Marrowed poems on Hello Poetry

neth jones Aug 2023

who re-marrowed this hollow tree ?
thought themselves of mythology ?
processed death into the dying **** ?
blunt   blackened hope
           buttering up what god ?
                                   what mischief maker ?
: Loki the crow with his promethean nose ?

covering his crooked actions
                          the defiling of a life
  murderer
  a coward of failed coupling
congress    a night down the pub
    the gender polar pair collided
            sottish upon their union
genitals bragging through urgent gaps in clothing
but that urgency deflated
it muttered away
he felt baited
and
  humiliated
             he committed to ******

crude amateur throttling
  a ***** sogged brick
an indiscreet botch up
    and a stolen wheelbarrow
        to ferry her away

'The Mourning Tree'
           despondently sifts for nourishment
its gummy combs of branches
  sashing particles  from the night solution
the tree ; a cavity
too verrucose and fleshy to whittle the winds
                                               or fife a tune
a rubbery craggle     foreign against the landscape
should   rather   make out its' habits
                  off the floor of a deep sea trench

roughing in the corpse
head first   down the gullet thirstily
skirts up and claustro
between spread limbs
to ***** puckle in the hollow tree
evicting the bird of Minerva
      ‘whoing’ into the charged sky
  blooded over
             the night blackens further
               brooding on the event

who re-marrowed this hollow tree ?
married themselves to a mythology ?
force fed life   engorged within deathly seed ?
upended crime     in lieu of a sacrifice
           he offered a glass of woman
               to oder the night
he strummed teasing fingers
      raked them humming
         through the heady resistance of the air
electric creeping warmth   over the skin
                        erecting the hairs
   museum silence
   an arena    as fraught equal    between magnets
       clouds cut the moon
      moon cut the eye
    sinful kiting to mend a link
ramblings kinked
he makes sparking incantations to the gods

one scatting madman
one corpse woman

that same bled night
where the furrowed fields
            meets natures disarray
children approach this woodland border
children with empty baked bean tins
      that they joined with lengths of string
trying to reach out their ears
    extend their timid range
       to sprites, nymphs, pucks or faeries
an older kid strikes up a cigarette
one of the younger ones squats to ***
         and be mocked

one brave girl of ten years
  runs a tin and the line into the woods
it jerks taunt after about thirty paces
she wedges it in a tree fork and runs back
the children crowd the receiver tin
spooking themselves
eavesdropping
       upon the hollow wisdom of small gods
            that mask their shame in the dark

influenced by ‘ Who put Bella down the Wych Elm? ‘

misuse of the word 'sashing'

#****** #madness #crime #natures #gods #pagan #passion #children #dare

Dylan Thomas

From Love's First Fever To Her Plague

From love's first fever to her plague, from the soft second
And to the hollow minute of the womb,
From the unfolding to the scissored caul,
The time for breast and the green apron age
When no mouth stirred about the hanging famine,
All world was one, one windy nothing,
My world was christened in a stream of milk.
And earth and sky were as one airy hill.
The sun and mood shed one white light.

From the first print of the unshodden foot, the lifting
Hand, the breaking of the hair,
From the first scent of the heart, the warning ghost,
And to the first dumb wonder at the flesh,
The sun was red, the moon was grey,
The earth and sky were as two mountains meeting.

The body prospered, teeth in the marrowed gums,
The growing bones, the rumour of the manseed
Within the hallowed gland, blood blessed the heart,
And the four winds, that had long blown as one,
Shone in my ears the light of sound,
Called in my eyes the sound of light.
And yellow was the multiplying sand,
Each golden grain spat life into its fellow,
Green was the singing house.

The plum my mother picked matured slowly,
The boy she dropped from darkness at her side
Into the sided lap of light grew strong,
Was muscled, matted, wise to the crying thigh,
And to the voice that, like a voice of hunger,
Itched in the noise of wind and sun.

