"nity" poems
.
•my
arms point
to the sky•
a gesture
frozen in eter-
nity•un- fazed as
the clouds whisper a
lie• rumours of rain that
never came quickly• prickles
protrude menacingly •threaten-
ing all who would stray too close•
baseless gossip that masquerade
as pleasant- ry•to deviate me from
the path i chose•still i stand
here...duelling the sun
•in a land scorched
barren•search-
ing for hope
when there's
really none•
here i stand...
lonely and
drought
stricken•
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
I
If I were a poet
I would compose beautiful line
breaks and elegant stanzas.
Similes would be ******** scattered
with alliteration like
stars against a sunset sky.
My tone would be of reason
rather than innocence.
I would refuse to analyze
the meaning of death in literature.
II
Fortune cookies would be my mantra
and life would be a wiggle
instead of a struggle.
I would pray five times a day
to my journal
most benevolent, ever-merciful.
My poems would not be of peace
of war
or (you)nity
or them here Amur'cans.
III
My form would be indifferent
and probably never earn me awards
or acceptance to grad school.
Fondness of (parentheses)
may get me compared to e.e. cummings
or completely dismissed
if I were a poet.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:49 AM UTC
i have never been
a hateful person,
but the hate that
i carry for you
will hang over
me for an eter-
nity and more.
like a half-set
sun that will
never allow
the moon to
take her pl-
ace in the
night sky
eb
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 2:47 AM UTC
usually
watching trash TV for thirty or forty
minutes refreshes my brain for the seriousness
that boggles it
the an-
xieties of money and va-
nity and my place as an im-
migrant and the fears
and confusions
of being a woman
but on this day i
tried to hollow out my heavy heart with the kar-
dashians
realizing, in seconds
how monstrous this culture has become
it is not a break from reality, it is watching it
and it is no longer funny
and it is no longer passive
because reality tv is a reflection of rea-
lity and the brainlessness with which we want
to interact with it
while I have no hate towards the new joneses
they are from the same consequence
and same principles
that now frighten our existence
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 4:10 PM UTC
In each life's quest, unique paths unfold,
Yet one truth remains, unwavering, bold.
Amidst tales of men who've traded their soul,
Surface appearances may oft deceive, we're told.
Not all that gleams with a golden hue,
Holds the substance and worth that rings true.
For within gilded tombs, lies naught but decay,
Worms, the silent heralds, claim their final sway.
Had we possessed wisdom as daring as youth,
In limbs strong, while judgment spoke truth,
Our answers would be etched in ancient scrolls,
But alas, our journey's pages, the wind now strolls.
Farewell, dear ambitions, as our pursuit grows cold,
Time slips away on the wings of vain-nity, we're told,
A labor lost, indeed, in the clutches of frost.
Everyone treads their path, unique, unswayed,
Yet Death's embrace awaits, undeterred, unfrayed.
What accounts shall we offer, once life's curtain is drawn?
A leap of faith, yet no bungee cord, not a bond.
As the future unfolds, mirroring our origin's lore,
Reason and faith lost, a civilization's core,
A generation labeled, entitled and remiss,
Yet let us pause, reflect, dispel this amiss.
The hunter's blame befalls the prey, unaware,
Birds of all feathers, converge in their earthly affair.
And in due time, true worth shall stand tall,
Rewards bestowed, earned, by each heart's recall.
For it is in the balance of merit we find,
A legacy shaped by one's own design.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 12:14 PM UTC
Illusion
What isn’t an illusion?
That’s the question.
You aim for fame. Well, forget it – it gets boring
When the door to happiness subsides.
How long before the ride of charm
Turns into gasp; one last-ing gasp.
What circumstance, experience, ambition
Doesn’t turn to opposition
Some time in its life?
One thing turned into two
And diametrically opposed:
Up/down, down/up, then seeing through –a last, last sup.
Illusionary, but that’s not to say it doesn’t matter.
Everything a smattering of truth
For you to act through,
Watching diligently as you do it.
Not to say you must be stiff –
Just act as if
The whole thing’s real.
Don’t let it steal the real you,
That’s all.
There is a real you –
Let’s call it soul
Or essence; outer/inner
Unity of you-nity (that’s funny).
Ok, so it isn’t money,
Gathering (of many things
Such as position, power,
Family and all the things I can’t remember).
Passing, unpredictable, unstable,
Every syllable of all you want
Attainable – but then what?
Illusion 7.1.2017
Circling Round Reality;
Arlene Corwin
Illusion - what isnt?
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC