"objections" poems
I have bruises like amethyst
But the truth is I’m the catalyst
When I see colours of bismuth
I know you mean business
Bruises like amethyst
But you say you’re a pacifist
An analyst an activist
But you held my mind so it contorts, distorts
And aborts so it can’t resonate or fabricate
Or rationalise a world inside
That doesn't exist and insists
That I can’t be kissed and won’t be missed
I've got a black heart like tourmaline
But I'm the alkaline to your acid time
Trust me I am fine, I'm a pale blue
Crystalline Structural perfection
Don’t need your affection or your ways
Of objections did my bra strap give you an
Erection?
You could say I'm a feminist
But I'm more of a scientist
Busting body myths like biologist
You say ‘but **** are ****** organs’
Listen you morons, all ******* are a erogenous zone
Regardless of gender , boys nips literally have no purpose
Except when they get nervous for getting a little lip service
Trust me I'm fine, I'm a pale white crystalline
Structural perfection I don’t need your objection
Not a gem stone for your collar bone I don’t give a **** about
Your muscle tone, I'm a cyclone all alone I could spend a
1,000 years on my own.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
her rigorous objections
are herded slowly down the sheep trail
by studious pencil thin men with stylish mustache's
who have deep pocket pickers for friends
they gather round the weak willed and the willing alike
looking for cheap thrills and spare change
everybody needs a new road
when the old one seems to never end
but she with eyes cast down
mumbles her unappeased desires
as she shuffles a little closer to the truth as she sees it
she has it all written out in secret languages
she has books filled with life's coded thoughts as she see's them
barn burners and dare devils grace the cover of her latest creation
self titled to her own romantic name
she is stylized in her own way
so she adores the pencil thin men
with their dashing devil may care good looks
i wrote her a letter yesterday
full of stories from the great highway
full of chipper go getters and the glum go gotten
she is a forever stone on a necklace
she is a moonstone on a bracelet
she is graceful when it counts and
thats more than enough for me
the pencil thin moustache men
come to conquer the all night diners
in the small shoreline towns
but slink away in dawns first light
with stolen smiles and borrowed kisses
that they promise profusely to return tomorrow
but never do
such is the romantic night by her side
such is the wonder-wheel days of our
journey on the great highway
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
***I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know, but I just really like it
I am hardly religious
I'd rather break bread with Dawkins than Desmond Tutu, to be honest
And yes, I have all of the usual objections
To consumerism, the commercialisation of an ancient religion
To the westernisation of a dead Palestinian
Press-ganged into selling Playstations and beer
But I still really like it
I'm looking forward to Christmas
Though I'm not expecting a visit from Jesus
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I don't go in for ancient wisdom
I don't believe just 'cos ideas are tenacious it means they are worthy
I get freaked out by churches
Some of the hymns that they sing have nice chords but the lyrics are dodgy
And yes I have all of the usual objections
To the miseducation of children who, in tax-exempt institutions,
Are taught to externalise blame
And to feel ashamed and to judge things as plain right and wrong
But I quite like the songs
I'm not expecting big presents
The old combination of socks, jocks and chocolate is just fine by me
Cos I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun
I'll be seeing my dad
My brother and sisters, my gran and my mum
They'll be drinking white wine in the sun***
**And you, my baby girl
My jetlagged infant daughter
You'll be handed round the room
Like a puppy at a primary school
And you won't understand
But you will learn someday
That wherever you are and whatever you face
These are the people who'll make you feel safe in this world
My sweet blue-eyed girl
And if, my baby girl
When you're twenty-one or thirty-one
And Christmas comes around
And you find yourself nine thousand miles from home
You'll know what ever comes
Your brother and sisters and me and your Mum
Will be waiting for you in the sun
Whenever you come
Your brothers and sisters, your aunts and your uncles
Your grandparents, cousins and me and your mum
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Darling, when Christmas comes
We'll be waiting for you in the sun
Drinking white wine in the sun
Waiting for you in the sun
Waiting for you...
Waiting...**
***I really like Christmas
It's sentimental, I know...***
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
did you know
1 in 5 women
will be ***** during her lifetime
but every 1 has a name
and every name has a story
and no one story
is ever the same
mine isn’t any exception
it didn’t happen at all
like u think it did
there were no shadowy figures
reaching out rough hands
to pull me into an empty alley
as i walked the streets alone at night
8 out of 10 rapes are by someone you know
my body wasn’t a rag doll
to be thrown against a brick wall
while ****** objections flew
from my mouth like cannonballs
it was just us
in a space that was ours
a hushed no living and dying on my lips
the scary sweet nothings
whispered in my ear
must have drowned out the tides
rolling in and streaming
down my cheeks
because your hand never once left my throat
and you didn’t stop
i was nothing more than a shiny object
laid out on a dingy sheet
for you to devour
made to please
but when i rusted
i was abandoned
right where u took me
a corpse to rot
amongst the flowers
but if u squint hard
i may be pretty enough
to use again
3/28/2018
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 5:20 PM UTC
All is NOT well in the grasslands.
The animals are fit to be tied.
The actions of the crafty wolves
Have left the rest of them horrified.
"How will we EVER be able
To keep democracy afloat,"
The antelope asked, "if the wolves
Don't allow us all to vote?
"In many sections of these grasslands,
Shameless wolves are doing their best
To hold voter registration
Hostage, keeping voters suppressed."
"They aim to control voter turnout,"
The deer added. "That's their hope.
Their sneaky ways to manipulate
Elections push the envelope!
“They stall and seek petty reasons
To take names off voting lists.
Fair and honest elections are
In jeopardy if this persists.”
"It's so close to election day,
Our courts are reluctant to raise objections,"
The buffalo said. "Some of the wolves
Are even running in the elections!
"Humph! They stole a Supreme Court justice.
Then they rammed another one through.
Now they're still suppressing voters.
What more damage will they do?"
"Winnowing down voter rolls!
Their strategies should be illegal!"
The fox chimed in. Looking around,
He asked, "Where is our dear friend Eagle?"
The absent eagle wanted no
Responsibility tied to her name.
She couldn't stop the out-of-control
Wolves, and hid her head in shame.
-by Bob B (10-19-18)
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
When shall we learn, what should be clear as day,
We cannot choose what we are free to love?
Although the mouse we banished yesterday
Is an enraged rhinoceros today,
Our value is more threatened than we know:
Shabby objections to our present day
Go snooping round its outskirts; night and day
Faces, orations, battles, bait our will
As questionable forms and noises will;
Whole phyla of resentments every day
Give status to the wild men of the world
Who rule the absent-minded and this world.
We are created from and with the world
To suffer with and from it day by day:
Whether we meet in a majestic world
Of solid measurements or a dream world
Of swans and gold, we are required to love
All homeless objects that require a world.
Our claim to own our bodies and our world
Is our catastrophe. What can we know
But panic and caprice until we know
Our dreadful appetite demands a world
Whose order, origin, and purpose will
Be fluent satisfaction of our will?
Drift, Autumn, drift; fall, colours, where you will:
Bald melancholia minces through the world.
Regret, cold oceans, the lymphatic will
Caught in reflection on the right to will:
While violent dogs excite their dying day
To bacchic fury; snarl, though, as they will,
Their teeth are not a triumph for the will
But utter hesitation. What we love
Ourselves for is our power not to love,
To shrink to nothing or explode at will,
To ruin and remember that we know
What ruins and hyaenas cannot know.
If in this dark now I less often know
That spiral staircase where the haunted will
Hunts for its stolen luggage, who should know
Better than you, beloved, how I know
What gives security to any world.
Or in whose mirror I begin to know
The chaos of the heart as merchants know
Their coins and cities, genius its own day?
For through our lively traffic all the day,
In my own person I am forced to know
How much must be forgotten out of love,
How much must be forgiven, even love.
Dear flesh, dear mind, dear spirit, O dear love,
In the depths of myself blind monsters know
Your presence and are angry, dreading Love
That asks its image for more than love;
The hot rampageous horses of my will,
Catching the scent of Heaven, whinny: Love
Gives no excuse to evil done for love,
Neither in you, nor me, nor armies, nor the world
Of words and wheels, nor any other world.
Dear fellow-creature, praise our God of Love
That we are so admonished, that no day
Of conscious trial be a wasted day.
Or else we make a scarecrow of the day,
Loose ends and jumble of our common world,
And stuff and nonsense of our own free will;
Or else our changing flesh may never know
There must be sorrow if there can be love.
5.1k
He rubbed his weary eyes...
What trickery could this be?
Was it a signboard draped in disguise
Or the reflection of light off a tree?
Seconds ticked as he drew closer.
The lady materialised to rule out prior suspicions.
His fingers wrestled over the rusty brake lever,
Wheels squealed their futile objections.
The lady wore a face he could barely see...
She had long tresses that bore an alluring fragrance.
Her beauty tipped the scales allowing him bravery,
Unafraid he asked, "Miss, may I be of assistance?"
Her voice seemed to ride the subtle night breeze,
Coating his ears like sugar laden candy.
Soft and demure... Yet laced with a hint of tease,
She had said, "I'm stranded in the dark as you can see..."
"What luck!", he thought, seizing the opportunity
He removed his sack to make space for her.
His heart raced being in the damsel's good company,
The lady slid herself onto the rack before they both rode together.
As he pedalled hard, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Her voice came again, a tender little whisper,
*"I live rather close... Not far off from here...
A little over the hill... Just over yonder..."*
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 5:59 AM UTC
Mind and body numb
Disbelief growing by leaps and bounds.
Everything I held dear gone overnight,
All because of jealousy.
There is no dealing with a jealous mind,
No hearing the truth with a jealous ear.
No other emotion is so destructive on earth
So subtle, but destroys from within.
Even when the accuser is guilty of the same,
A jealous eye cannot see.
Abuse heaped upon abuse is thrown
Until all is whirled in a heart wrenching cyclone of words.
Laid waste is my heart, my soul and my mind.
Destroyed is my love, my life and the us we had.
My objections not heard, my tears leave you unmoved.
The cyclone has taken another.
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
some evenings it's early
before anyone has a chance to notice
before any mouths can open for objections
before my limbs can react to your magnetic pull of opposite forces
some evenings its late
so late its barely evening at all
so late the moon creeps up like an hourglass counting down the seconds that belong to us
an alarm clock you can't reach to turn off
so late my words have strung out and dried
beyond the comprehension that we share
before you have a chance to hear them
some evenings it leaves my back pressed against glass like a prisoner
and im forced to watch people crack my exterior like an exhibit
some evenings it leaves me stumbling over
backspaced words and eraser marks
some evenings it is comfort that envelops me
it lingers until the next some-evening when i am
trapped and desperate like a caged animal
i am still waiting for the evening that plays out our scenario
im waiting for our odds to improve
the some-evening where you sit next to me in this glass home
and pretend you are not as uncomfortable as i am alive
and i don't have to sit and catalouge
all of these post-five PM hours
you are here before day turns to dusk
as you were always meant to
some evenings i immobilize my eagerness
by shoving "now is not the time"
down my own throat
some evenings i glance at the door
at my watch
i settle on my own hands
that beg to make your existence poetic
some evenings i just wait.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
Jesus was looking impatient
It was already quarter past nine
He was sure he'd sent out invitations
And he'd turned all the water to wine
He'd promised a memorable banquet
As tomorrow he'd surely be dead
But the shops had been short of a few things
So he'd just had to settle for bread
When a knock at the door made him flutter
He adjusted his dress and his hair
He opened and bid all assembled
"Wipe your feet and then sit over there"
They shuffled and took to their places
But they looked slightly I'll at their ease
They could see all the wine and the bread rolls
But what of the ham and the cheese?
Jesus said grace in his fashion
"Cheers Dad" with his thumb held up high
"But be careful, this bread is my body"
"Now who wants a nice bit of thigh?"
They tucked in with nervous expressions
He'd been guzzling since they had arrived
He explained "It's my blood in these bottles"
"And without it I'd not have survived"
The apostles were forming conclusions
Their boss had been ****** all these years
But the wine washed away their objections
And the music drowned out all their fears
So they partied and danced on the table
They played twister and tidily-winks
Then stumbled off out to a nightclub
Because Judas was buying the drinks
They caroused and they conga'd till morning
Till their stomachs and bladders had failed
And that's how young Jesus got hammered
And the very next day he got nailed
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
Parents are your first teachers;
But if they were permissive,
Teachers have rules they follow through on.
If parents were too strict,
Teachers cut you slack.
If you fall, they may or may not pick you up.
If you were abused, they will report it,
Despite all your objections.
If you've been excluded, you're now in a class.
If you're really smart, they'll show you how much there is to learn.
If you're struggling, they'll show you how to learn.
If you're afraid, stand beside a teacher.
If you're a bully, you will confront your victims.
If you're in doubt, they'll search you out.
If you're cocky, they'll trim your spurs.
If you're lonely, they have room.
If you need solitude, they have a room.
If you're in love, they know the season;
If you know hate, they know the feeling.
When you compete, they're in the seats.
When you're sad, or conflicted,
Teachers listen.
They taught Moses, Jesus and Mohamed,
Yes. Teachers beget teachers.
They instructed Socrates, Aristotle and Plato.
They put us in North America and on the moon.
They worked with Salk and Banting, Gates and Jobs.
Anyone can learn something.
They even taught our parents,
But not everyone learns.
Hey, Teachers, don't leave those kids alone!
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
Keep your feelings far from me.
I hear that shit's contagious.
I'm not trying to catch your affection.
And I've got some serious objections
to this whole love sick diagnosis.
Doctor, Doctor. What's the deal?
How's my heart of steel?
Is it melting? Warping? Disintegrating?
Write me a script for a void of emotion,
give me a brew or a potion to cure this notion
that love exists and people aren't evil.
Pills for headaches, **** ups and ******
Why not wannabe loners?
For the people who just wanna be dead inside again.
The ones who hate the feeling of feeling.
Emotions send them reeling.
I don't want to deal with healing.
I wanna die inside again and skip resurrection.
If emptiness is an infection I wanna sick forever.
I don't need a doctor, I need an emotional dissection.
Pick it apart and sew it up without fixing ****
I wanna be dead again.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
*In her cryptic words
a thoughtful owl,
proclaimed aloud
secrets never known;
the horn bill was loud
in registering his objections.
Let it be hidden, he said
like jewels in the folds of rocks,
only ones who searches deserves it.
The forest went still
the next moment;
a harmonious silence resulted,
the tussle, in it was dissolved.
The night--
quickly took over,
spread it's net of noises
inter spaced with silence-
that engulfed all discords,
orchastrated it as music,
then wrapped up everything
in darkness opaque.*
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
Your use of words
of late, I have noticed,
seize the cold light of day
snowball the pack ice
send a shudder down the spine
hail the dawn of an audible ice age
lest if only
One would listen
that loquacious nature
left to stew in the freezer
the embodiment of toxic wine
your preferred after taste;
the sediment of choice
demands a selective palate
we have bulldozed
The Garden of Eden
now only the Snake remains
offering the bitter-sweet apple
to those who oblige
pave the way for emotions
to argue their objections
a subjective nature
in acerbic tones
fierce and unwavering;
the adulation of the Other
A raised eyebrow
denotes a self-centred assuredness
that anyone else
with a deft hand for art or language
is clearly a copy of the blueprint
your ingenious creation;
such is the intellect you abide by
that of your own reckoning
Your argument
is the passing of an iceberg
perhaps fleeting
the early evening;
the disingenuous melt
of your carbon-cloaked temper
My riposte
will be your undoing
defeat by the warmth
of the passing Sun;
embrace that which you chase
see what you dont see
agree to disagree
is the sympathy
for your antipathy
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:52 PM UTC
Providing you survive the drive inside the suicide lane,
The inane objections of several secular seconds will both drive you insane and tame the frame of irrational sanity,
Which stripped away the man in me,
And grabbed my sleeve convincingly to lament the angry laugh of free...
Enterprise; do I comprise of many lies,
As you do?
A gift or prize; yes I surmise the former plays no voodoo.
Like the latter,
Piter pater, I ask exactly, "Do you,"
Truly
care
to know...
If existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor,
Who washes
Shame
Away
In calm, hot showers.
What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.
What malcontent.
We thought dissent would overthrow the circus tent,
Which represented forced consent with the oppressed by blissful fraudulence
Remaining 99 percent.
Peasants, plebeians, proletariat;
We poke the U.N. Secretariat,
To ask again,
"Are we there yet?"
"Are we there yet?"
And silence is how were always met.
We drop it, trust they won't forget,
About us, suffering cold sweats;
As we fear unwanted debt,
They won't forget,
They won't forget,
They won't forget
About us.
Yet competition takes it place,
And twists that sympathetic face,
To grab a poor man's knowledge base,
To ask him,
"What do
I gain
from assisting
The likes
Of you?"
The poor man bellows, "you're poor too!
Like those who can't afford shampoo.
You can't afford my point of view,
It risks a loss that's overdue,
And money makes you misconstrue,
Existence."
And if existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor;
He forgot the human aspect should always be the biggest factor,
On his spreadsheets as he calculates productivity's next chapter;
What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.
This isn't right.
I question fines,
And wonder, where's the kindness?
What happened to our kindred spirits?
Did we leave all that behind us?
Is money truly all we want,
And happiness put second?
The future is unwritten,
So follow me;
Expect resistance.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
I never belonged in this home
The mold of this home is all
noise and fears and objections
Not the shape I can take up
It collapsed a long time ago
anyway
Pretentious people and trust broken
Pricking at my skin this wall a treason
When the head voice sounds like fears if it had a voice
just what am I hoping for
Ignorant engulfed the whole five bodies
I ran from arms to arms
Reeling through sound waves
Looking for a home that fits me
I guess there are arms willing to stitch me together again
Just defragment me a little bit more
This is the stranger's arms that is warm with hopes
This is home
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
Sometimes I wonder if my first mistake in loving you was getting to actually know you.
Know you like the back of my hand,
And then realizing just now,
That there is the tiniest freckle in that wrinkly area between my thumb and pointer finger
And I have been alive and barely breathing for 14 years but I never noticed that speck.
Or if my first mistake in loving you was
Introducing you to my friends as the boy I was talking to at 4 am on school nights
And the boy that I had just promised I was "done with" 2 days ago
At Elizabeth's house because I saw you kissing Karly behind the bleachers on Thursday.
But right now, I am standing in front of 20 somewhat people,
Questioning if my first mistake in loving you was
Watching you **** me 1 month into our strenuous relationship,
I don't mean the *** was bad,
I'm just saying it wasn't the best either,
And that you probably could've done better.
Or maybe you couldn't have,
Your ***** was a bit small.
I'm just explaining that I think if I had loved you correctly,
Then the *** wouldn't have made me question if no actually means no
And whether or not the height of my skirt made your ***** decide that it was getting through My lace ******* one way or another that night.
I'm not telling you that I regret it, because I don't.
I don't regret things.
I don't regret things.
I don't regret things.
But I do regret you,
And I do regret walking out of the house in that mini leather skirt despite my mother's Objections,
Even though I should be free to walk around my city wearing whatever ******* clothes I want To,
Without worrying over whether or not I'm asking to be ***** at
Dickpoint.
So the question is if I really didn't love you,
Which at this point of the poem,
I don't I think I ever did,
Then who made the first mistake in our relationship?
And boy, you better take the blame for it this time,
Because I am an angel.
And I will not claim this loss as a loss,
But in fact as a win,
Because I deserve better than this.
I deserve better than regret.
I deserve better than ****
I deserve better than you.
I deserve better than your *****
I deserve better than your uncomfortable hands.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
You’re bad for me,
They think I don’t know that,
But I am mad you see,
And their objections only my rebellion begat,
You’re a rock star in the making,
So Mr. Rock star stop hesitating,
And just rock n’ roll my heart,
Play on the strings and give its beat a kick start,
Come on Mr. Rock star,
And just rock n’ roll my heart,
Just play on this beating bleeding guitar,
I know dancing to your rhythm isn’t smart,
Because you’re my worst possibility,
With soon to have fan girls and teen boppers,
Only to provoke in me jealous hostility,
With you’re soon to be chart toppers,
But Mr. Rock Star in the making,
Come on and just rock n’ roll my heart,
It’ll one day soon be breaking,
When your attention does depart,
So Mr Rock star in the making,
We only have this moment for our taking,
Where by we may some feelings impart,
So Mr Rock star for now just Rock n’ Roll this heart.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 6:12 AM UTC
Did you happen to notice
That last year Santa's sleigh
Was missing an important
Figure, by the way?
Let's see: Comet and *****
Along with Cupid and Prancer
Were there, and so were Donner,
Dasher, Blitzen, and Dancer.
Which reindeer was missing?
Rudolph? Ah, you guessed it.
The news was out there, but
The media had suppressed it.
(Because of frequent fog,
Santa was being sensible
In counting on dear Rudolph,
Who had become indispensable.)
It all started like this:
On the morning of Christmas Eve,
Rudolph was tired from having
Been on the qui vive
For sneaky present robbers
All the previous night.
By noon, poor ol' Rudolph
Looked a sorry sight.
To perk himself up a bit--
The "where" is still unclear--
He dipped into a little
Too much Christmas "cheer."
Now I don't know about you,
But Rudolph's nose would flicker
Whenever he drank wine
Or any other liquor.
When the team of reindeer
Lined up, Santa could tell
That sleigh-guiding Rudolph
Wasn't doing so well.
Needless to say, Santa
Really got a whiff
When he approached his friend
And took a little sniff.
"I can tell, dear Rudolph,
That you've been making merry.
Did you turn your eggnog
Into a Tom and Jerry?"
"I think--hiccup!--a little,"
Said Rudolph with a blush.
"Go to bed," said Santa.
"We are in a rush."
That night Santa was forced--
Although he felt remorseful--
To use toys with lights
To guide him. How resourceful!
So last year if the batteries
To your toys were run down,
Causing disappointment
And many a tear and frown,
Don't feel so sad.
They went to a good cause:
They helped to distribute
Gifts from Santa Claus.
Regarding this year, I
Don't want to keep you guessin':
Rudolph's back in service.
I think he learned his lesson.
But some say Santa's considering--
Despite objections and moans--
Future gift deliveries
With the use of Amazon's drones.
- by Bob B
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
i dreamt
i moved into a apartment
with an old brick wall
and its decaying face
the old light hanging from a thread
swings on the open breeze
from the window
time seems to slow down to a crawl
so i can see each and every flaw
so i can feel each and every thing she wanted me to feel
so i can know each and everything she saw
and so i see the the moment captured in ink
on her sketch pad
a drawing of the wind in the trees
a image of the smell of the fresh cut grass
the thoughts of the passer-by
who looked with such stark wonder
at this open display of what we have all taken
for granted we could never achieve
the old brick wall
leaned into the wind
and held
for one more day
kept safe the world she held so dear
safe for one more stormy night
the old brick wall
with its spray painted messages
like how joe loves daisy
and how we should make love not war
the old brick wall
holds back the world
from coming into her quiet soul
into the paper flowers and lace curtains of her life
the old brick wall
was once the west most piece of
the boxers rebellion
he was sad all his life
torn from his violent profession
and forced to retire
and his fists lay idle
with objections written on them like scars
but after years he came to terms
with the reasons great and small
with the rationalizations made up and real
and found peace
he found his fists could be hands
and hands can pet a cat
hands can paint a masterpiece
write a love poem
hands can touch another person without hurting them
and he suddenly he didn't want to hurt anyone ever again
because he loved having hands
and all the beautiful things they could do
he would never have fists again
and that change in him
was so profound that it became magical and
part of the old brick wall
so it will endure past its years
to protect her little scavenged world
her delicate life
her frail thoughts
because beauty isn't always
what the world thinks it is
a boxer can tell you that
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
Trapped 'tween
adjectives' objections
succumbed to
long-windedness,
snared 'neath an
expanse of circumlocution,
paraphrasing periphrases
buried under layers
of technicalities,
all in a day's multiformity
working midst the madness
of poetry's sublimity
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 9:01 AM UTC
I. Attributes
She's quiet,
she smells good
People don't notice her
She loves like it's something to be guilty for
She's willing to let you go
In exchange for just a few seconds,
Even a passing glance
It would be pathetic
Except for the tragedy
She drips sorrow
It's painful to even watch
She's elegant,
reminds me of silk
And expensive lace
A whiff of jasmine perfume
She's leaking at the edges
With unrequited everythings
II. As I Watch
You turn away and
With your back toward her
You don't see
or appreciate
The fragile smile she assumes for you
or how
It breaks
In the fall
halfway between the floor
And her lips.
III. Objections
How!
Can you be so cruel?
You don't even notice her!
She's a person!
She's more real than you
How can you be so inconsiderate?
You should be concerned
As if your life depended on it!
Because hers might
And you are stuck
So ignorant
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 11:23 AM UTC
a morning conversation
brought for those
of agnostic or atheist
doubting persuasion..
an exploration of
stone tablet verses
so to experience
some secular
everyday difference..
objections were tabled
citing limitations
much is left out..
that negative tone
we all know so well..
those shalt-nots
seem to prevail
in eight of the ten..
modern science
quite lately has
offered assistance..
producing a map
researching the brain..
two sides observed
left analytical with
edges restricting
joined by right
expansive and present
just out of sight..
left and right
interfacing
pulsating
might we say dancing..?
then to the tablets
with map in hand
left still speaks forthright..
but then a surprise
right is right there
in front of our eyes..
look once again
first in the listing
and once more
see number four..
now we rely on our
newfound map
remembering the dance
those leftward shalt-nots
might others be named..?
each one is dancing
with a partner
one clearly not seen...
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
Night is singing blues with wrong falsetto,
In my fingers dies a cigarette,
You’re the one
But why so much directions?
Where are you?
No answer--dead objections.
Earrings and bracelets are my fetters.
You are gone..
But you still breathe in letters.
Here your voice
It’s touching lids of blindness
Here the choice
İmpartial, regardless.
Sew my veins
I need them for tomorrow,
Zip my soul
But don’t unveil the sorrow.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 12:59 PM UTC
The achiever meets the benefactor.
This can work quite well, provided that Cancer has no objections to the grand projects Capricorn frequently gets involved in and Capricorn allows Cancer to be in charge of their private sector.
Once they become attracted to one another, they're eager to solidify their relation and don't mind the prospect of building a home together. A family is fine, too. They mean it when they commit.
But they continue to compete about the leadership and about whose plans should win when they have conflicting intentions. The relation can be noisy at times, when the two strong wills collide, but they can take it. It's a process by which they improve their relation, even when it seems like the very opposite.
Actually, they are both stimulated by it. A lasting peace would make them confused and worried, sensing that something is missing and worrying that their love is fading.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC