"mercifully" poems
Pinto?
No, not the wild-spirited, color-splotched mare
with mane streaming like flames-thrown
behind in the wind
Taking desert inclines
with scuffing hooves on rock
catching her balance in mesquite
curbing?
The sage, dust
All
that nature throws in its pathway to knowledge
toward treachery of crosswalks?
“P-l-e-a-s-e don't slow down!
Stop signs--?
”No!
Just keep going!
Don't slow down now!”
“They'll hear us coming
3 blocks away!”
Pinto?
Clogged carburetor--?
No one much-mentioned
rear-end inferno reputation??
A mere twinge in my signature
Woman-without-a-clue
“Hey, it runs, right?
Gets where we're goin'?”
Kids duck in back seat
so as not to be seen
In the cloud of smoke
We make our approach
Hiss Spitter, Belch, Pop
and--
BANG!
--Like a gunshot
Kids take cover
on street, in backseat
duck down
so not to be noticed...
“Oh Ma!
MA!!!
Not right here!
Farther down!”
...so not to be seen
...by friends that matter...
in this ride
from hell!
Backfiring Beast--
“Friends”
skitter away
from what will emerge from the smoke and fumes
of high-risk-situation
Kids spill out through jammed door
to unexpected accolades
onto equality's curb
of laughter
Public school's
wake of exhaust and relief
I drive mercifully away
Start of another school day
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
We embarked upon a titanic voyage to a new world.
It’s said that behind every great man there's a great woman; But a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.
7 bells rang late that night, as our ship stuck fast; between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Fingers frantic! tapping code…—-…
Sailors quickly battened down the hatches and stowed away the Riff-raff, for they knew fine words would butter no parsnips, Better here than there in third class.
Some fiddlers on the deck played “Nearer My God to Thee", As the bubbles rose from beneath the sea, come buckle down boys for the devils to pay, come hell or high water he’ll have his pay.
Mothers row, land lubbers row, it's time to leave this god forsaken place. pulling hard for freedom.
Ten steel decks split and snap, as they join the ***** and hundreds either shriek or pray; as La dolce vita slowly ebbed away.
Mercifully the cacophony descends ever silent, as fifteen hundred souls become neither fish nor flesh, rotting from the head down.
Save our souls •••- - - •••. … — …
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
There is a gentle thought that often springs
to life in me, because it speaks of you.
Its reasoning about love’s so sweet and true,
the heart is conquered, and accepts these things.
‘Who is this’ the mind enquires of the heart,
‘who comes here to ****** our intellect?
Is his power so great we must reject
every other intellectual art?
The heart replies ‘O, meditative mind
this is love’s messenger and newly sent
to bring me all Love’s words and desires.
His life, and all the strength that he can find,
from her sweet eyes are mercifully lent,
who feels compassion for our inner fires.’
9.6k
It's unfortunate that Parisians
Are very hard to bear,
In terms of flash obsequiousity,
They drive me to despair!
And patience is an attribute
I don't profess to have
To mercifully administer
When accents veer to Slav.
Baltics look like jellyfish,
The Germans are obscene
And loud and overbearing
But the Swiss are very clean.
Italians are a swarthy lot
Who gourmandize on food
And sacrifice their suavity
By being impudently crude.
The Spanish are no better,
In fact they are probably worse,
For obsessing in the blood sports
I actually rate them in reverse.
Starchiness is British
They're convoluted to the core,
The Old Boy system's lost it's sheen
Aspirants flock to it no more.
The Yanks are looking slightly crass
Whilst fighting foreign wars,
Their pinky held up squeaky clean
To call "foul" to China's flaws.
China sits inscrutably
Holding all the cards
Waiting for the moment
To strike beneath the guards.
India and Pakistan
Are squabbling like kids
The uproar over Kashmir
Rates them lower than the Yids.
The Yids are walking tightropes
With Iran's nuclear ******
Whilst currying Yank approval,
Eventual bombing is a must.
The Dutch behave so anally
They're always proven right
When faced with rigid negatives
They blanch with haunches tight.
But not the Argentineans
They love to dance and flirt,
To chase the senorita
Cavorting in the scarlet skirt.
The South Pacific's wallowing
They're adrift from World affairs
Oz's self preoccupation
Mirrors Kiwi's vacant stares.
Africa's way past comment
Lost to heat and dust,
Warfare, **** and pillage
And the rest decayed by rust.
Eskimos are OK
Clean living on the ice
The population static,
Zer-O pollution's nice!
Marshalg
@theGate
Mangere Bridge
14 April 2009
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 12:08 AM UTC
a perfect, newly unveiled horizon line
ancient and promising
yet reborn as a newborn
to my industrialized eyes.
I haven’t heard sirens in days.
still, there is the hustle and bustle
of movement everywhere,
but not by people
nor Porsches and Escalades
and their infiltrating thick smog.
no inane chatter
and fake oohing and aahing
over Louis’ and who saw who.
no
here the possessions move
the so-called inorganic
the buildings, doors, and gates
yearning to be free
swaying, creaking
their tiny reins of confinement
too much to bear
for their free spirits.
taking their cue
from trees, plants, vines, leaves
which are overgrowing fences
and clambering over walls
a massive riotous uprising at a glacier-pace
to triumph over the bipeds
imagine the horror of the flora
at a sudden interment to La-La-Land
the hopelessness and oppression
at being trimmed twice a week
mutilated and then slaughtered.
no
they are the secret underground rulers
stubbornly proud but humble tyrants
mercifully loving their lowly subjects
feeling sorry for us
we who have been forced into
this unnatural industrial order
not their beautiful chaos.
and yet...
they lie in wait
patiently, silently
anticipating the day
when we throw up our arms in exasperation and relief
and acquiesce to their dominion
a return to times before times.
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 1:33 PM UTC
Preponderant enchantments written
With dawns bereft tears
Of a hircine mendicant
Upon a necromantic acorn
Thirsting times wild-wize monition
During a week of sundays
Atide sins wake awash
Clarities purification.
Natures immure debt drawing
Maledictions masterpiece,
Leys bane web mercifully mirroring
Obsidian sibilant eyes
Peccably prenouncing the portent
Languid whisper inquisitorially;
Heavens augumented vestments
Distinguishable amid eternities
Pensive shade as thuriferous
Hallowed tombs loom black
As ink, somewhere that was
Thought to be void far between
The dark hour anchoring the
Fractured talisman of loves memoirs.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 11:49 AM UTC
one mistake
when you were too young
to know how to play by the rules,
when lines were blurred and
first times felt like finallys.
you had to tell him it was over
seven
separate
times,
had to endure each time
he passed too close to you at work.
until, mercifully,
you never saw him again.
two mistakes
still too young to understand right and wrong
but old enough to understand the spark
and the beat of the music.
you let him do the things
that made him keep one eye out
for anyone you knew,
because you thought you were special
until the night you realized you weren't.
all the times you left smelling like him
turned into a burning on your skin it took you years to wash away.
three mistakes
three strikes,
old enough, but not for him.
still too naive for the secret meetings that didn't feel wrong
until they did.
the first time there was lots of blood
and he wiped away your tears
while you hyperventilated on the bathroom floor.
he brought you water
and then kicked you out
and found new ways to do it all again
until you'd had enough.
Dec 31, 2021
Dec 31, 2021 at 6:10 AM UTC
Today
I savored my own killing
I could've done so
at the twilight of my days
while I dose off
on a creaking rocking chair
my old lean limbs entangling down
my crooked joints melded to the arm rests
my heavy head resting on my collarbone
oblivious as I
mercifully approach from the back
gently stepping on the tube
leading oxygen to my dying body
watching as my breath become heavy
as my blocked throat wheeze in exhaustion
as my stressed lungs finally collapse
as I quietly yield to sleep.
I could've done so
sometime tomorrow or yesterday
As I lay asleep on my back
snoring as usual
in an instant I'll roll over
and be on top of myself
clasping at my mouth and nose
pressing my full body weight
as I jolt awake, panicked and confused
my arm randomly flailing around
torn prayer flags swooped by a hurricane
my fingers digging into the flesh of my arms
attempting to pull me apart
until finally
my stubborn grip overcomes
and defeated I dim onto stillness
save for a twitch here or there.
I chose to do so
in my youth
as the texture of a heavy rope
grazes and bruises the skin on my neck
while I send a chilling smile at myself
from across the room
pulling a handle
that drops the floor beneath my feet
accelerating for the first time
relishing the hissing air
the absence of gravity
catching with my eyes my penetrating gaze
older than I am
full of grief, fatigue, and divination
cut by the cracking rope
torn like my snapped neck
with a hallow sound
much less revolting than I thought
watch me dangling like
a ragged pendulum
a grotesque puppet
an unripe miscarriage
feeling but a slight pinch of regret
for never knowing
this moment
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
Love has given up.
It was the wrong religion.
And London did not melt into the Thames.
You teetered on the edge of a golden world,
and then fell suddenly—
accused of sortilege, ****** and treason.
And at his pleasure—
or was it mercy?—
Was it for the sake of your seven years,
or perhaps for the little daughter?—
in which flowed the royal blood, spoiled by *** and lineage.
Whatever it was, no matter.
He would spare you the pain
of being burnt at the stake.
Instead, to be executed like royalty—
dispatched by a French swordsman.
The prophecy must have been of little comfort
as your ladies helped prepare you to meet
Death, newly betrothed.
A gown of dark grey damask
floated over a blood-red petticoat.
Your mantle was trimmed with ermine.
Queenly, you stood and addressed those who had come to
watch you. And then you knelt and began to pray, and
quickly and mercifully, the blade
carried out its trajectory.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
*reality abruptly removed the veil
realization mercifully provided the light
a binary being seeking his own level
attempting to rise to the surface of himself
if peaceful existence is based on choice
then personal dogma tablets need chiseling
if afterlife is fashioned from belief systems
then intimate mysteries need conceiving
dialogue of a dress rehearsal for an actual life
faithlessly hidden within lines of complexity
alliterated ambiguously, expressed equivocally
setting the stage for reincarnation's passion play*
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
The air is damp and fresh,
the scent of new rain perfumes all that surrounds me
and thin mist lingers in the atmosphere.
It caresses my face when I walk through it's path,
a simple, happy path,
like moth's wings on silk, and it no longer stings.
A large oak tree stands tall and mighty, a magnificent display of solidarity -
but not imposing.
It is kind and bare and humble,
and I see that we are both stripped in some way, raw and defrocked.
I touch the last trace of green it possesses,
the last bit of hope and the last reminder that things come back
and that things move forward,
soft moss under the pads of my fingertips, soaked and sponge like,
and just there - clean and true.
I turn up my collar against the wind and tighten the wrap of my coat around me,
still clinging,
but at least I'm shielding myself from the cold.
I'm still allowed to cling just a little, I think. Sometimes we need to cling -
to help us let go.
And anyway, I know that change has arrived at last, no matter how small it is,
because although the only embrace I receive here, aside from the fabric of my coat, is the bitter cold,
I am not bitter.
And this chill does nothing but bring peace,
and somehow warm my heart this time instead of freezing it.
A ruby under the wet russet leaves
is what I see through the remnants of the rain.
Peel away the outer layers so that I can remember what is beautiful.
These colours do not look like blood anymore;
they're a sunset: fading but with a guaranteed return.
Beginnings, endings, departures and returns -
that is an existence.
But a life
is when we look back with both longing and acceptance,
to never forget but never dwell too long
on what has been.
Sweetness, bitterness, sourness:
a weary traveler making his way along a path
with Autumn meadow on one side: tranquility and rest,
and Autumn meadow on the other: Summer is ended and so are you.
I know which side I'm ready to seek now.
For what is taken in Autumn,
is also returned.
And the evidence is in your being on this side of the path with me.
I know - because I see the good things now.
I see only the beautiful colours and the chestnuts and the mercifully short days.
Yes. This Autumn will be different.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
indigo dusk spreads across
inexhaustible country sky
torn wet clouds stretched blue at twilight
a big-chested wind comes howling off the lake
dissecting our immortal kiss
as the pink sun meets her planet-doom
leaking on my balcony like a falling curtain
blessed with an affinity for moonlight
lingering drinking pale wine
we took baths in lukewarm vanity
she is a long legged sorceress smoking a cigarette
half awake because i've got the covers again
goose bumps crowd onto her little bare *******
dewy legs sliding among mine
rousing my bones and heart alert
as the bright sun dances silent
like a new carnation dragged from bed
bringing a giant unscrambled sunrise
across my section of heaven's blue sea
but is mercifully eclipsed by the cream-skinned
breast of a purified failed angel
exploring the feather-soft mountain of my body
we drank cointreau in the early morning
against the collage of saxophones
expanding among criss-crossing body odors
and thin magic on my lipsticked neck
i'm gaining strength over my neuroses
all my fear and doubt disappears into joy
no longer huddled in paper misfortune
reintegrated with ecstasy
in the smoky labyrinth of her eyes
as her fingers light as dreams
draw complex patterns in the flesh
of my back and buttocks
like secrets written on wet paper
none of it was real before this moment
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
When you’re hanging by the neck
until your life is nearly done.,
It might almost seem a blessing
when the hangman lets you down.
They then spread you on a table
Then the real torture began.
They cut away the man parts
from their sacrificial lamb.
Then your core is cruelly opened
and your ****** entrails rise
in the hands of he, your butcher
displayed before your dying eyes.
Your brain supplies an image
of back when you were a child
and you greeted good Queen Mary
in fine ornate Latin style.
Mercifully shock set in
as death transfixed your eyes.
Sweet Jesus’ name was on his lips
as the recusant dies.
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 7:21 PM UTC
Gaia slammed the door and threw her phone across the room.
Her lover Humanity has done it again--
and again, and again.
That broken mess of a love with so much baggage,
it makes the raunchiest Olympians look like Astrea.
All night out, and Humanity ruins and disappoints,
once more.
Gaia screams into a pillow of earth in frustration.
Uranus thinks she's melodramatic,
But how can the Sky sympathize with the Earth?
And how in turn can the Earth fall so wholeheartedly,
for a destroyer?
Who once more in turn, tries in vain, but will never
understand the complexity of it's own round habitat-lover.
So Gaia is left confused and hurt, though Humanity swears,
it never meant to hurt her; break her into pieces,
and turn from a collective of voices to Narcissus himself.
She sighs.
Perhaps next week will be different?
The texts between the two so hit or miss and fickle,
Only Fates could read what lies behind the tension.
An Aletia moth flits in and out the window,
and suddenly the butterfly poster on Gaia's wall feels pathetic.
An imitation of her own work.
Perhaps next week will be different?
Perhaps Zeus will vow celibacy,
perhaps the sky will fall into the sea,
and we'll all be mercifully crushed in between.
But what crushes is reality, and as Gaia falls asleep,
the phone lights up.
Humanity: "Drinks again next Thursday?"
The same empty connection repeated ceaselessly.
One generation on to the next until the last.
And of course Pandora's curse,
keeps Gaia suffering through them all.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 12:03 AM UTC
~
March 2025
HP Poet: Mike Adam
Age: 66
Country: UK
Question 1: A warm welcome to the HP Spotlight, Mike. Please tell us about your background?
Mike Adam: "Slum east London, dysfunctional violent childhood, playing on bombsites. School, dungeons and kidnappings, sad little boy. Love of dogs and plants and rocks. School: Beckett Shopenhauer, work, college, work university, 1st love lost, travel Asia beaches and mountains, monasteries, monks, Bhodidharma. Work, work, work, Lady J (published collection), retirement, happy at last."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Mike Adam: "Began writing 10 years old, HP about ten years."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Mike Adam: "Poems gestate and arrive unbidden, laid like turtle eggs, a little hole, sand flicked and forgotten."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Mike Adam: "From 1,000 posts perhaps start with the latest few. I call them "mercifully short," easy to read but, given time, you may unpack a great deal."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Mike Adam:
*"Ryokan:
Why ask who has Satori, who has not?
What need have I for that dust, fame and gain
Montale:
Life that seemed vast
Is briefer than your handkerchief"*
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Mike Adam: *"Amidst the first suicidal mass extinction in history I am grateful to read new poetry and garner hope from young poets still expressing themselves in beautiful combinations of words so thank you all for that...
Who am I?
I don't know"*
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much Mike, we really appreciate you giving us the opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet! It is our pleasure to include you in this Spotlight series!”
Mike Adam: "With gratitude, Mike."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed coming to know Mike a little bit better. We certainly did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez
We will post Spotlight #26 in April!
~
Mar 2, 2025
Mar 2, 2025 at 4:45 PM UTC
I need your help, so I am going to ask for it.
I need your help....to be ok.
I need you to be honest with yourself,
And what you feel.....you need to say!
Right now, I am extremely vulnerable,
As I am sure you know well, my friend.
And it has taken an extremely long time,
To get my broken heart to mend.
And my heart needs my protection,
I am its' only security guard.
Please realize the threat you pose!
And what I am about to say...is very hard.
This needs to be said quite early,
Before time runs away on its' course.
It's better to feel pain prematurely,
Too late, is always much worse.
And I know it may be very difficult,
But if your heart is not fully free,
Because it still belongs to another,
Mercifully, for now,..... let me be.
Forgive me, if you feel I'm a coward.
But I'm still afraid...I always have been.
We both know where heartbreak can take us.
And I don't ever want to go there again.
So, if you're not completely ready,
To let go of your past and to try,
With all that you are...and all of your heart,
I need you to say goodbye!
May 9, 2010
May 9, 2010 at 12:40 PM UTC
she penned a note
in girly curling cursive,
blue on white lined paper,
taped it to his carrier, a cage
one size too small
"he bit me, crapped on my floor,
made thousand anxious scratches
on my door"
she didn't intend to report his heinous
crimes in rhyme, but she did; they were enough to get him the needle, ministered mercifully, of course
though cursive's now a dying art,
it's sufficient to sign another death
decree--for slaughter, we know,
can be accomplished
with any font
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
WHO WILL SAVE ‘HUMANITY’ FROM ITSELF?
Ayad Gharbawi
Come down, and celebrate with us all
The beginning of a senseless
******
Where children sat awaiting
Trying to
Understand
The necessity
That you humans found in yourselves
Was so necessary to enact
Against the innocently impaled victim
I guess, that no one
Can ever
Accept truths
That for me and for you
Were so different
And yes, the medieval priest
Did laugh gutturally
In his drunken paradise
Yes, that man you loved
Was very sickening
In his punishing self-imposed bleeding dictums
And he can no longer talk
Through his burning tongue
That has been mercifully stabbed
Just far too
Many times..
Eternal laughter
That tries to memorize the renaissance poetry
Is a silly game
That gets you somewhere
Endless rows of frowning fools
I tell you
What did you learn from
All those poetry you did memorize?
I tell you
We must all decide
To stand
Somewhere of relevance and depths
Here in our personal hour
That God
Has dictated for us
Sing, then, the songs of deathness
Wherein the lonely dance
Hundreds and acres more
Of corpses have been recently
Unearthed
Rotting statues
And you can no more bear it
I know
Just as the world
Drowns her dulled eyes
Flying fast and far
Away from your memories
And now all the clowns disguised as priests
Have told me to die
So soon
I guess, they want me to say
“Goodnight”
But I will try to breathe
One more breath
One more escape
From this imprisonment
You classified as ‘life’
You see, I wasn’t really sure
If they weren’t in truth
Priests disguised as clowns
Come tonight and throw your
Second-hand flowers
In that grave for
The princess that has been assassinated tonight
Murdered deeply
In this Paris night
And tomorrow we’ll all laugh idiotically
In astonishment, once again
And the bewildered children will, once more, sit not understanding
The murderous nature of you human beings
And yes, I myself, once more
Do not understand what is impelling you all
To **** ****** and butcher again and again
Come ye saviours!
Save us, ye saviours!
The crucified darlings
Tearful you stand
I pray for you to rise up and do revenge
Against these sadistic monstrosities
In my increasingly disorientating brain
Christ!
I did try so hard to reach out to you
For you to save us
And my doubts are brimming now
As you wither ever more
Decomposing on that wooden cross
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 8:28 AM UTC
eating pretzels
and chugging fruit juice
that mercifully
doesn't taste suspiciously
like vegetables
thank you, jesus
and a plague on both of
v8's houses
amen.
*************
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
These agitated periods of sleep-speech were mercifully brief.
And when they ended she would subside for a time, sweating and panting as if,
Into a state of dreamless exhaustion
Then abruptly she would awake
Convinced in her disoriented state,
There was an intruder in her head.
There was no intruder.
The intruder was absence
A negative space in the darkness
All was lost to her, like paradise.
Like Kashmir
In a time before memory.
Trapped in this city
She had lashed out in despair.
In such a city there can be no grey areas
Or so it seemed.
Things were what they were
And nothing else.
Unambiguous,
Lacking the subtleties of drizzle, shade, and chill.
Under the scrutiny of such a sun
There is no place she can hide.
No mysteries here, or depths;
Only surfaces and lies
Yet to learn the city was to discover illusion.
This banal clarity was nothing more then, nothing.
The city was all treachery, and deception, all the same
A quick change, quicksand metropolis.
Hiding its true nature from those staring at its name.
Pretending to be content
Guarded in secret
In spite of all its apparent nakedness and bleakness.
In such a place, even the forces of destruction no longer needed the shelter of the dark.
She burned out of the morning’s brightness, dazzling the eye and stabbed me with sharp and fatal light
Loveless, and blind
Born in the midst of the firestorm of courage.
Twisted and ruined.
The lands of possibility misbehaved.
A dishonest nursery
The blueness rich with sorrow, which filled the evening sky
That made the world look childlike and pure. Such an unnatural disguise.
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
She walks the rails
Infinite steel beams
dwindle to absence
long down the horizon
between soot-painted trees,
into open skies,
and the desire to go wherever it ends...
or doesn’t (mercifully).
She walks the rails
Begging to God,
or Madonna,
or the unrecognizable critter
severed on the tracks,
that the scabs of her bad decisions
stay in the past...
as she rips them off
in a gallop to get away.
She runs the rails
In terror,
that whatever has haunted her
will catch up.
For anything ahead
no matter how unidentifiable
is better than
the hell that clearly is.
She screams down the rails
Attempting to scare
fear into submission,
attenuating the volume
to beat back
the throng
of demonic voices telling her
she cannot break free.
She stops on the rails
Her eyes recoil through a blur
and sees the vision.
Puffy lips dripping of sorrow
curl toward heaven in a blubbering smile
involuntarily she laughs
unrestrained
audacious...
and stretches out her arms
to greet the angel of light.
