"minefield" poems
Every place I turn
I can't unsee the horrors I've known
I can't say I have had it the worst
Not by a long shot
But it hasn't been butterflies
No three year old wants to see
Random men in their house with
Their mama when their daddy's not home
And no six year old should have to see
Parents so enraged
And divorcing
Nor should their best friend's parents
Feel a need to adopt them
Even temporarily
No seven year old should
Feel they need to be twenty-seven
And like they aren't allowed to cry
No ten year old should be forced
To choose which parent they like best
Under any circumstances
No twelve year old should feel
Any desire to harm themselves
And watch blood swell on their arms
No fourteen year old should think they're
Wrong because they believed in love
Nor should they feel jaded
No fifteen year old should contemplate suicide
At all
Especially not so thought out
With a grand scheme and everything
Just two months before their sweet sixteen
No sixteen year old should feel betrayed
And forgotten
Or unworthy of any kind of love
Every step I take I am reminded
That life is a widening gyre
Mr. Yeats, you were right
But I can't accept that to be
The only plausible possibility
Which leads me to believe
That with every step I take
Though my heart is torn to bits
By this minefield called life
I get a little bit
Stronger
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:48 AM UTC
You make the first move
and I rise to meet you
The destruction we agree
is mutually assured
If this love is war
we're going nuclear
I refuse to sign the peace
treaty, to surrender my
lands to a man who's history
rides nations in his eyes
You cannot coax me
out of my shell only
to crush me when I am
most vulnerable
I will not be an
innocent bystander
to your horrors
I will not allow you
to make my pain beautiful
*It is not your canvas
to experiment on.*
(You'll only throw
red at it anyway)
I'm tired of tiptoeing
around the subject
like it is a minefield
Eventually I will
bleed your intentions dry
bandage them with a kiss
and revel in their cries
I will tear apart the lies
deftly with nimble fingers
and your tongue will always
defy you, spitting fire
and carefully lodged bullets
Once your secrets flare
there will be no rescue party
to salvage what we had
Only our ashes shall remain
embers of a past unspoken.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
Cascades were dripping outside of this moving vehicle
White noise, patternless and arrhythmic
like magnified sounds of nails on a concrete wall,
made by souls desperate to cleave their way to dryness
This public utility vehicle holds spirits successful in finding this temporary heaven
Weathered, soaked and almost drowned
like panting dogs that managed to swim ashore from a shipwreck
caused by the iceberg that is the eye of the storm
This safe haven holds champions in a world of misshapen men
A woman clutches tightly on a bag of lime and her ever waning youth
Tired, but not eager to face Death
still closing her windows to his cat burglars
that come faster than the downpour of Typhon's tears
A homeless child comfortably sleeps on the far end of this ride
His innocence tested by fate
Too experienced for someone his age
instead of just playing in the streets he calls home
The jeepney driver has eyes on the road painted by Van Gogh
Unabashed, industrious and assiduous
determined to serve,
provide for a family whose stomachs hunger not but they hunger for his return
This other dimension nurtures alien thoughts and parallel thinking among beat down men
I do not know them but I can hear the cries of their emotions,
their longing to be felt and empathized with
Their voiceless cries are guns with a silenced nozzle
shooting at anyone ignorant who curiously stare at this minefield of a passenger jeep
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
the air was thick and heavy
the sun was heating up the sky
And somewhere in the jungle
more men were gonna die
The streets were full of people
Feral dogs were running free
The haze was thick and murky
The sun you couldn't see
It's a Saigon Sunday Morning
Ten more men were going home
To a flag tri-corner folded
And a marker of white stone
The men were all assembled
To load them up with care
It was a Saigon Sunday Morning
with ten men no longer there
The jungle was a minefield
The trees were blocking out the light
It was ***** trapped like crazy
And it seemed like it was night
A patrol went hunting "Charlie"
But, they were found out first
It only took twelve seconds
And it turned out for the worst
The city never noticed
The 'copters flying overhead
Whether bringing in supplies
Or taking out the dead
It was a Saigon Sunday Morning
It never changed one little bit
The air was always heavy
And the alleys smelled like ****
Back home the news delivered
The families destroyed
They were waiting for their loved ones
A short time were deployed
Ribbons tied around the Oak Tree
to support those coming back
On a Saigon Sunday Morning
With twenty bullets in their back
A transport with the bodies
Drops fifty more to play the game
It's a vicious, endless, circle
The procedure's all the same
It's a Saigon Sunday Morning
Ten more men were going home
To a flag tri-corner folded
And a marker of white stone
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
what was once a galaxy
has become a minefield
of massive black holes,
and all our rocket ships
have crash landed
without taking us home.
lost dreams of flying,
mechanical wings,
intergalactic suffocation,
stars in glass jars
as souvenirs
just in case we got close
to the moon.
we took off as one,
our faulty parts disintegrating
upon reaching the exosphere.
turbulence, then nothingness,
a lack of closure,
and gravity
working in reverse.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 1:47 AM UTC
day's almost over
Sun's almost gone
an entire star hidden in the shadow cast by a speck of rock
high on caffeine
while falling asleep
trying to push myself past a mindful minefield of lyrical cynicism
scraping around bottom
goring the core
make a wish upon our shadow star to be a whimsical poet-to-be
flimsy words arise
then fall away
and the head's emptied again from nothing worth remembering
could be better
could be worse
not qualified to judge due to never passing the bar set for myself
eye-ing the time
passing me by
feeling the throb of decay in fingers' muscle memories of home row
finally the night
and darkened peace
stopping to let the words sink in, refresh the mind, and rest the eyes a minute
just resting my eyes
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 5:46 PM UTC
and what lucie is what you get
or so a new voice, charmingly said
Puns profoundly... playful direct
pull me toward this new subject
less than a year is all I've got,
to see from such new eyes
absorbing all which might be taught
when my memory's a minefield...
I get so far ahead of myself
I wonder why I write
without the longing, without the lost,
how can we know how deep the cost?
to feel or not- Its a choice now-
& it's as it's always been
Ours to give,
and to receive.
Jul 11, 2023
Jul 11, 2023 at 2:20 PM UTC
Although we were told
that casualties would be high,
still we rose up,
answering the officer's whistle-
moving our legs through the muck-
cutting our way through
the barbed wire of doubt-
We charged across Love's minefield
driving the foe before us
at this, Love's Passchendaele.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
Sometimes it feels like you're walking around on tiptoe as not to disturb the glass beneath your feet
Broken edges, sharp shards of memories and the life that once was
Shoes mask the familiar feel of the ground, confuse your feet, and throw them off path
Barefoot and
Not so free
Hobble around, try to regain your balance whilst staying upright
Don't look down, feel around for the soft areas
A blind man, navigating through a minefield
What are the chances of getting through safely?
When it rains more glass you grab at your threadbare sweatshirt that is trying so hard to protect you
Your innocent, now scarred white flesh glistens against the storm of needles that ***** your skin
At what point do you decide to stop caring?
At what point do you take off the jacket that's not been doing much for you anyways and just give yourself to the battle?
Sacrificial living or
Sacrificial dying
Sacrificial being
At what point do you blow up?
I'm trying to understand this way of walking
But I stomp around on heavy feet
My feet are calloused and sore
I'm barefoot and free
I've blown off my limbs but what's a little blood to stop the war?
My scars have faded
I gave myself to the storm
Yet I'm still breathing
I've not died though I've walked many a mile on
Tiptoe back when I thought it was wise
To walk on shattered glass
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:26 AM UTC
Summon up the courage
keeping up the cover
A Minefield of memory,
I see you uncover
Irrationality implosion -
Energetically, explosion.
Do you really think,
in our realities
that a happiness
love, might continue?
When emotions are temporary
& feelings too fleeting
Listen
when I announce my selfishness.
Listen,
as I manipulate.
Jun 17, 2023
Jun 17, 2023 at 7:50 AM UTC
There are days that my heart can't take how much pain women are having to carry in their hearts all the **** time. We hold the scars close, digging at them behind closed doors and discussing it in hushed tones.
Our homes are not ours. They're a minefield of memories we'd rather bury with our own walking carcasses.
Then maybe, we'll set ourselves on fire in the hope that maybe, just maybe, we'll be respected in death like Sati.
And then they'll say, "What a brave life she led!"
Or maybe something to the effect of, "Maybe we should have heard her screaming before she even walked into the pyre."
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 5:39 AM UTC
The clouds hid the red sky that day
Amid the wind and rain
No red sky meant no sailors warning
The waves broke high and hard
They passed the breakers and the kegs
They missed the red sky morning
The ships out on the water
From the shore to the Grand Banks
Were helpless in the coming storm
No choice to turn and run
The best bet was stay put
There was no port to get warm
The skies were filled with nothingness
the clouds like a sharks eye
Shades of black were all they saw
The icy waves of winter
Broke the calm of the early morn
For red sky in the morning is an unwritten sailors law
The Captain closed the bar down
On the Digby ferry crossing
The doors were being opened by each wave
They couldn't see the white caps
Only sky and see was all
And the souls he had to save
There were fifteen boats in transit
When the storm came bearing down
Most were halfway home or so
Now they all were stranded
In the journey between heaven and hell
Which direction they were headed only God would know
Turn sideways and you'd flip it
Just sit still and you were dead
You had to ride the water hellish ride
Hatches all were battened
Windows sealed and doors shut tight
Sailors tried to stay inside
Water spouts were forming
Off the stern and then the port
Navigate the safest spot and keep low
The door to Davy Jones' locker
Was opened and ready to accept
Any boat who made the choice to venture down below
On shore the coast guard were all scrambled
Planes were sent out just in case
More to recover than to save
Families awaited word by radio
The lines from all the ships were down
Some lost to a watery grave
Each year the ocean opens up
Mother Nature takes some back
It's just the circle of life at sea
Prayers are said at the Mariners Hall
Bells are rung for the dead
The sailors soul belongs to the water and it never can be free
Are you one that lives on water?
You know one day your luck will end
You knew this fact from the start
Sailors know the sea's a minefield
It's a war with God each day
You have to fight with all your heart
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
"Walk my eggshells?" I drool like a dog,
something you're eager to **** with
and dispose of.
I should walk your eggshells
like a minefield in first
world countries?
Mold on your fruits of love or labor,
yet I eat like ******* swine,
aftermath; no hope or sense of self,
**** my sense of identity senseless,
since September still yet towards
another fake continent or mass
of fictional places.
Stuffed back into a box and strangled,
slept next to the coffin he was buried in.
Didn't find it poignant until eight
weeks later washing dishes
for a Latverian dictator.
Google took the teeth out of the search,
and the hand that fed was gummed.
You love the rain till you're stuck in it.
You love escape till you have no home.
You love what you can abuse
and still take home;
Violet on your skin,
Violet on my mind,
Violet for a dream,
Violet for a name,
Violet in my blood,
Violet on my toes,
Violet as a drug,
Violet as an insect
you eat in private,
Violet as violet as violet
as a tautology,
or addictive prescription.
Once I had the leash on you,
now the sores have come back,
my knees and palms make
sick *********** with earth
I cough.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 5:48 AM UTC
Girls with glasses are cute
but that's only what I think
and she doesn't agree
so she's wearing contact lens
and she's losing them more
often than not
and the house becomes
a minefield
and we have the thread
lightly
it's just a small apartment
it shouldn't be that hard
to find them or the
one that got lost
when only one got lost
she would use the other
and cover her other
eye and look around
and point things and tell
me to turn them over so
she could take a better look
and I would sometimes
say "I told you"
but I no longer do it
I look under the cover
and the pillows
and the sheets
and the carpet
in shoes, under them
pockets, corners, folds
sink, toilet, tub
one day
she covers her free eye
and uses the other one
to look at her phone
"Really now?" I say
on my knees, searching
in shoes
she shows me her phone
and what I see is a bottle of
perfume
"Been wanting to get this
for a while now," she says.
"After this I'm seriously gonna."
I take a better look at the thing
and by gods
no
it's not a perfume bottle
not in that sense anyway
its description says
that you spray the things
you lose often with it
and your pet dog, being addicted
to the smell, will find them
for you
I drop the shoe down at my feet
and sit back and laugh
for about a full minute
When I'm done she's out
of the room
And I shout after her
"I don't believe in buying dogs,
I told you."
I don't believe in buying dogs
You either adopt them
or don't have them
but please, whatever you do,
don't ever spray stuff on the
stuff that comes in contact with
your eyes
okay?
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 5:49 AM UTC
Is this a power hierarchy?
Does our dueling footwork
Convince us to
Lock into some sort of
Competitive symmetry,
Twisting into your
Mashed potato minefield with
Doo *** , doo dad laden
Dancing shoes?
Gimme your
Electronic sympathy, baby,
Infiltrate the airwaves with
Piercing eye contact and
Tremourous finger tip brushes.
Is my informality coming through?
Have I communicated with
Unlocked elbows and
Megaphone ears that not only
My body but universe
Lives here and in you?
Orient yourself to me,
I task while asking you to
Take off your straight jacket and
Stay a while. Unlock your
Pandora 's box so your
Monsters can meet mine,
Mirrored in different shades of
Shock and shame, operating under
Varied hues of the same name.
Lean into me, let your
Shoulders slender and shimmy to a
Tenderizing touch, the
Objects under your skin collapsing
To the 4/4 timed battle
Between form and perception.
The ingestion of the
Metaphor is the message, and
The tongue regards a tune
Differently than a taste.
Face symmetrical, nostrils work,
The blooming waste of consumption
Centered on the top right corner of
Your cheekbones.
I can't help but grab the
Slight upswing in the tone
Of your voice and spin it around;
Let's swing, darling.
I'd like to take your descriptors
On a date to the dance floor.
How long can we keep this up until meaning has waltzed out the door?
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
One stop ****** pit stop
i aint no 2 bit drama
i'll pull out your back bone
i'll rip out your karma
I'll be your trouble of troubles
your weariest of woes
no **** queen head ****
or how the story goes
I won't make no sense to you
all but one word is all to confuse
i'll be a minefield of enigma
from a heart bore of abuse
Don't keep going
there's no righteous stop from here
i am fed up of you taking it all
i no longer am your fear
I rip out all the ********
its a speciality of mine
to worry too much about you -
**** you, i'd rather let me shine
No longer holdin on to a memory
of deeds failed to uphold
and now where is your heart
where is your broken soul
Don't try to win me
with your sorry words and confusion
its all just ****** words
you knocked me down with an illusion
I don't **** around for apologies
i aint no drama seekin *****
i lost you long before you began
so walk out my back door
I yearn for more, i am the hunger
that you cannot thirst
don't **** with me *****
come on do your worse
I am fed up of your loneliness
your attention seeking ways
i am not the light you seek
i am not your lonely days
Flit away dear little moth
my light does not burn for you
and when you are lost, you are lost
i am not what you are due
That **** thinks they are the King and Queen of neighbourhood
well **** me, have i got a story for you.....
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
my therapist says, it's time you write about your psychosis
I show her a journal full of names, and some dreams
That I may or may not have had.
Inside my journal, there are pieces of my body and flowers,
There is a to-do list with nothing crossed off,
There is a hidden script for a medication I never got filled;
There are pictures over every word, disguised in a metaphor
I can't remember the language to describe.
Expression makes the most sense when you are
Expressing the bad.
This is eruption, compulsion that is combusting from my pencil and into black ink.
I point to the bugs that crawl over the page and say,
I don't have to. My psychosis is in every line.
It is in my eyes darting back and forth.
I write so much the page turns black and I have to erase it.
My psychosis is the shadow trail behind every letter.
It is the blood coming out of my mouth when I say I'll Do Better,
The scratches on my hands and feet are from holding on too tight
To demons that know how to fight back.
It is my teeth, and the holes inside of them, spit onto the page.
Spit onto the floor of my therapists wooden office.
I wince. I turn the page.
I try to say it so many times it becomes meaningless.
You wouldn't believe me if I told you.
I spit again.
My mind looks like a ******* minefield and these words are just the smoke.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 6:25 PM UTC
Hell is this house.
Your phone calls
dropping at 4 am
like bomb blasts.
Your perfume,
like a refugee,
living between
my messy
bed sheets.
Your stuff,
strategically forgotten,
in every **** corner.
Each room a minefield.
Each drawer a thread.
I finally finish packing up the last boxes.
Load them in my car.
Close the front door.
Turn the engine on.
Leave.
See you waving from the rear-view mirror.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
It's holidays hamsters haven't you herd.
From all that annoying *** music and commercials done by sellout artist
trying to be cool word.
I myself would rather spend this month in a holiday coma.
Buy some cheap hookers some good whiskey and run over a black Friday crowd
in a stolen Sonoma .
It's give me give me and that's just from dad.
He'll break the bank and mommy will give him something the other
night his brother already had.
Maybe I should plant a minefield upon my lawn.
To ward off carolers who only make me yawn.
I'll poison my cookies and sit back and wait.
Rob the old fat man and take Miss Santa out on a much deserved date.
Make your list and he will check twice.
After I blow his *** to pieces it really wont matter if your naughty or nice.
The holidays are a time for people to act insane over **** they do not need.
There addicts of want the stores are nothing more than dealers
selling coke crank and ****
Maybe you love the lights and the holiday rush with the family and all.
Well you can eat **** and jingle my ball.
I hope to stay on the naughty list as long as I'm alive.
Sincerely from Gonzo.
Shut the **** up and stop acting worse than a child who's five.
Don't send me a card cause I wont reply.
Here's your present it's a bomb now please die.
I hate the holidays call me a Grinch if you like.
**** you Santa all I asked for was a brick of ******* ,ten cases of whiskey, a key to the ******* mansion , a lifetime pass to the chicken ranch , A million dollars in unmarked bills ,
My neighbors dead ,And Harley Davison Motor bike.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
When we decided on ice cream
I suggested caramel
sticky sweet
dripping down the sides
I wanted to lick it up and
feel the sucrose explode on my tastebuds
a minefield of pleasure.
When we decided on ice cream
you promised whipped topping
and hot fudge
rich luscious chocolate
oozing toward the edges
swirls of dark intensity
intermixed with bouts of airy lightness
a most delightful contradiction.
With all the imagery that’s found in words
and pictures bound to play out in my head
It’s fair to say this sundae tempted me at waking hours
(and maybe even crept into my dreams)
… it’s quite a shame that in the end you settled for vanilla.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
Lifetimes ago
Behind a sofa, on hard floor, we slept entwined,
Warmed by lust – and those eyes.
Waking early
Another appetite took her
She wanted bananas
Not coffee, nor toast, or foie gras
But with whispered twinkle –
Bananas.
So I braved the detritus of folly
The beer can minefield, the tangled bodies of fallen angels
And stepped silent, into Finchley Sunday morning.
Welcoming the early sunshine of Maggie’s suburb
With the smugness of a man fresh loved.
The corner shop, door wedged in anticipation of heat to come, was dark
Looking up the old man fixed me with dark, dark eyes
Raising one eyebrow said he, “Bananas?”
“Yes”, smiled I
And I knew there was so much to know
Lifetimes ago.
Learning still.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 5:11 PM UTC
This constant presence of you.
It's been a year or more.
You've seen the ugly bits,
The confused frayed edges.
All my lies and hedges,
a time to sit and ponder
On whispers of who I am to people.
Your sweet **** my sweet heart.
That old whickering tremble
How did I get this lucky?
Bundled up in sweet cliches
Characters of my inner dialogue come to life
May I return to being an individual?
Once I find where I buried my Trust.
All the games and masks?
To conduct a minefield exposition.
My thoughts are so clean and linear
with you, I'm afraid you're synthetic.
A dog bites, it's tail
No one loves a lurker.
There'll come a time
when you'll have to stop hiding,
lay down your mask,
and come face me.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
Every night,
If you'll look closely enough at the sky,
You could see the thousands of Iranian children silently,
Walking trough the minefield,
With plastic keys hanging from their necks
that were promised to bring them
to paradise,
When the mines will
explode.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
this is the city
that my daddy built
inside of me
between my guts
where my heart should be.
what isn’t rusted
or burnt out
or tired
is barbed-wire and wary.
this is the city
that my daddy built
with his anger.
it’s set up high
on a hill of scissors and blood oranges
and blood oranges with scissors
inside of them,
red juice stains
in sticky pools and dirt.
this is the city that my daddy built
in our house.
in our home.
where the people are shadows,
speaking in whispers
tiptoeing behind closed doors
so as not to rouse the beast.
this is the city
that my daddy built
here we pay tithes in blood oranges
to humor his desires
warding off uncalled for bloodshed
like the time that I
finally stood up for myself
and he broke the kitchen table
with his fists.
it was an antique
that traveled with my great-grandmother
from Sweden,
now just another broken thing
in the landslide
of scissors
and blood oranges
and dirt.
this is the city
that my daddy built,
scarring my skeleton,
following me everywhere
like a spilled bottle of India ink
blacking out the finely drawn sun,
like past transgressions
follow the guilty,
like the golden touch of Midas,
turning everything into
a mountain of scissors and
blood oranges and dirt.
this is the city that
my daddy built,
making my concept of home
a depiction of ruins;
the vestiges of what
could have been
if we hadn’t lived
too close to his minefield,
before causing my mother
to take my sisters and leave
like a snowbird at the arrival of spring,
at last realizing that her spine
consisted of wings.
this is the city
that my daddy built.
this is the city that
scarred and weary,
shadows of skeletons of birds, we
will move on, leaving behind
brick by ***** brick
until it’s nothing but a memory
of a pile
of blood oranges
and scissors
and dirt.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 10:58 AM UTC
My pen has failed me
I sit with it and
Sheets of lined paper
Ready to be filled
But the words don't flow right
They're no longer adequate to express
This dull, aching hopelessness
Of knowing that I've lost my heart
Handed it away to someone
Who was much too careless
As words lined the already lined page
Bleeding hearts with barbed wire vines
Etched into the paper
During my wait for words
To pick their way out of my head
I listen to their sound as they tread
Through the minefield of my mind
Getting in traps that distort their meaning
Words like love becoming bleak
Because it got stuck in the trap
The trap that is you
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC