at it's route markers. They are all twisted. It is the duty of right thinkers to untwist and shout, All ye, All ye or Oy ye, Oy ye Outs (never Ox) in free. The ransom has been paid, the game of hide and watch is played. Touch, eh? Nature's what? Original state? Perfected state? Fractured state patched with circuit breaking dams and weirs. Nature's God, the mind behind Nature. whose were the buffalo the servants of christmas replaced with sacred cows offered and eaten in Outback Steak Houses at Indian Casino Super TAs from sea to shining sea? Whose God commanded that? Whose God permuted that? Who has sown bullheads in the squash? Shall we pull them up? Let the children pull them up. Teach them to see the tiny round leave, which is to be squash or watermelon, sosweet, or water-stealing, sticker-making **** Goatheads in little running feet all summer long, ouch. ouch. ouch. Knowledge is power. Power is not lost. Is that enough to know and grow to know more and to spare? Is enough abundance enough to spare and share? Yes. On a broken planet, men of both model may make enough of anything they desire, or sire in their best happy ever after scheme or schema. That part never broke. The tongue-mind interface, that fried. Listen. Wisdom never shouts, you know.

Continue reading...

i always find you in the strangest places. i find you in song lyrics, dog toys, and timber old spice. i find you in chicken flavored ramen noodles, every shade of blue and purple, and horror movies. i find you in rainbow coloring books, permanent markers, and colored pencils. i find you in the grass at memorial park, folded slips of paper in my back pocket, and gourmet lollipops. i find you in hot fudge sundaes, too-big tshirts, and icp snapbacks. i find you in chik-fil-a receipts, gumball machines, and arcade games. i find you in white roses, blue ribbons, animal crackers, and sour gummy worms. i always find you in the strangest places. but these strange places are everywhere.

0

Aug 26, 2018

Aug 26, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC

everything has been touched by you.

i always find you in the strangest places. i find you in song lyrics, dog toys, and timber old spice. i find you in chicken flavored ramen noodles, every shade of blue and purple, and horror movies. i find you in rainbow coloring books, permanent markers, and colored pencils. i find you in the grass at memorial park, folded slips of paper in my back pocket, and gourmet lollipops. i find you in hot fudge sundaes, too-big tshirts, and icp snapbacks. i find you in chik-fil-a receipts, gumball machines, and arcade games. i find you in white roses, blue ribbons, animal crackers, and sour gummy worms. i always find you in the strangest places. but these strange places are everywhere.

Continue reading...

The cats sleep on the rooftops, an ambient beat from the shower radio comes tone-deaf through the open window, replacing the hum of lawn mowers that had been harmonising all Sunday afternoon. We buried one in the garden, an overlooked shrine within the deep grass, child-like magic markers with a simple turn of phrase; yet all I can think about as I look over her grave are how the beetles are nesting in her brain. I lost the knack for sympathy, ever since they medicated my drink and told me I was their patient. I lost the will for empathy, ever since I tried to hang myself and still they told me to be patient.

0

Oct 5, 2014

Oct 5, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC

Four Months At Home

The cats sleep on the rooftops, an ambient beat from the shower radio comes tone-deaf through the open window, replacing the hum of lawn mowers that had been harmonising all Sunday afternoon. We buried one in the garden, an overlooked shrine within the deep grass, child-like magic markers with a simple turn of phrase; yet all I can think about as I look over her grave are how the beetles are nesting in her brain. I lost the knack for sympathy, ever since they medicated my drink and told me I was their patient. I lost the will for empathy, ever since I tried to hang myself and still they told me to be patient.

Continue reading...

Painted ponies of the Paiute Run against the sky Cracked lightning lights the orange fire Desert winds stoke whipping flame Eagle flies blind to the sun Scorpion strikes out in vain Antelope leap crisscrossed arroyo Coyote calls across the sand Thatched huts explode in maelstrom storm First People’s shadows smoke the ground Clay pots crack and break in time Fire-cracked stone in communal circles Markers of forgotten stories Great Basin parched to cracking lines Full moon wanes to yellow bone Awaiting dark clouds quenching rain And painted ponies once again. r ~ 6/4/14

0

Jun 4, 2014

Jun 4, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC

Painted ponies of the Paiute Run against the sky Cracked lightning lights the orange fire Desert winds stoke whipping flame Eagle flies blind to the sun Scorpion strikes out in vain Antelope leap crisscrossed arroyo Coyote calls across the sand Thatched huts explode in maelstrom storm First People’s shadows smoke the ground Clay pots crack and break in time Fire-cracked stone in communal circles Markers of forgotten stories Great Basin parched to cracking lines Full moon wanes to yellow bone Awaiting dark clouds quenching rain And painted ponies once again. r ~ 6/4/14

Continue reading...

Ever present life... Ever present life... 3ver press a k̫͘ń͙ḭ̧̼̳̠͔f̢̺͙̥̣e̵̮̯̟̙̰ͅͅ against the dying, glowing l̵i̎̓ͣ̚ghͦt͂͌ͧ͌̄ ̛ͣͧ͐̾ͦ̅ǒ̐ͩ͌̓̾͋f̡ͥͪ̑͆ ͝ļ̉̆̎ͮ͛ͪͩĭ̶̎̉̐f͑ͪ̓e͗̏͛ͥ͆̏͐? W̡̠̘̭͛ͪ͋ͦͤa̘ͫ̆̒̈́͆i̗̳ͭͯ̾̇́̓ͫt̫̍ͭ ͈̠̯̻̖̪̹͌͑̽ͮ͛ͮ̃a̬̪ͫ̅̅ͯ́̈̓ͅ ̵͓̱̰͚̬͓̪̿͆M̞͍̤̤̱ͩ́̆̇i̪̬̟̪̹͍ͦ̓͗ͪ̐ͫ̐n̻͈̦̥͕͉̍͛͆̋̐͊u͍ͮ͌͛ͣ̀͘t̯̣̭̝̓͊̍̐̄ͧͦe̺͓̱͈̬̫̊ͯͥͨͯ͜ ̹͔̳̞̇͂͢this can't be me!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕!! CHECK MY FIELD, REALIZE! Still Sun Tzu hit my enemy first in the verses no physical damage no trauma purses to manage I already lived afflicted with curses from savage researches Till I learned to shift my boundaries around me, ...That there’s still power in !̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕category!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕ But not enough to stop me ! I broke the two ton shell OF CULTURE but I’ll never stop hearing this ocean swell sailors fly by wave to the 9th sign Hi. Î̝͎̪̮̣͎͈̮͖͈̼͕̞̠ͭ̍̓́͛ͣ͠͝ͅn̫̭̹̼̰͇̱̠̠̭͉̲̱̙̼͎̐̾ͨͦͪ̓̎̅̌ͬ͌̀ͦ̚͟͢ͅfͫ̆̐̾̂̃ͯͯ͌͑̄̌̀̅͂̔̋̀͘͏͎͇̭͓̜i͈̮̞̙̭͖͇͇̝̗͈̜̗̤̞͈̽̓̾ͪ͛̿͂ͯ͂̇̌ͣ̓ͦ̿ͮ̈͘͘n̷̷̡̠̘̘̦̬̣̺̟͖͍ͮ̾͂̈́͟͜ĭ̙̳̩͓͕̍̃̌͂͋ͪ̂ͧ̓ͨ̉ͨ͌ͨͤ̈̚͟͜͝t̵̴͖̣̳̤̊̈̎ͥ͊́e̛̺̭͚̻̠̞̙͍̞͚͉̝ͨ͑̉ like a Shepard’s tone. Passionate like a Shepard's SON. Intricate like a l̀e͊ͧ̓͛̑ͦ̃͠o͐ͭp͒͢à͢r͒́ͬ̅ͣͤd̑̍̿ͤͮsͦ̋ ̊̈́̀ͯ͐̅́tongue. [[God said to me]]: Work under the light of e̴͏ff͠ort͞ SON You cannot break the stone without the Wind and the Ocean. So we wander back into the liquid crystaline vision Waves wander and ponder up through and fill my being We release the storm my drips speaking. But I can't hear cause there's still Too Many Lights. Easily distracted by how others say "stay away from illicit people ..." Illicit people ...? More like people illicit [!?meaning?!] formed inͧ̒͂ͭ s͑͆͒ͯͪ͊̚tͩͩ̂ͬͬͬ̌e͆̏͗̽e̚ṕ͒l̅ͮͤͧ̉̈ẻ͋̈́ͨͪ̓sͤ̆̍ͥͮ ̉̓̚ Responses from the ghost markers self-induced parasites better host dollars people! FC*K that! >NO MORE BEING SILENT MY LOVE < -Just watch and listen- Tectonic plates shift when I talk back Demonic cosmic rift silent when I talk rap people never seem to mind unless you say I did that But you better believe This ***** not much more than a formality. Fancy phantasm shorn from reality . Never base your life in a fallacy. No waste your life chasing the phallus see? L̎̒i͐ͤv̡e̓ͪͪ̔̾ͤ ͥm̓̐ͨ̑̈̄҉a̎g̒̽̍͛̽iͩͩ͑͟c̎ͬ̏̕ ̡̂ͫ̒̊ͧͪ͆ Like Harry Potter, I always catch the snitch end the game break my fist͆̓̽..̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ So few leave this life of crime now I teach yoga super stack your spine till that ***** aligned so try and find me I’m in orbit right outside the mind b. To look up my next move in the dictionary doesn’t make it a **** move, this is : "My **** is hairy, I let it out at night like Bigfoot and its OH so scary!" Now WHATEVER YOU believe .̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ .͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭͔̖̲̓̍̈́͗̉̽ .͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭̓̍̈́͗̉̽ I’m married to my Wife, my Diction, God and Mary.

0

Mar 15, 2019

Mar 15, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC

Married to my̒̊͗̄ͬ ̵̎͗̍W͊ͭͩ̓̏i̔̾̋ͧ͏fe,̈̎ͬ̒ͩ̌͑ ̷̅̾͛̋ͤ̇͌mͤ͌ͩ͐ẏͩ̇̒ͪ̑̀ ̀͐̓̽D̨̊̑ͫ͑̿̍̅iͥ͂͒ͫ̏̽c̉͛ͣ̓͌tį̓̎ͦoͤͨ̾ͥ̑͢n̓̾͐̀ͤ,̸̑͌ ̨̐̽̌́̓Ġ̋ͩ̉̄̚o͑̔̚d̽ͨ &͜ ͡M̊ͯ̐̈̎ͯar̓̂̅̽̔ͨ̀y̽

Ever present life... Ever present life... 3ver press a k̫͘ń͙ḭ̧̼̳̠͔f̢̺͙̥̣e̵̮̯̟̙̰ͅͅ against the dying, glowing l̵i̎̓ͣ̚ghͦt͂͌ͧ͌̄ ̛ͣͧ͐̾ͦ̅ǒ̐ͩ͌̓̾͋f̡ͥͪ̑͆ ͝ļ̉̆̎ͮ͛ͪͩĭ̶̎̉̐f͑ͪ̓e͗̏͛ͥ͆̏͐? W̡̠̘̭͛ͪ͋ͦͤa̘ͫ̆̒̈́͆i̗̳ͭͯ̾̇́̓ͫt̫̍ͭ ͈̠̯̻̖̪̹͌͑̽ͮ͛ͮ̃a̬̪ͫ̅̅ͯ́̈̓ͅ ̵͓̱̰͚̬͓̪̿͆M̞͍̤̤̱ͩ́̆̇i̪̬̟̪̹͍ͦ̓͗ͪ̐ͫ̐n̻͈̦̥͕͉̍͛͆̋̐͊u͍ͮ͌͛ͣ̀͘t̯̣̭̝̓͊̍̐̄ͧͦe̺͓̱͈̬̫̊ͯͥͨͯ͜ ̹͔̳̞̇͂͢this can't be me!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕!! CHECK MY FIELD, REALIZE! Still Sun Tzu hit my enemy first in the verses no physical damage no trauma purses to manage I already lived afflicted with curses from savage researches Till I learned to shift my boundaries around me, ...That there’s still power in !̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕category!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕ But not enough to stop me ! I broke the two ton shell OF CULTURE but I’ll never stop hearing this ocean swell sailors fly by wave to the 9th sign Hi. Î̝͎̪̮̣͎͈̮͖͈̼͕̞̠ͭ̍̓́͛ͣ͠͝ͅn̫̭̹̼̰͇̱̠̠̭͉̲̱̙̼͎̐̾ͨͦͪ̓̎̅̌ͬ͌̀ͦ̚͟͢ͅfͫ̆̐̾̂̃ͯͯ͌͑̄̌̀̅͂̔̋̀͘͏͎͇̭͓̜i͈̮̞̙̭͖͇͇̝̗͈̜̗̤̞͈̽̓̾ͪ͛̿͂ͯ͂̇̌ͣ̓ͦ̿ͮ̈͘͘n̷̷̡̠̘̘̦̬̣̺̟͖͍ͮ̾͂̈́͟͜ĭ̙̳̩͓͕̍̃̌͂͋ͪ̂ͧ̓ͨ̉ͨ͌ͨͤ̈̚͟͜͝t̵̴͖̣̳̤̊̈̎ͥ͊́e̛̺̭͚̻̠̞̙͍̞͚͉̝ͨ͑̉ like a Shepard’s tone. Passionate like a Shepard's SON. Intricate like a l̀e͊ͧ̓͛̑ͦ̃͠o͐ͭp͒͢à͢r͒́ͬ̅ͣͤd̑̍̿ͤͮsͦ̋ ̊̈́̀ͯ͐̅́tongue. [[God said to me]]: Work under the light of e̴͏ff͠ort͞ SON You cannot break the stone without the Wind and the Ocean. So we wander back into the liquid crystaline vision Waves wander and ponder up through and fill my being We release the storm my drips speaking. But I can't hear cause there's still Too Many Lights. Easily distracted by how others say "stay away from illicit people ..." Illicit people ...? More like people illicit [!?meaning?!] formed inͧ̒͂ͭ s͑͆͒ͯͪ͊̚tͩͩ̂ͬͬͬ̌e͆̏͗̽e̚ṕ͒l̅ͮͤͧ̉̈ẻ͋̈́ͨͪ̓sͤ̆̍ͥͮ ̉̓̚ Responses from the ghost markers self-induced parasites better host dollars people! FC*K that! >NO MORE BEING SILENT MY LOVE < -Just watch and listen- Tectonic plates shift when I talk back Demonic cosmic rift silent when I talk rap people never seem to mind unless you say I did that But you better believe This ***** not much more than a formality. Fancy phantasm shorn from reality . Never base your life in a fallacy. No waste your life chasing the phallus see? L̎̒i͐ͤv̡e̓ͪͪ̔̾ͤ ͥm̓̐ͨ̑̈̄҉a̎g̒̽̍͛̽iͩͩ͑͟c̎ͬ̏̕ ̡̂ͫ̒̊ͧͪ͆ Like Harry Potter, I always catch the snitch end the game break my fist͆̓̽..̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ So few leave this life of crime now I teach yoga super stack your spine till that ***** aligned so try and find me I’m in orbit right outside the mind b. To look up my next move in the dictionary doesn’t make it a **** move, this is : "My **** is hairy, I let it out at night like Bigfoot and its OH so scary!" Now WHATEVER YOU believe .̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ .͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭͔̖̲̓̍̈́͗̉̽ .͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭̓̍̈́͗̉̽ I’m married to my Wife, my Diction, God and Mary.

Continue reading...

Cookies in the oven, grass mowed, petrol, permanent markers her hair. Flowers, lavender and roses, wet dogs, even the barkers, her hair. Dinner ready, bacon barbecue, onions sizzling, fresh soup her hair. My sweat, my tears, her hair, my fears, morning dew, honey, misty sunrise hers.

0

Apr 22, 2014

Apr 22, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC

Cookies in the oven, grass mowed, petrol, permanent markers her hair. Flowers, lavender and roses, wet dogs, even the barkers, her hair. Dinner ready, bacon barbecue, onions sizzling, fresh soup her hair. My sweat, my tears, her hair, my fears, morning dew, honey, misty sunrise hers.

Continue reading...

there are paths  that we know  with our familiarity  we set off surefooted  toward our known destination  then as dusk settles in  we begin to doubt  to wonder  the markers and signposts  appear to have shifted  perhaps tampered with  and our assurance dwindles  replaced by confusion  unsettling in the fog  questions arise to which we believed  we already had the answers  and what was known becomes lost  along with  our selves

0

Jul 30, 2013

Jul 30, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC

alberttheinsider

there are paths  that we know  with our familiarity  we set off surefooted  toward our known destination  then as dusk settles in  we begin to doubt  to wonder  the markers and signposts  appear to have shifted  perhaps tampered with  and our assurance dwindles  replaced by confusion  unsettling in the fog  questions arise to which we believed  we already had the answers  and what was known becomes lost  along with  our selves

Continue reading...