And from the first declension of the flesh
I learnt man's tongue, to twist the shapes of thoughts
Into the stony idiom of the brain,
To shade and knit anew the patch of words
Left by the dead who, in their moonless acre,
Need no word's warmth.
The root of tongues ends in a spentout cancer,
That but a name, where maggots have their X.

I learnt the verbs of will, and had my secret;
The code of night tapped on my tongue;
What had been one was many sounding minded.

One wound, one mind, spewed out the matter,
One breast gave **** the fever's issue;
From the divorcing sky I learnt the double,
The two-framed globe that spun into a score;
A million minds gave **** to such a bud
As forks my eye;
Youth did condense; the tears of spring
Dissolved in summer and the hundred seasons;
One sun, one manna, warmed and fed.

Dylan Thomas

If I Were Tickled By the Rub of Love

If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.

Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby's thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.

Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with greet girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the ****
Nor the outspoken grave.

If I were tickled by the lovers' rub
That wipes away not crow's-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the ***** and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts' toes.

This world is half the devil's and my own,
Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man's shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.

And that's the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his ***
From damp love-darkness and the nurse's twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.

And what's the rub? Death's feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.

traces of being Mar 2017

When Silence is the Only Sound

If only there were words
           to the unspoken verses
           when silence is the only sound

           More than only
           near paralyzing torn,
           weary of searching endlessly
           for what cannot be found
           silence whispering poignantly
           drowning out the midnight rain,

           There is no more sorrow
           in search of the lost
           unstrummed guitar chords
           Unwritten psalms
           forever left unsung;
           without amity,
           woe betides an unfinished,
           abandoned heart's song

           Only a heart lonely knows,
           there is no absolving darkness
           whispering of screaming silence
           by night and by day:
           "all things must steal away"
           not to be thought of wanderings end
           as a  velvety-crimson rosebud
           shamelessly withers brown

           Swirling eddies stir
           a black swan of loneliness
           swimming within the flood
           of raven river waters'
           silently eclipsing
           its pitch black flow

           Muted pleas silent as pity
           blowin' in the fleeting windsong,
           speaking in beckoning salutations
           singing in sweetly beseeching tongues

           Like the hush of a pensive soul,
           once touched by another, moved
           like a bedrock marrowed mountain
           left stifled, stranded and wondering,
           feeling an awkward silence
           when the leaves come falling down

           There are no misbegotten promises
           cast lightly in the moonlight’s restless spell;
           there is no solacing stillness
when silence is the only sound...

Notes (optional) :
...Shhh

"When Silence is the Only Sound"
This title turns out being a fitting ending....
words in the wind ― blown away ― 3/15/2017

#silence #blackswan #weary #spilledpoetry #theend #whensilencereplies #stealaway

Dylan Thomas

In The Beginning

In the beginning was the three-pointed star,
One smile of light across the empty face,
One bough of bone across the rooting air,
The substance forked that marrowed the first sun,
And, burning ciphers on the round of space,
Heaven and hell mixed as they spun.

In the beginning was the pale signature,
Three-syllabled and starry as the smile,
And after came the imprints on the water,
Stamp of the minted face upon the moon;
The blood that touched the crosstree and the grail
Touched the first cloud and left a sign.

In the beginning was the mounting fire
That set alight the weathers from a spark,
A three-eyed, red-eyed spark, blunt as a flower,
Life rose and spouted from the rolling seas,
Burst in the roots, pumped from the earth and rock
The secret oils that drive the grass.

In the beginning was the word, the word
That from the solid bases of the light
Abstracted all the letters of the void;
And from the cloudy bases of the breath
The word flowed up, translating to the heart
First characters of birth and death.

In the beginning was the secret brain.
The brain was celled and soldered in the thought
Before the pitch was forking to a sun;
Before the veins were shaking in their sieve,
Blood shot and scattered to the winds of light
The ribbed original of love.

sobie Aug 2014

Marrowed

Your hollow bones make the most killer tunes and tones
Please don't fill them with lonely independence
I have sugar and adventure that I will lend you
I am your neighbor
I am your person
If you must, we will fill them with what I have for you,
We will make them into rainsticks
and play them
till the sun turns to rain,
till the rain turns to ice,
and till you climb the droplets to the clouds
Where you will find your head
And finally forget all the things they have said
That have made you settle and waste the day in bed.
We will let you breathe
You can sigh into my skeleton
And my bones will sing to you a song only your voice could inspire.

Camilla Green Mar 2017

Hurtful Words

It's raining outside...
with drops of a different kind,
tarred with morality and sin.
I can feel it, but not on my skin
it melts, like mired paper snow,
eyes brim with flakes of commas, ellipses, and unblinked zeugmas
that they thought I'd never know

But I absorb every drop-
every antidote, every toxic remark
they eat away at my soft and white
cancerous to gently marrowed bones
yet I long for the slipping
of soft yellow butter on flaky warmed toast
simply resting onto the surface, eternally

What must it be like...to be oblivious?

#words #life #anxiety #rain #wish #hurtful #toast #selfreflection

Derick Van Dusen Aug 2012

Senseless to the Void

In the untimely event of my demise
Someone please pluck out my useless eyes.
Because when death comes to take its' tole,
I wish not to see that empty hole.

Dark and dingy musty earth,
rot and rancid smells at birth,
doth contend to trust not worth.
Bring forth out of filth and mire to purge mine nose of its' desire

Hear mine ears the worms that squirm,
below that massive earthen berm.
Cast out the sounds of pleading death,
take no more from lungs, my one last breath.

Feel the roots clawing through skin,
take not heed of where the've been.
Covered dirt to marrowed bones,
death waits for the to fill its' catacombs.

Taste of the thy wretched dung,
flick out of the thy evil tongue.
Speak not for grace in such a place,
where time has rendered the thy final resting place.

MJ Lee Feb 2017

When I Am Departed

When I'm departed
Leave not the scars of my scars
Upon your eyes nor brain

When I'm departed
Forget not the way my hair reminded thou of a lion's mane
Nor how eyes of winter bark is of the lamb

When I am departed
Even as you burn down the corpses’ temporary sanctuary with hellfire to allow me the will to fly
Even as you hear the crackling of marrowed fuel
As I am laid from dust to dust to the sky

Do not forget my words
Do not forget my unspoken lyrics
My voice may be gone but the memory
The letters of my life paint the history
Of who I was
Let these pages live on
Even as they yellow like dying grass
For only then, when they are dust as well
Only then, will I be gone

#death

Jessica Fisher Nov 2016

Untitled

Haunting glades
ruffled by wind
starlit serenades
envelopes souls unwound
the darkness's Æthered aura
on these marrowed hills
the silken moons glazed glow
belays the nights chilling light
correlating perused solitude of
preluding constructs
condemning intentions and
facilitated goals

Scorch'd Diana Feb 2021

Somberness

Somberness, see it sanctuarily swearing
sword-tongue worded spellspeech secretly sunder a number
apart from another,
no ear so keen just to hear the equation
crackle into informal shatter.
No regrets nor bother
among preachers nor hypocrits,
so same as it's sad, their chatter
a masked creature
that fits this disordered scripture
of us.

Aware of a far-reaching freedom
each of them fathomless to their undone dares
to fail becoming one;
they,
all feature a familiar pattern
which matters even less to them
than a fantasy's thorn to their first thoughts, frankly;
they,
who share the same history they're enacting
their manifest destiny of a doom chosen
their fair share of despair
so spectacularily reflecting through
their fleet tranquil escaping
from those fear-forsakened frail bone-marrowed
branch brittles they've rosen
so fro as they are, frighteningly awake
fleeing those fractures so alive
in fashions gorgeous fractals alike
no grit, no wit capable of constructing such a lit, yet aesthetic scene of delight.

They,
each afraid of their boundaries beloved
to be breached apart so badly
only for captivity and nothing else
as they beg
counter-intuitive measurements taken
caught from under the counter countlessly
those captives, their algorithms split, entwined;
so better, better don't mind it;
undozens of them
all death-grasping frozen
from just a slightliest rattle
of the crispy pages bearing a poem
or a *** pinched by a laddle.

Falsely do they believe revolving
advancing their middle
however, with its Forever forgotten
prayer by prayer
for the sake of a splendid soil
oblivious to the seed that is rotten.

Oil-devouring tumoil tactically targets their entire toil
pouring visions filling each stare
for each one to chisel only another
effort-evaporating Escheresque stair
for ground and ground apart at the borderline
they are,
the sharp scraping of the air
gnashing winds under the ice of a somber sunshine.

These crystalline brimstones
spacelessy stranded;
vile ambers, yet of beauty unspoken
sparking like cider, from apples royalty-branded
perhaps even prickling, peach-flavoured honey wine
reminiscing silent lovers' moans
ones a satyr favours in folly
in gayness he eaves his hallowed shrine.

Without answers
a riddle is meant unbroken
shards of their failure, silkenly sanded
faintly, a filthless spirit's essence,
so fine.
Some insight may have been awoken
perhaps this and not another time.
Just the right questions
painfully born from the sublime.

In and on,
however a retrospect away
a new future rises from the ashes of fallen hells
mere memories of an old fiend
darkness encountered
for each delusion you slay
and eventually
even you, as well, will listen
listen to the bells from the yondersome elsewhere ringing, wailing
hailing their soul-crackling harmony
somewhere from above us all.

Cardinal numbers are breathless,
while we,
so proud to appraise prime numbers
so wishfully down to their core,
rather dream unparalyzed a dream
of an unclaimed nowhen
stuck in a less corrupt algebratic behaviour than before;
error-ridden operations so holdlessly scaffolded
our somberness
submerged and suffocated.
Down
down we swam to see sunken cities of sorcery;
suicidal endeavour, hive mind agony
our race means for the next galaxy
yet still a race meant for parsimony.

All in all, ****** in brickly rubble
what once was wall, popped much like a bubble;
crumbling, stars burst our skies apart
fates laughing the madnesses' mirth
no hand unscorched, suddenly so much to win.
They listen, scent, and see,
the ones they miss, and what they've lost;
gasping, gazing up ahead
wings spread, glare brightly
flame-feathered doves of rebirth
released, everyone's dignity
finally freed from the heart.

We're not, not mindlessly suffering a somewhere
but this time, facing this inquiry:
What else is there
reality or not
modality or possibility, probably an actuality;
as we learn to sincerely care and to feel
the current breath, the nation, the spot
they all are our responsibility
doubtlessly and definitely real.

Thus, secondary to me
each second that ***** my spirit dry
throughout a minute
anywhen
as we spire from hour to hour
honestly, far, far too often
and not from now and then.

Primary, however, is
my mistake which I'll hold me dire
I would rather not anymore, ever
divide zero by itself again.
What I learned like so many before
cannot count in this realm of some foreign heart
- now, for me -
anymore
which is indeed my problem
as I'm burning these pages I tore apart.

01011001

Claire Elizabeth Jan 2020

Marrow

it's an unlove sort of thing, rancid and vaguely rotting. it sweeps through the room when your name is mentioned. unpleasant, enticing, a quickening of breath and onslaught of dread.

the sinner knows when he has sinned, but sinners also believe they are not sinners. your boldfaced words, not quite lies, but not full truths are the accusations of unjust recollections coming from our half moon mouths.

the ones who fall in love with you offer you stained letters from the palms of deteriorating hands. the ink runs through the quagmire of rusted paper, delicately flowering bruises on parchment paper stems.

you told me kind things that sprouted kind fingers and evicted my kindness from the depths of my hollowed out femur, from the depths of my marrowless ulna, my rattling phalanges. you ****** it through my teeth and separated it from my breath. the kindness has been replaced by marrow once more.

the girls all look around and see morbid mirrored horror, the suffocating love they all mimic, with him at the center, a spinning dial slowing to land on his next curiosity, his next sweet-marrowed banshee.

— The End —