"mulls" poems
Crack in the ceiling
Expensive repair.
Crack in the glass
Duct tape
Crack of a switch
Stripe the *****
Crack of a gun
Someone's done
Crack the vein
Relieve pain
Crack of lightning
Frightening
Crack the whip
Obey
Crack my skull
My mind mulls
Crack the mirror
Old wives’ tales dither
Crack the door
It's her …
Crack of her ***
Beautiful tail
Ends this tight little piece
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
land's moniker
mulls utmost care
Kalinga
branding the ox
of men with glaringly
immaculate chiaroscuro,
atop hills flourishing
with the fruits emblazoning
reticence.
chase angel-ward, the synopsis
of meaningfulness,
jagged, indelible accoutrement
akin to the brand of
chaste heritage,
galvanizing this epitaph
with aesthetic nativity,
gallant mambabatok - fill my bones with the ache of your past,
carve in me what the rippling
shrill of air has toppled
in the highlands
you have us shaking the blood
of this archipelago like boughs
breaking free from water's ebb,
frenzied by the river-warm
serpentine embellishment
the strike of the thorns
mints in our untouched bodies!
altogether in this numerous hike
we go in pursuit, hunting the
nibble from flesh to bone,
revealing the rebel, body
to soul.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all
That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety
Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours
Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours
With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence
Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety
Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The
Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet
Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious
I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent
Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant.
And the landowner would the poacher.
Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip.
She looks at me and I look a way.
Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip
Quoth I. Another drought and a sip.
Another.
I break down. I have nothing to believe in,
To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin
I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and
The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand
Castle made by the hand of a passing child.
Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure
To grant her the care and affection she deserves
Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve.
And thus do I say, to purge all my lust
There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
The Crickets cackle “crisp,”
With an only interruption, being I,
Atop dust, whisper and
Desert highway.
I’d tell you if I were running,
But I’m not quite sure, not yet,
Leaving the Coyote to eat,
Respite, and devoured,
The singing Crickets,
A’howl later,
To deliver answers unimpeded.
I have a faint memory –
A snake’s grip promised, via hand and
Crystal contingency,
“Wiser,” once bestowed, the mystic;
An epic complete, atop 17 years of thunder,
Steel stained crimson,
Street stained whimper
And forever remaining,
“Under-construction.”
Symbolic a more relevant scaffold,
½ bamboo and the other steel, the tower,
Note ‘fore me, it’s only purpose –
Elsewhere, and anonymous,
While I tap my belly to some
Melody we’d once enjoyed;
Maybe something by, “Coltrane,”
Or maybe not; but music we’d both
Recognize and reminisce too.
It’s an awkward alchemy of sorts,
As the Crickets, post-mortem,
Persist if only to chirp, and the Coyote mulls.
When the dust continues to cake.
When the whisper finds newer ears.
When interrupt’s abrupt, erupts,
Pacifies and interrupts again;
My precious distraction –
An amnesia loyal in away from, “then.”
Somewhere beyond, “there,”
And onward, “anew.”
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
Hesitations grips me
Sometimes with a soft gentle squeeze and sometimes with an iron fist
That split second where you see that girl with whimsical hair and a playful smile and your body is screaming at the top of its lungs “GO AFTER HER YOU FOOL!!!” while your brain mulls over the endless stream of stressful situations
I can hear Robin Williams calling out to me “Let me hear your YAWP!” and I’m shaking, quivering, rattling, generating the vocal ferocity of a lion! And all that comes out is a whimpering “yawp…”
Hesitation grips me
A harmless compliment to brighten someone’s day, no harm done, just a quick simple “I like your pants” a smile and I’m on my way
Simple! Wrong!
That flickering candle of pleasantries is cut short by a swiftly shutting window of opportunity
The breeze not hesitating to extinguish its light
Hesitation grips me
How many moments must I suffer paralyzed lips before my can of complimentary worms is opened?
How many lovely strangers will continue to mill about their days in unblissful ignorance of my enjoyment of their simple, subtle or overt characteristics?
This hesitation grips me!
It shackles me and holds the key in front of my face and all it requires is one real Yawp! The mustering has begun! That key is my freedom of hesitant chains! Just! One! Yawp! I think I can I think I can I think I can! Just! One! Yawp! “yawp…”
Hesitation grips me
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
*the sky on my back
is heavy now, and the thin light
a shadow.
i am perched in my godforsaken.
but my wings dare the holy
and my mind
tumbles up
like a last supper of glass worms
and extra ******
strychnine.
in the blink of an I
there's a wink
with a slovenly iris...
and a dull pearl
chink-blissed
in the shattered tooth
of my gnawing
gob.
a low frequency
in the high place
of my moon ***** cul de sac...
and an exact replica
of my dispossessed
reflection... a memory
that forgets best
as it mulls over
and dwells more ******
than the asking price
of my naive
assurety.
it is perfect. and glum.
but the gem is the thing
on the tip my tongue -
seeking and slithering
betwixt.
it's a fixed
star.
or
some
awful charm
looming in the dismal
and lurid
in the
Carnival.
you
are the ghost
that feeds my starvation
and the means
to an end.
a complete drink of sour kindness.
lopping off heads
like a queen of knaves and barking mad
mittens.
it's very cold
where we come from...
but we go
back.
and to
return
is to
speak
a
lost word
where we
found
it...
leaping reason like a squirrel
to a bitter branch
where the apples
are stones
and the leaves
are not amazing
today*.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
She mulls over
a void dance tactic
Before proclaiming
Me damaged and telling me
You need to meet a nice girl
And stop with all these
Pornographic sycophants
I insist I'm not sure
The nice ones would deal with
The cacophonous buzz saw
Roar of my thoughts
And she says
What about me?
Write me a poem like you do
For all the other girls
and then I'll straddle you
And make the pain go away
And I reply
Okay, but I am not paying full price
for this session.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
**His face is white like chalk,
he mulls death as an option,
"bleed , bleed my heart,
till you are white" pleads his desperation,
flying back after loosing her forever, deeply hurt,
everything he achieved so young
seems now just dirt,
in a chartered flight empty
except the crew and him
no easy route he can think to ease the pain.
Through the window,
in the bare blue sky his eyes fall
on a lone albatross,
going down loosing height,
gravity pulls one down each moment,
rise above the clouds and expect a thunderbolt,
then go down like a flight in distress any moment.
thinking about her streaming eyes that followed
as he left her even without a goodbye,
he hears her SOS ringing in mind.
Will she ever know what really happened to them?
"Our love has been betrayed by the world,
we've been taken for a ride by all we did trust,
now far away from the hold of reality,
this cruel world anymore, doesn't deserve us"
The flight has taken to heiger altitude, away from all this
enters in to the magnificent city of clouds,
without seeking anybody's permission.
The skyscrapers in the high street of this opulent place
has created new reality to him without her
The steeples of cloud cathedrals bring calm,
there isn't any going back from this tranquil world.
"I wouldn't go back from here, dear captain,
look! how well we have fitted in this reality's fold
let us not turn back, but land here in the city of clouds,
where all flights, of every time, land for ever, never look back.
Call the air traffic control, make your voice cheerful
even the paths here are covered with cloud carpets,
let's save the fuel, fly on the wings of clouds
steady towards eternity, that wait for us."**
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:49 AM UTC
Let's offer up our prayers to a finicky Father
who sits in his segregated heaven, rocking
away senility on that rickety chair
with a spare, tall back wrapped in striped wool blankets.
Who sits in his segregated heaven, rocking?
Our Father, keeping his heart warm against the gusts.
With a spare, tall back wrapped in striped wool blankets
perfectly square (but too small to share with others),
our Father's keeping his heart warm. Against the gusts
and idling time, again he stays busy carving figures
perfectly square but too small to share. With others,
these tokens will help the faithful remain fertile
and idling. Time again, he keeps busy carving figures
on the edges of a pesky map. Mad for expansion,
these tokens will help the faithful. "Remain fertile!"
Father cautions, as he watches a big screen TV.
On the edges of a pesky map mad for expansion,
many errant souls who wander are unable to hear
Father's cautions. As he watches a big screen TV,
the devil's slipping him a low-ball offer to buy
many errant souls. Who wander are unable to hear
news heaven's economy is still struggling, and
the devil's slipping him. A low-ball offer to buy,
our aging Father mulls over hot oatmeal and tea.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 6:21 PM UTC
Neighbors who walk our street
notice the ramp constructed
with the bend toward the driveway
is gone after only three days.
New planks of pine
******* in place as a welcome
never greet the wheels
expected to transport him to familiarity,
to warmth, to man's best friend
and to the peace of returning home.
Cars gathered around the ramp-less walkway
like bees at blossoms drinking in bits of nectar.
His children want a taste of him that lasts.
In anguish they rend their mental cloth
while missing a clasp from his creased palm.
Each offspring mulls over unfinished issues
with his lingering spirit.
In life his skilled hands crafted love
into objects made from sawlogs.
In death he leaves imprints of endearment
in the hearts of those left behind.
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
I'm not in the hospital, hit by a car
I know I'm not online as much; I'm not far
from finally finishing out my degree!
Ten days til a Bachelor of PSYCHOLOGY!
Though yes, sad to say, the mishap from last night
Proved unsalvageable what took me all day to write.
But after the panic subsided, in spite
Of the loss I decided to invite
a CAN-DO mantra, that today still recite:
*"Citing every source
providing claims; unless, of course,
the statements you express
are YOURS. Original. Then, yes."*
Would be no need to cite,
but I digress; I still endorse
vehemently: just reinforce
Pre-existing bodies,
empiric and peer-reviewed,
Must become one with your own body,
long before you can conclude
Much of anything; that, at best,
Could be considered misconstrued.
Which I reckon may elicit a subjectively quite rude
Swing at a pitch from your perspective you thought beckoned attitude
So rather than succumbing, and becoming quite contrite,
Just cite every sentence as though you know of no greater delight
AAAAAND
For the friends and acquaintances from on-the-line:
Out among ye mulls around an enemy of thine.
And by proxy, or vis-a-vis? Uh, nemesis of mine?
Either way, it's a PHONEY! I promise I'm fine!
I wasn't mowed down while crossing a street
By a drunk driver; don't buy into this deceit!
When the hell have you known of me to be on the loose,
And outdoors by a street, with no **** good excuse!
Nah, brah; didn't get rek't, not in the ICU,
Anything 80_hospital says isn't true.
It's hard to imagine why someone would do
Such a thing, and hard to try and imagine who...
Nevertheless: til the mocking bird is absconding
Believe none are who they claim if they're responding
With something extreme, but failing to show face
And put shoe on head or something else, just in case
That for reasons beyond rational ways of thought,
Someone's chosen to wreak havoc on the distraught
At least until that jacka$$ sh!# f#@%er gets caught,
Just, my two cents? If they say "no I swear," they're not.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
Does time suddenly come to a stand still?
At certain times, time just feels like a concept
that has no meaning, even going backwards!
She parks her car and sashays out, as if she
has never been frustrated with her life!
Dressed in a boldly patterned dress, she waits.
She looks more like a fixture in nature, a sculpture
that stood so long in a public place, not adulated,
bearing beating sun, snow and rain, yet so fresh
as if newly made, pleasant in a way illusory
her marked chutzpah,evidently intact.
At the park gate he stands, in a past he is lost,
peering at her face from afar, with a keenness
that doesn't seem to be normal, he hesitates
time has turned it's wheel s much yet it seems
a stand still to him,"Would one learn from life?"
he mulls over as he invites a smile on his face
while walking over to meet her, the moment
of epiphany, he is sure and wants to cherish it for ever.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 9:26 AM UTC
She mulls over a multitude of dresses,
While she curls up her auburn tresses.
Into a heap of satin she'll wriggle,
Tossing the attires with a nervous giggle.
Every gown whether satin or lace,
Does not seem to bring out her face.
With brash impertinence the gown would divulge,
Her every flaccid protruding bulge.
The corset with all it's tightening,
Wasn't portraying her as placid and mellow,
Her teeth despite the whitening,
Seemed stained and yellow.
But the woman failed to realize,
That her beauty dwells in her eyes,
It escaped her mind ,
that she was one of a kind.
While women eyed her with envy,
Men awed her comely grace,
Her mind was clogged with a daunting frenzy,
That settled upon her pretty face.
Not once did she look up and observe,
The glances aimed at her with animated verve,
She was down with the spreading bout
Of venomous self doubt.
An untoward imbecile,
With no particular talent or skill,
Showered her with a word of praise,
Causing the heart to notch up its pace.
She longed for his fervent gaze,
A gratifying praise,
She needed him to validate her worth,
Only then would she be filled with mirth.
She had herself to blame,
This pigeon headed dame,
Who was so blind to see,
That she was as beautiful as beauty can be.
To all the lovely women I know,
Keep in mind that men come and go.
Let not their vileness blind you from seeing,
How gifted you are you terrific human being.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Time flies
when you're happy
Yet when you are sad
time is the slowest
it mulls on
Days become months
Months become years
and years become your life
It is so much harder to remember all the times
when you shared a laugh or cracked a smile
Yet it is so easy
to remember all of the tears and the lonely nights
Time flies when you're having fun
Yet time seems to freeze when you're trying to decide
whether you should jump in front of that car
while waiting for the bus
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 8:30 PM UTC
My mind is confusing
Opposite of wallflower
It skirts though loudly obviously
It observes with eyes too blinking
It takes you in and mulls you like cinnamon and ***
It screams I will look at you I will not see you
It listens does not hear but what you have to state
Until near too gone
When it puzzles a million things simultaneously
That means at the same time
It lunges and parries and strikes at the words
Until it cannot contain to hold them
And it must combust
And it writes them down
Speaks them up
And I
Understand.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
The doctor probed my eyes
stethoed to feel my lung
had my mouth wide prised
got rolled out my tongue!
He gave it deep long mulls
hmm was all he said
in his grip throbbed my pulse
beating fast afraid!
Hmm he muttered once again
*there’s no problem specific
but for that undefined pain
that you say is making you weak!*
*More apparent is the darned thing
that has really blighted your face
beneath your eyes the black ring
you are counting stars I guess!
May I know what keeps you awake
why you find sleep bothersome
keep tossing on bed till daybreak
pray tell me don’t remain mum!*
Poor doctor how he would ever know
best time for poeming is the night
when crystal dreams in moon glow
pour out from heart with might!
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
Would the deathless deep thirst
dry up my insides
from the mouth to marrow
if where you hide
becomes your home away from
home in mine?
Sleepy wind mulls over
moments lost in thought
to water's wild surrender
I walk the vagrant's path
hand in hand with nothing
I would not have let go
of my own in time.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
She strolled into the house of the holy.
Face filled with misery.
Drops down on her humble knees.
Begging forgiveness.
From one who is not there.
So,
How can one be convinced
That meeting and greeting at the end of her world.
Her maker will be met.
A hand-shaker maybe to welcome her in.
As if business meeting almost begins.
Discuss over coffee,
Mortal sins.
Mulls over who loses.
And who in hell wins.
Who drinks from the famous half full up cup.
Perceiving, believing that nobody knows.
Is heaven a rumour?
For heaven she weeps!
This is just a poem...just a bundle of words.
Words come when I'm tired and I don't want to waste them!
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
Time floats with the dust
And hangs in our silence,
Mulls in our laughter,
Hides our reliance
On trust.
Oh say it if you must;
We can watch the
Metal rust
On our support beams,
Grow old and
Talk of dreams
Unattained nostalgically
But it seems
Like we'll always be
Stardust
Blown together
On a gust of chance.
And if it's true,
Let's entrance
Ourselves in
Harmonic wanderlust.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 11:49 AM UTC
<><><><><><>
He still had
A future to his smile
Without hesitation, boldly baring
His heart in his teeth,
Gleaming.
In all those home movies, before.
He mulls
As if the world doesn't deserve
To know exactly what he thinks.
It's beneath him.
Creativity
Does not flow
The words
(So long you had to breathe them in)
- gone. We know.
Sunk
Into the ground like
Abandoned oil.
What a waste of youth
That's left him.
Poor soul.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
It’s my night to meet with Liz
To tell her “bout my private biz
She mulls it over then tells me how it really is
You see it’s her job
To listen to me cry and sob
Imagine that…
She gets paid to listen to me
Most therapists say:
“Having a little anxiety attack?
"How about some nice Prozac”
Or
Can’t sleep, feeling lost and alone?
“How about some nice Trazodone”
Or
“Manic Depressive? Feel like a ***
How about some nice Lithium”
Not Liz…
She gives appropriate drugs
Better yet she gives big hugs
Encourages me my thoughts to share
Teaches me to live again if I dare
To break free from loss and pain
Knowing from the truth I might gain
More free time
For both of us
On
Wednesdays at six
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
Marjorie mulls the passing man and fly
The marriage window has gone by
Her hair lies dank n' grey in sobern grief
Her clothes befit a teenage thief
Rejection is a common theme
Daily survival is the daily dream
She plays with beads and hears the chime
The grandfather clock, true keeper of time
She smiles when asked to play the part
Of successful daughter, mother and heart
But reality bites when she is inept
Losing in life she always accepts
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 6:11 AM UTC
Nathan, aka Nateive Son, will probably make a point with me, come to think on't, cuz--
(sonnet #MMMMMMDCCCLXVII)
Yes, Shakespeare whileas fiddles seem t'avail
This warming chance to simply breathe; a sense
Not warranted of carefree joy's pretense
Half waltzes like these soft blue skies' detail
Mulls spring ere time, as if the thrilling scale
Of higher temps could waken for intents
The daffodils yet buried 'neath snow's dense
But melting whiter coverlid gone stale.
Piano too, for strings, ere that sweet tour
Of cherished lines is quite sufficient through
Long use is't? How Will inks his love 'til we're
'Non prey to black ink's breath just as he knew
We aught to be and swore was so, though's poor.
These frore hours we trudge through know what 'gain too?
08Jan18a
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
I can feel you in my fingers,
my muscles remember having you
in my arms.
I live on little miracles,
like when we think of each other
at the same time.
My rumbling mind mulls over
every sign until I shush it
with a sigh.
I rub my tired eyes and tell myself,
"Go to sleep!"
I listen half the time,
half the time I eat.
While I rummage through the kitchen
I imagine you singing
in the living room,
your velvet voice
laying soft on my heart.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 5:28 PM UTC