"medians" poems - Hello Poetry

There is a man who writes signs for the homeless, puts different lives on display, spends his time night and day over squares of cardboard or triangles of vinyl, he turns them into war vets or leukemia survivors, he slaves away so that they'll get people to listen, he wants people to hear the heart of the world murmuring as it cries, because we have left them, their lack of a place to reside, is our society's dark side, so he is not a man of the people he is a man for the people, he wants that spare nickel, dime, or dollar as much for them as his words are for himself and his own sense of redemption, because this world has gone cold on the surface but it's heart still burns, still makes you uncomfortable, when you see his signs in the hands of men and women in the grassy medians.

0

Feb 25, 2012

Feb 25, 2012 at 7:28 PM UTC

Waverly

Heal me.

There is a man who writes signs for the homeless, puts different lives on display, spends his time night and day over squares of cardboard or triangles of vinyl, he turns them into war vets or leukemia survivors, he slaves away so that they'll get people to listen, he wants people to hear the heart of the world murmuring as it cries, because we have left them, their lack of a place to reside, is our society's dark side, so he is not a man of the people he is a man for the people, he wants that spare nickel, dime, or dollar as much for them as his words are for himself and his own sense of redemption, because this world has gone cold on the surface but it's heart still burns, still makes you uncomfortable, when you see his signs in the hands of men and women in the grassy medians.

45

This tomb hideth the dust of Aeschylus, an Athenian, Euphorion's son, who died in wheat-bearing Gela; his glorious valor the precinct of Marathon may proclaim, and the long-haired Medes, who knew it well." On the Plain at Marathon We stood in Darius’ way. An outnumbered band of Athenians who the Medians sought to slay. They had first crushed the Ionians Then put Eretria to the Torch. Wherever Darius conquered the bleeding earth was scorched. Our Hoplites held the high Ground and penned the Persians in. For several days a stalemate reigned. Neither side could win. But when the Persians spit their force and sailed on a friendly tide. Our hand was forced there was but one course if Athens was not to die. Our Phalanx moved against each wing of the Median horde. Though numerous, they were lightly armed against our spears and swords. We burned their ships and slew their men Their Panic turned the tide. Aeschylus seemed to be everywhere urging on our side. A Legend holds Pheidippides To Athens then made haste to proclaim: “Rejoice , We conquer!” at the end of his last race.

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Nov 30, 2011

Nov 30, 2011 at 8:39 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

Euphorion’s Son

This tomb hideth the dust of Aeschylus, an Athenian, Euphorion's son, who died in wheat-bearing Gela; his glorious valor the precinct of Marathon may proclaim, and the long-haired Medes, who knew it well." On the Plain at Marathon We stood in Darius’ way. An outnumbered band of Athenians who the Medians sought to slay. They had first crushed the Ionians Then put Eretria to the Torch. Wherever Darius conquered the bleeding earth was scorched. Our Hoplites held the high Ground and penned the Persians in. For several days a stalemate reigned. Neither side could win. But when the Persians spit their force and sailed on a friendly tide. Our hand was forced there was but one course if Athens was not to die. Our Phalanx moved against each wing of the Median horde. Though numerous, they were lightly armed against our spears and swords. We burned their ships and slew their men Their Panic turned the tide. Aeschylus seemed to be everywhere urging on our side. A Legend holds Pheidippides To Athens then made haste to proclaim: “Rejoice , We conquer!” at the end of his last race.

30

He's singing a song with his eyes And everyone can hear it People sit with their heads down Facing the red light Ignoring the loudest sound a human can hear Silence Trying to ignore the loudest vision we see The man on the median Without a home And he's singing a song with his eyes And everyone can hear it The red light has paused us Forcing us to stop Some of us try to continue our motion Through our phones or radio But something has stopped Some of us are angry Feeling that he’s taking advantage of the pause Filling the pause And the silence With a picture Framed by our window That we didn’t ask for But he exists whether we see him or not The column of traffic Before the left turn Is filled with empathy, resentment, and judgment all at once The feelings running into each other Like waves of water Sloshing between the cars “Being homeless is a choice” “He didn’t ask to be homeless” And he's singing a song with his eyes And everyone can hear it He used to have a home He lived in wealth And sitting in one of the cars before the red light Is a man that used to be without a home But the man on the median is happier somehow Not all men on medians are happy But somehow He is How strange He disturbs us because he is one of us A fellow human Living in a way we aren’t ~ JL

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Apr 24, 2015

Apr 24, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC

jade-louise

The Man on the Median

He's singing a song with his eyes And everyone can hear it People sit with their heads down Facing the red light Ignoring the loudest sound a human can hear Silence Trying to ignore the loudest vision we see The man on the median Without a home And he's singing a song with his eyes And everyone can hear it The red light has paused us Forcing us to stop Some of us try to continue our motion Through our phones or radio But something has stopped Some of us are angry Feeling that he’s taking advantage of the pause Filling the pause And the silence With a picture Framed by our window That we didn’t ask for But he exists whether we see him or not The column of traffic Before the left turn Is filled with empathy, resentment, and judgment all at once The feelings running into each other Like waves of water Sloshing between the cars “Being homeless is a choice” “He didn’t ask to be homeless” And he's singing a song with his eyes And everyone can hear it He used to have a home He lived in wealth And sitting in one of the cars before the red light Is a man that used to be without a home But the man on the median is happier somehow Not all men on medians are happy But somehow He is How strange He disturbs us because he is one of us A fellow human Living in a way we aren’t ~ JL

48

I watched someone almost die today and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me I see a life flash before my eyes a million executions play like infernal theater on multiple screens and the protagonist keeps walking to the stop more afraid of missing the bus than being run over while the driver stares blankly, maybe thinking about something they saw on Instagram I am troubled by this but I’m feeling an odd sense of bliss and reverence for my senses flooded with multiple universes deserving every bit of my attention indexed into stories I tell my therapist laughing at the absurdity of it all the majestic tapestry woven with uneven threads and patchwork processes humanity has distilled into averages and medians and experts who think they’ve outwitted god through postulating perpetual motion towards Hell or Nirvana or Haley’s comet whatever stops the itch burning a hole in our collective consciousness regardless of our upbringing we’re wired to ask why are we ******* here until the question becomes heavy and our knees buckle and we kneel at the feet of something other than the ground we’re standing on

0

Sep 23, 2025

Sep 23, 2025 at 11:18 PM UTC

NyxThePoet

*Attention Rental*

I watched someone almost die today and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me I see a life flash before my eyes a million executions play like infernal theater on multiple screens and the protagonist keeps walking to the stop more afraid of missing the bus than being run over while the driver stares blankly, maybe thinking about something they saw on Instagram I am troubled by this but I’m feeling an odd sense of bliss and reverence for my senses flooded with multiple universes deserving every bit of my attention indexed into stories I tell my therapist laughing at the absurdity of it all the majestic tapestry woven with uneven threads and patchwork processes humanity has distilled into averages and medians and experts who think they’ve outwitted god through postulating perpetual motion towards Hell or Nirvana or Haley’s comet whatever stops the itch burning a hole in our collective consciousness regardless of our upbringing we’re wired to ask why are we ******* here until the question becomes heavy and our knees buckle and we kneel at the feet of something other than the ground we’re standing on

30

certain words don't provide adequate ontological modes, they provide ontological medians or means, but not modes, for example, a good comparison would be to compare two words, only two words: a. atheism and b. apathy. dissect the words during a syllable cut as a meaningful prefix, in both examples that's a-, what do you get? a- (without) god (/ theology), contradictory given that atheism is a type of theology, a logic to disprove the existence of something, but it's still a theology of some sort, now the second example: a- (without) pathology (/ailments of range whether phobias or their antonyms, psychological constructs that are stressed more prominently than serious pains that leave everyone psychologically paralysed by that parasite of pain). in terms of ontology, in simpler terms simply qua, which is more important in human affairs? qua apathetic or qua atheistic? personally? i think the former - there are more obstructions in the former's rubric of obstructions than in the latter's, given that it's a rarity to be suddenly struck down with plagues and prophetic ailments of ill fate... i don't care how cool it looks, to be an atheist, you could only be a true atheist if you were illiterate and couldn't use the alphabet (that old chestnut from the book of genesis, in the beginning there was word, and the word was god), or if you were part of that famous experiment done by frederick ii hohenstaufen where a bunch of children were raised in a phonetic celibacy by nuns, just to prove what language was spoken first; well the experiment conclusively produced a bunch of mutes... i guess extending the experiment's parameters to animals would never work: try forcing a cat to bark, as many vanities of "proven reasons" died when kublai khan moved the horde east without due respect for peace-loving mongolians.

0

Jan 16, 2016

Jan 16, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

the frederick ii hohenstaufen linguistic experiment

certain words don't provide adequate ontological modes, they provide ontological medians or means, but not modes, for example, a good comparison would be to compare two words, only two words: a. atheism and b. apathy. dissect the words during a syllable cut as a meaningful prefix, in both examples that's a-, what do you get? a- (without) god (/ theology), contradictory given that atheism is a type of theology, a logic to disprove the existence of something, but it's still a theology of some sort, now the second example: a- (without) pathology (/ailments of range whether phobias or their antonyms, psychological constructs that are stressed more prominently than serious pains that leave everyone psychologically paralysed by that parasite of pain). in terms of ontology, in simpler terms simply qua, which is more important in human affairs? qua apathetic or qua atheistic? personally? i think the former - there are more obstructions in the former's rubric of obstructions than in the latter's, given that it's a rarity to be suddenly struck down with plagues and prophetic ailments of ill fate... i don't care how cool it looks, to be an atheist, you could only be a true atheist if you were illiterate and couldn't use the alphabet (that old chestnut from the book of genesis, in the beginning there was word, and the word was god), or if you were part of that famous experiment done by frederick ii hohenstaufen where a bunch of children were raised in a phonetic celibacy by nuns, just to prove what language was spoken first; well the experiment conclusively produced a bunch of mutes... i guess extending the experiment's parameters to animals would never work: try forcing a cat to bark, as many vanities of "proven reasons" died when kublai khan moved the horde east without due respect for peace-loving mongolians.

48

Take the pills, they say It’ll make the pain go away Rather than address the root causes Let’s fill her with antidotes Temporary solutions Hopeful lies. Take this for your skin Don’t question why you’re out of balance Why there’s a correlation with the stress in your life and the budding mountains on your face Instead of bursting at the seams Blood vessels burst in your face Don’t question the fact that a man will never caress your face Because they’ll be met with medians and potholes instead of a smooth ride to beauty Don’t question that you’ll never get to try the new updo In fear of scaring men away by bearing too much of your imperfect skin No man will attempt to mount the peaks of your troubles. Take this to stop nature’s course To allow any man to do what he wants and not have to worry about accidents or entrapments Not have to ever take responsibility for mistakes And they’ll call it your safety and security. Take this for the searing pain that flashes behind your eyes and leaves you in bed on the most beautiful days of your life, unable to function We’ll stuff you full of preventers and painkillers and not ask why a twenty-year-old has the stress of a soldier on the battlefield We’ll ignore the pressures of school and money and relationships So we don’t have to talk about it. It’ll all wash away, when you wash down those pills.

0

Apr 20, 2014

Apr 20, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC

millicent-feckless

Prescriptions

Take the pills, they say It’ll make the pain go away Rather than address the root causes Let’s fill her with antidotes Temporary solutions Hopeful lies. Take this for your skin Don’t question why you’re out of balance Why there’s a correlation with the stress in your life and the budding mountains on your face Instead of bursting at the seams Blood vessels burst in your face Don’t question the fact that a man will never caress your face Because they’ll be met with medians and potholes instead of a smooth ride to beauty Don’t question that you’ll never get to try the new updo In fear of scaring men away by bearing too much of your imperfect skin No man will attempt to mount the peaks of your troubles. Take this to stop nature’s course To allow any man to do what he wants and not have to worry about accidents or entrapments Not have to ever take responsibility for mistakes And they’ll call it your safety and security. Take this for the searing pain that flashes behind your eyes and leaves you in bed on the most beautiful days of your life, unable to function We’ll stuff you full of preventers and painkillers and not ask why a twenty-year-old has the stress of a soldier on the battlefield We’ll ignore the pressures of school and money and relationships So we don’t have to talk about it. It’ll all wash away, when you wash down those pills.

25

Two of salt Have a heaven, have a done Wrent with the times, a unison fault? A picture of silence, when you have a question? What is salt to a weary heaven? Claim the door, or make a fruit a sovereign future We have the sulking, the tradition of when art is the question Can a hardier nuance, become the notion to endure? A picture of paradise? Promises and privilege, to greet your decisions Of waiting and fating the stare, opus hopes is wise So to a form in choices void, is a wakeful two, intimation? Of a welling conscience, and the first of many kinds Of wishes for, and taken with impressions visit Medians or tedium, a rule of voice is to become our mind A sake, with tomorrow on its nerves, and the rest of the future for wit Creating the art of hours, a wishing order to worth Is a raging held in honor or contempt? Longing for a masters stroke, can a sharing candor, leave us with certain... Ours of heed, and curiosity, to be a show of what life lent? The mastery of a premonition To work the magic of the age, a host's place and or confirmation Come by the senses of another, to speak the truth of intuition That has become the pout of romantic powers, a vision of a generation?

0

Nov 22, 2024

Nov 22, 2024 at 3:36 AM UTC

david-hilburn

Could Salt Give Purpose A Taint, Or A Twain?

Two of salt Have a heaven, have a done Wrent with the times, a unison fault? A picture of silence, when you have a question? What is salt to a weary heaven? Claim the door, or make a fruit a sovereign future We have the sulking, the tradition of when art is the question Can a hardier nuance, become the notion to endure? A picture of paradise? Promises and privilege, to greet your decisions Of waiting and fating the stare, opus hopes is wise So to a form in choices void, is a wakeful two, intimation? Of a welling conscience, and the first of many kinds Of wishes for, and taken with impressions visit Medians or tedium, a rule of voice is to become our mind A sake, with tomorrow on its nerves, and the rest of the future for wit Creating the art of hours, a wishing order to worth Is a raging held in honor or contempt? Longing for a masters stroke, can a sharing candor, leave us with certain... Ours of heed, and curiosity, to be a show of what life lent? The mastery of a premonition To work the magic of the age, a host's place and or confirmation Come by the senses of another, to speak the truth of intuition That has become the pout of romantic powers, a vision of a generation?

24

First days of spring How many poems have been written about you? Could you count them on all your fingers and toes finally free from wool socks or on your highway medians’ flower buds barely visible from the rolled-down windows of passing cars? Let me add one more set of words-- images of a Saturday afternoon in April cats snoring pressed against sun-dappled window screens and daffodils adorning even the smallest patches of earth between city streets and sidewalks And most of all that sublime knowledge a proof of concept that bulbs become blossoms that winter layers will be shed. The things I thought were dead and rotting were only dormant for a season. The chill of winter--which will come back-- fades for now, replaced by milder breezes. The dull walk to my parked car a trudge that seemed so long and dreary is now a brief journey dotted with colors and full of the splendor of living things.

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May 13, 2019

May 13, 2019 at 9:35 PM UTC

EnnisS

Bulbs become blossoms

First days of spring How many poems have been written about you? Could you count them on all your fingers and toes finally free from wool socks or on your highway medians’ flower buds barely visible from the rolled-down windows of passing cars? Let me add one more set of words-- images of a Saturday afternoon in April cats snoring pressed against sun-dappled window screens and daffodils adorning even the smallest patches of earth between city streets and sidewalks And most of all that sublime knowledge a proof of concept that bulbs become blossoms that winter layers will be shed. The things I thought were dead and rotting were only dormant for a season. The chill of winter--which will come back-- fades for now, replaced by milder breezes. The dull walk to my parked car a trudge that seemed so long and dreary is now a brief journey dotted with colors and full of the splendor of living things.

27

A moment of rare silence, perhaps honesty, even prayer on my drive home at night among jacked-up trucks, shifty-eyed low beams, shifting medians of concrete and brake lights as far as I can see. I’m afraid what I will do trying to outrun this life and untold others I’ve cut off and are now coming at me. A true fear, the kind I trust as I grip the wheel with the strength of anger that sees its worth in me. Some mornings I stand in the road and the moon is full in the trees and pulling for me. Birdsong is bringing me first light to wear like a St. Christopher medal against the surround sound of the expressway always close by.

0

Apr 2, 2021

Apr 2, 2021 at 1:53 PM UTC

dananthony

Facing Myself Driving

A moment of rare silence, perhaps honesty, even prayer on my drive home at night among jacked-up trucks, shifty-eyed low beams, shifting medians of concrete and brake lights as far as I can see. I’m afraid what I will do trying to outrun this life and untold others I’ve cut off and are now coming at me. A true fear, the kind I trust as I grip the wheel with the strength of anger that sees its worth in me. Some mornings I stand in the road and the moon is full in the trees and pulling for me. Birdsong is bringing me first light to wear like a St. Christopher medal against the surround sound of the expressway always close by.

20

Fly, little bird find your peace know you were loved fighting against growing up for years together. From "we love Satan" to "Franken-Mamma" to late night rides and jumping medians at 2AM facing head-on collisions with life. So fly, little bird the time is now, fly.

0

May 15, 2024

May 15, 2024 at 10:45 AM UTC

Rmatheson

Timothy White

Fly, little bird find your peace know you were loved fighting against growing up for years together. From "we love Satan" to "Franken-Mamma" to late night rides and jumping medians at 2AM facing head-on collisions with life. So fly, little bird the time is now, fly.

15