She stains the rails....
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
Up and over walls and weeds,
ever-towards the tower did we climb
wrapped about with anxiety and anger,
isolated ahead of the herd
alone, we lead,
a mob edging closer
to storm-filled skies.
A bed of rocks, debris of cans,
sky-touch achieved:
we'd been first
to reach the roof.
Lightning storm to the east,
fog to the fore
and soon, somewhere nearby,
a stereo, playing the music of my youth
framing the sound of people laughing,
people drinking
men climbing too high
but mercifully, never falling.
A green gasmask, a black bandanna,
two flashlights and two bodies, pale of skin:
we again set out apart from the mob,
lost ourselves in computer crypts,
lamp graveyards,
uniform-chair depositories,
a ghost-floor filled with superstition and cauldrons.
Varieties of folder,
both manila and hanging,
bound across your back -
you got what you came for.
So did I.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 4:53 PM UTC
Imagine how utterly terrifying would the whole universe be if there was a faceless clock.
Just faceless clocks.
That dictated the way earth shall be lived in the most minimalistic sense.
No hour hand, no tinks, no tick-tocks and no numbers.
That will allow us to regretfully or mercifully go on.
The gears and everything are in place.
But there is
nothing.
Just silence that will deafen your ears.
Silence that your screams cannot pierce.
Yes, that is me now.
I have no bearing, no sure sense.
Simply lost.
Tick-tock.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 4:28 AM UTC
Jack jumped last night.
We might have expected it
had we not been so unsuspecting.
Those blue periods of his,
I'm sure you've witnessed one,
were walled in somewhat by the
swelling tides of years
and years
and years.
When they came, they were
quelled by the very occasional red mark.
These punctuations
when they mercifully visited
would open doors for him, in
which our brother, neighbor,
father discovered strange liquid
tendencies to ailing strength.
Too many blank-out nights
could find him and his new
battery bickering the old childhood
verses. Too many four-of-the-clocks
would cue the choragos his
specter-critic's eye to deign a
Plan on our friend's blue
stationary.
A smile might have
mailed it straight ahead.
Perhaps it was last week when the
boat met the shore, some heinous
delivery of packaged, patent-business
sealed reformation, salvation.
In the midst of his violet smile
the cogent steam engine had a chute
into which it might heartily crash.
However it came remains to be seen.
What we have all seen this morning
remains our family's chief export.
Jack jumped last night.
He ascended the hill with his red hands
full of ****** punctuation marks, and
he spouted full-rehearsed
all those lines he'd learned in
grade school. Like a prolix
Gertrude complaining of her thirst.
And with the singularity of purpose
that haunts even the sharpest eyes,
he completes the trek to his three-foot tall Kusinagara
with his asthma wrapped around his neck.
Victory is a queer bird. Its song is never heard
the whole way through.
He breathes in weightlessness,
regains his bearing and waits for the
lines to quiet down. No one should leave
in the middle of a recitation, regardless
of the quality. At last, "Richard Cory"
reaches his terminal syllable and
our dearest man searches for his place in the music.
And it's just a minute,
just a minute,
just a minute,
jumps.
Jack jumped last night
Just as he said he would,
And had we heard him say it
We'd have thought "He could. He could."
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC
Emptied and yet heavy with grief
She made the pilgrimage back to the Birch grove
Where once upon a time she played as a child
She made a nest from yesterday's golden and fallen
Crawled in and lie waiting
For the North to come and mercifully it came
Thick and harsh winter tears lay
Icy and frozen on her lashes
As beneath whitened eyes, stories replayed
Shoving and jostling each other
Among the snowy branches of her ancestral tree
Hungry to be the first retold
Silently, they filled her mind
Beginnings and endings sinking
Into her bones like moons slipping into dawn
**And her stories are finally put to rest
And they will remain there, asleep and still beneath her winter tears**
Absolvi
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC