"obligatory" poems
Allah was his ears
As sounds unlawful, unethical it never heard.
Secrets, gossips and rumours were also barred.
It buzzed with words of Quran day and night
Always Open to sounds just and upright.
Allah was his eyes
As it looked parents, orphans and needy with love
Brimmed with tears thinking of Almighty above
It never despised his brother and from lust it was freed.
Gold and silver had no worth and had no signs of greed.
Allah was his hands
As it stopped things reprehensible with force
In Allah's cause spent abundantly his resource
It caressed the head of an orphan in affection.
Time and again meekly raised it in supplication.
Allah was his feet
As it never moved towards things which Allah hate
Avoided walking arrogantly with a strutting gait
It always ran to help downtrodden, oppressed.
For knowledge for light it was on constant quest.
He had mountains of obligatory good deeds
He had mountains of non-obligatory good deeds
His protector was Allah The Almighty
His enemy was enemy of Allah The Almighty
He was beloved of Allah
He was friend of Allah
He was Wali of Allah
He was Waliullah.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
You wrote a poem that made me want to cry,
a blue moon occasion of risk and shown feelings.
A love poem in response would be too overdone for me
and perhaps it'd seem an obligatory exchange.
You know I love you but only so many lines can be written
and I've run out of new words to excite you.
If I could I'd just hold you to show how I feel,
but I'll go slightly against my decision and write you a poem to thank you
or at least acknowledge these feelings
and then for once, I'll end up the awkward one.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
I imagine myself
A few gentle decades older.
Finally grasping the cusp
Of success.
Living in my own apartment
In New York City, nonetheless.
Wearing an Armani coat
(Whatever those look like.)
Walking idly yet prestigiously
Through winter in the city.
Taking care not to laugh too loud,
Talk to myself, smile too much.
A small, attractive female
Has to be serious to get ahead.
Customers will buy from a happy girl
Only if she is early 20's, at most.
That is Marketing 101.
I am a small fish in a large sea;
The principles of Darwinism
Still apply to me.
I've learned long ago to succeed,
I must stifle the welcoming smile.
So along the familiar concrete
I stride,
Carefully manicured hands
In pockets.
The Filipinos know better
Than to rush on the hands
Of a businesswoman caressing
A successful career.
She tips well and lives well.
I walk along with cool calm
And feminine grace.
I have regained the safety
To be feminine once again.
The criminals know better
Than to infiltrate
The Business district
And cause trouble
To working professionals
In Armani coats.
I imagine myself a few decades older.
Kissing snowflakes unenthusiastically.
Yes, I marvel in poetry, in Nature,
But I have matured
Much like the snowflakes themselves.
At the end of a cycle,
No matter how beautiful.
My actions flow gracefully and delicately.
I melt into New York City
Like a cell in a body.
Pumping fuel into the *****
To sustain the mass.
A tumor.
I smile subtly as I slosh along.
I recall, once upon a time,
On my lower-class youth.
***** jokes, crude dancing,
And cluttered apartments.
I approach the high-rise building
I call home and greet the doorman
With the obligatory disregard
For his innermost being.
Poetry truly is in the strangest of places.
Even in an enigma like me.
I enter the marble floors,
Wiping my feet,
My rent as sky-high as
The building itself.
Elevator. Comforting motion sickness.
This is success.
The pit of my stomach sinks.
I tell myself it's the motion sickness.
I return to my apartment,
With its symmetrical details.
My thoughts return to you.
You've never stepped foot in my home,
But you've always been here with me.
I get dinner started.
I set out the extra glass, like always.
Rituals like these serve
As my Sunday mass.
I drink your glass with my evening medication.
Dare I say like always?
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
Average-joe protagonist wipes beer glasses
at the helm of his sports bar, blissfully ignorant
of the imminent laughable tragedy. Clouds circle,
and there's that obligatory radio broadcast,
the one that warns of inclement weather-
rainy, with a chance of Selachimorpha.
You hum the Jaws theme, tracing pickup lines
on the skin of my back, while sharks pour from the sky,
the improbable tornado dropping great whites
on the California shoreline. One arm curled
around my waist, you tickle erratically
until I squirm away, only to creep back again,
and put my head in the mouth of the sand tiger,
wandering too close to the edge of the water, foolish,
but this is a b-movie, we swam out too far
knowing how it would end. The extras
scream and scatter, arms flailing,
going through the motions of surprise,
stumbling in their scripted attempts
to flee the inevitable. Predictably,
they fall. We all fall, and the girl trapped
in the hammerhead's belly
has this peaceful expression,
as if she can't quite remember why
she ran away in the first place.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
MA KING AME-RICA GRATE AGIN
( for Brian )
"Your mum's an alien..an...
ha ha ha ha alien!"
the children chant
and taunt.
I see through tears
their sneers and hated
etched upon
their features
like a mask they
could/couldn't take off.
It is like a thousand years ago
all over again.
The Age of the thing
called Trump
when humans were both
orange and stupid.
Now we have computers
built into each whorl
facts at our fingertips
with just a finger snap
we can call up what used to be
called videos
of the Trump thing
teaching humans how to hate.
I, unlike my sisters
am not green
except for
a slight greenish
hue every now
and then.
I am more the chameleon
and can blend in.
I have the necessary arms
and the obligatory number of eyes.
Only my mum and sisters
look like a lurid 1950's comic
"THEY CAME FROM OUTER SPACE!"
yet earth would not be
here if aliens( us )had not come
to save them from themselves
back when earth had entered
the Age of Dictators
as the history apps.
quaintly put it
Now is come again
the hateful hate
ma king Ame-rica
grate again
like a mind
grinding its teeth.
I'm sorry am
the English no good
and the spelling as well
we will
have to hide behind
our mind walls
that we had to build
to keep humans out.
My mother taking me
lovingly in her tentacles
stroking me and drying my eyes
and making tea
With a snap of my fingers
I bring up my favourite video
and a Kermit hologram
floats before my face
"It's not that easy bein' green!"
and I singalong like any human being
"...when green is all there is to be."
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 5:10 AM UTC
The things we say to one another:
we could
choose
to make them mean something.
I could tell you that I love you,
even though we've never
really met. You could
tell me that you're dying
and it scares you.
We could talk about the rise and fall
of injection-moulded empires,
the rise and fall of your
mother's chest, as she
took her last breath.
We could vow to behead tyrants together.
We could promise
that we'd never fall victim
to that same sickness. We could
compare our hurts and find a
connection
in our mutual pain. We
could try to share our loneliness,
and maybe the world
would be less lonely.
Or at least we could
speak,
like you're a person
and I'm a person, like we're both
made of the same
beautiful, doomed matter,
only separated
by social convention and
accidental skin;
we could say something worth saying.
Instead: plastic bag tax, The Match,
weight loss and where to buy
the best factory-seconds shoes,
the televised finals of something or other,
the rising cost of corned beef, the
obligatory conversation piece
about the weather.
Can't we talk
just a little bit
bigger than this?
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
glasses 'you look beautiful'
her teeth are a little yellow, she
brushes in the morning. somehow
they're still a Colgate white. she mouths
Iluvu eyes squint quiet smile arches it's
spine and finger caresses the barely stubble of my face. her blonde peach fuzz mini moustache tilts left and kisses false worry, charisma. she takes
it as insult when I read line about peach
fuzz moustache. obligatory insult *shes a
woman, women don't have moustaches
haha* she stretches like a resting cat and
returns to thought as my suicide
hangover crunches into a headache of
blind relief
relief
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC
Remember the time
I thought I liked you
But it only lasted a week.
Remember the time
I cursed for the first time;
And it was at you.
Remember the time
I liked you for an entire year
And obsessed over you.
Remember the time
You teased me everyday.
Remember the time
We used to take piano from the same woman
And I saw you at a lesson one day.
Remember the time
You told me about the night
The black thing came to you,
Up your arm.
Remember the time
We spent backstage
Goofing off.
Remember the time
I wrote about how much I hated you
In my diary,
Everyday.
Remember the time
I dated your best friend
And you were the obligatory third wheel.
Remember the time
You threatened to punch me
Because I made fun of the girl you liked.
Remember the time
We spent during choir practice
Looking at squirrels through the window.
Remember the time
You told me
"I don't care what homeroom I have,
As long as you're not in it."
Remember the time
The stinkbug kept following your shoes
In Spanish class.
Remember the time
You threw a pinecone at me
Because I deserved it.
Remember the time
We sat together in all our classes.
Remember the time
I dreamed about you
Dying
In my front room.
Remember the time
We Skyped for three hours.
Remember the time
I beat you up
Because I was angry.
Remember the time
My two best friends started dating
Because you finally got up the courage and asked her.
Remember the time
You told me you wanted to break up with her.
Remember the time
You stole my Sharpies
Until I asked him out.
Remember the time
You broke up with her
And avoided me for a week.
Remember the time
We spent after school,
Studying for Spanish.
Remember the time
I was scared of you
But walked with you,
In silence.
Remember the time
You had a rave in class
And asked me to tape it.
Remember the time
I cut myself
And you got mad at me
And we spoke even less.
Remember the time
The algebra teacher threatened to separate us
Because we talked too much in class.
Remember the time
I messaged you
And messaged you
And you wouldn't answer.
Remember the time
You and your mum invited me to dinner.
Remember the time
I saw you for the first time
In two months
And, despite the same clothes
And hair,
You looked like a stranger.
Remember the time
You asked him out for me.
Remember the time
We Skyped for five minutes
And had nothing to say.
Remember the time
You held my hand all period
Because you were cold.
Remember the time
You told me you were insane
And we couldn't be like we used to.
Remember the time
You told me not to worry,
That we were still the same, relationship-wise.
Remember the time
You told me not to cry
But I did.
Remember the time
You held me while I sobbed,
The first time you'd ever seen me cry.
Remember the time
You assured me you'd be fine.
Remember the time
I shook while you held my hands.
Remember the time
You hugged me after class,
A week later
And I nearly cried of happiness.
Remember the times.
Do you remember the times?
Because it seems all I'm doing these days
Is remembering you.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
I think I understand hookups and one-night stands now.
The key to moving on is to replace all that stood before
until there stands nothing that may cause you to unravel.
Moment by moment,
conversation by conversation,
I replace the replays,
I can't bear the thought
of another touching me, like I'm not yours.
I got another ring today, all big and loose.
It's funny how I picked this one,
it keeps slipping off my fingers like you did.
It's been two months since I last wore your ring.
I don't see a difference between them,
it feels the same on my thumb.
and that should be the end of it,
but oh well, I guess it isn't.
I walked to the grocery store, paused at an aisle,
took my time frowning over chocolate bars.
You used to get me Munch, and so I picked the Mars bar.
I don't skip meals now, (well, most days I don't)
and in place of our routine conversations,
I play a random show.
I drown noise with noise.
My days are decent.
I'm surrounded by mindless jibber jabber.
I participate.
I paste a bright smile.
“You look well now,” they say,
“Well, I am” I reply.
And I am fine. (I think I am?)
9/10 times I am.
Then in a random mundane moment,
memories of you resurface like a ring light and
in that single moment,
I let myself crumble.
“I don't want him back.
He's changed now.
So have you and so what?
If it's meant to be, it'll be.
He's the love of my life.
Well don't let him in,
when (not if) he comes back.
Do it from love, not for it.
You deserve happiness.
Both of you do.
You want love.
You are love.
The ocean doesn't look for its water,
Why will you look for what you have?
It is what it is.
and this too shall pass.”
So on and so forth my inner monologue goes on,
and I stare at my phone wondering if I can conjure you from my thoughts.
I am kinder now.
With myself, and everyone around.
I wish I were kinder to you, but I was just a child.
I know you're proud,
and I am of you too.
Do you think I can sculpt my favourite version of you?
Wait, no.
I already did that,
I loved all of you
and then everything fell apart.
My thoughts swirl and I let them play.
Incantations in my head
Obligatory 3 am, weary sighs, contempt and rage.
Oh, so much rage.
Where is the calming lull of sleep, when you need it to sedate your despair?
Resignation sets in, I play a familiar game.
I ask the universe and unbiasedly it delivers the same day.
"Universe, give me a sign, I'm really done this time.
Yellow flowers if he's coming back,
Dandelions if he's not.
Universe let me move on. This is the last time, "
In my version of He loves me, he loves me not
I break flowers, not petals.
I look for answers in colours and not action,
And then I saw a dozen Dandelions.
Jan 17, 2024
Jan 17, 2024 at 4:40 PM UTC
It is funny how we can get to be ourselves with strangers
Our complete truest version of us
No guards up and no painted window panes
To be able to stare through, untainted reflections
Our deep dark secrets and or biggest fears
To confess them in rapid succession
And not feel the need to hold back
It is funny, how we need to hide away ourselves
From the ones who love and know us best
Constantly dancing around the fullest truth of truths
Strangers don't know us, nor do they probably even care
The obligatory third party
Just sit and listen
Let the masks drop, and the honestly flourish
Online profiles make for free therapy
And self awareness
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
What is love?
Murasaki would say it was an obligation,
a sort of duty
where the rules
say to bury one’s emotions
and succumb to the overpowering ***
Mian Mian embraces the sexuality
of her culture. Arguing that love
is the force behind drugs and emotion.
It is not the government’s obligation
to dictate the author’s form of rules
on writing a novel that serves its own duty.
How does Black Jade feel about her duty?
Despite her lover’s sexuality
and his matriarch’s ruling
of marrying well even if he does love
her, the family cares more of their obligation
then of their prized sons emotions.
Coco lived by her emotions.
The sickness of Tian not her duty
as it would have been in the old days. Lui’s obligation
to turn in Shiba overruled by rough ***
and her quest for painful love
in a time that disregards all form of rule.
Peony was one who broke the rules
but was rewarded for it. Unless it’s Peony #2 because her emotions
got the best of her when she fell in love
at the wrong time. It was not her duty
to see the play nor feel anything ******
in the Three Wives Commentary; this, her obligation.
Was it Abe Sada’s obligation
to castrate her lover and make her own rules?
Madame Mao too knew all about ***
and succumbed to her emotions
when her duty
was no longer to love.
From emotional red chambers with rules
on obligatory *** the cycle of East Asian
love patterns has yet to fulfill its duty.
Dec 14, 2010
Dec 14, 2010 at 5:16 AM UTC
No longer affectionate, attentive, thoughtful eyes;
instead, an expressionless, invisible, blank stare.
No longer strolling hand-in-hand, carelessly;
instead, walking moonbeams apart, drifting like clouds.
No longer drowning in passionate, lingering kisses;
instead, an obligatory, awkward, fleeting peck.
No longer two hearts bow-tied with strings;
instead, reclusive, lonely hearts, in a noose.
No longer dreaming of a lifetime together;
instead, an uncertain, somber, painful future.
No longer a confident, loving wife;
instead, a heartsick, lonely, aging woman,
Desperately afraid of losing you.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 9:19 PM UTC
The air is brittle this ominous, wintry night.
The slivers of a life you used to know still haunt you, as surely as you have permitted them to be a haunt to others.
Without question, it is those memories that spur your ruminations; that cause your copious circumlocutions; which compell you to stand on this somber boulevard in front of this crumbling, but once stately manor that now is a languid presence with the solitary purpose of looming over the vast grounds.
It is obligatory that you proceed along the avenue that used to split the yards that are now overgrown and chocoblock with twisted vines, and thistles.
You pause, to gather your strength.
One deep inhailation and then you hold your breath as you grip the tarnished handle and lock leaver.
With a perfect measure of strength your thumb recalls, the mechanism is undone.
Your arm pushes forward.
The silence is disturbed by a warbling creak as the heavy door is slowly opened.
You exhale, then before you lose your nerve you quickly pass through the ingress and enter into the foyer,
which is instantly familiar in the dim, flickering light and the long, slender adumbrations effected by the gossamer encaked voltives jutting from the dusty walls.
Though it has remaned unchanged
throughout all the time that has passed, standing in the ornate room affirms that the warmth with which you used to be recieved here has been abandoned to a frigidity.
You feel as if this room remembers you.
This is as far as I dare go with you, my friend, though I know you must continue.
I have listened to your stories, so
I know you have many rooms to search.
The closier that you seek is in a matter that is not my own.
I will depart upon rendering these words of warning:
When visiting the past,
As you daringly explore these often haralded halways,
Be careful what you leave behind.
Take caution not to lose yourself,
For a shadow lingers in the Suite Sublime.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
one more for the great lakes that divide and unite her
all on that day:
1. will be a treaty writ tween me and
the cosmos,
they permit me worship them,
even to join them as another
meaningless gleaming,
if i cease to write -
having used
every word
in my kindness kitbag possess -
twice
2. my trials will be certified as ended,
for the grifting/gifting
ability of a man to
give and dream, to fool himself,
man's obligatory gift, gone
the will to believe in
anticipation
3. a full on peace,
no mere armistice pretense
till the no more next one is the norm
for to the sun, submission,
uttering
a confession
already writ
*A generation goes, and a generation comes,
but the earth remains forever.
The sun rises, and the sun goes down,
and hastens to the place where it rises.
The wind blows to the south
and goes around to the north;
around and around goes the wind,
and on its circuits the wind returns.
All streams run to the sea,
but the sea is not full;
to the place where the streams flow,
there they flow again.
All things are full of weariness;
a man cannot utter it;
the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
nor the ear filled with hearing.
What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done,
and there is nothing new under the sun.
Is there a thing of which it is said,
“See, this is new”?
It has been already
in the ages before us.
There is no remembrance of former things,
nor will there be any remembrance
of later things yet to be among those who come after.*
Ecclesiastes 1:4-11
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 9:53 AM UTC
~~~
a poem derived from these words of
Joel M Frye
"Poetry is a self-policing agency, enforcing nothing
~~~
The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drops in and
upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
are the selected tool
you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation
you cannot lie in poetry
-one can only validate-
you will tell the whole truth,
and nothing but,
all in good order,
to secure me to thee,
to muddle
our molecular cocktail mix,
you must,
must give only
truth in poetry,
or give
nothing
police yourself
in every aleph bet,
don't substance abuse us with deceit,
give only your unburdening,
force us to lip kiss
when
we face each other,
when
pronouncing the blessed script of
ourselves,
that we have been granted by sharing
each other's unvarnished lettres
the burden is
to un burden
cut out what needs
to be bridged from
the secret walled-in safe,
and give form, life and breath,
expose it to the atmosphere,
reform your bleak introspection
and white horseradish bitter realism,
turn blue blood veined internal
into an amberina red,
all by being
unsaved, unsavory, unsafe
you are the enforcer,
you are the police,
you are the validation
and the validator,
enforcing this sole law,
police your self,
give us
with no agent in between,
give us
nothing but,
a voice
one will recognize instantly
as the whole fats milk of
truth
oh, how I will embrace thy
one and only,
when given,
your
one and only
for do we dare disagree that is
each other's truths that
shall set us free?
•••
for we are the inhabitants,
of this wild land of
no inhibitions,
no rule of laws,
except one,
defend the essence,
protect the defenseless integrity,
promote the mystery of the
human poem
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
As I trace the rise and fall of your back,
I think how lovely you are in morning -
How is it my heart shall beat now it lacks
Night's bold ignorance I am now scorning?
Afraid to touch, my fingers skim your skin
Only to graze unmapped constellations
Composed of small stars made of melanin;
The act gives my heart wild palpitations.
Surely I could put a tack in the sun
To stop its rapid ascent to midday -
I can hardly blink before dawn is done
And you rise and I am full of dismay.
To wake next to you I would face the sight
Of your retreating back in morning light.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Call me hopeless but not romantic
Chocolates, flowers are not automatic
Saturday date becomes mandatory
Celebrations are now obligatory
Don’t blame me for being like this
I am not much a fan of cheesy flicks
My love, why state the obvious
The way I look at you is so much of a proof
That I am hopelessly inlove with you
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
I've got a little black book with my poems in
I've got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in
When I'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in
I got elastic bands keeping my shoes on
Got those swollen hand blues.
Got thirteen channels of **** on the T.V. to choose from
I've got electric light
And I've got second sight
I've got amazing powers of observation
And that is how I know
When I try to get through
On the telephone to you
There'll be nobody home
I've got the obligatory Hendrix perm
And I've got the inevitable pinhole burns
All down the front of my favourite satin shirt
I've got nicotine stains on my fingers
I've got a silver spoon on a chain
I've got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains
I've got wild staring eyes
I've got a strong urge to fly
But I've got nowhere to fly to
Ooooh Babe when I pick up the phone
There's still nobody home
I've got a pair of Gohills boots
And I've got fading roots.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 5:14 AM UTC
My Progenitor along my Father,
She loves me as if She'll take care,
Of me and my needs today & forever.
My Mother is an inspiration for me,
She has tasted success after toiling for it,
Harder in nights than in days totally.
My studies were Her priority in my school days,
She is no different in these different college days,
Never does She let her mind divert Her gaze.
My language skills, I inherited from Herself,
She taught me Hindi, English & Kannada,
I learnt and honed the Sanskrit by myself.
My German & French are elementary, but,
She never discourages me or calls my efforts,
To learn them both, with passing time, rudimentary.
My health has been Her top priority,
She ignored Her own & there was a difficulty,
Her knees gave away and needed to be replaced.
My Father loves me too but my Mother is special,
She left Her beloved Karnataka to marry my father,
Now She looks after my Father as I am alright.
I am lucky, very lucky indeed, that I have them,
She is a living legend married to Another,
This poem is more about Her and a bit about my caring father too.
My Mother taught me how to speak,
How to speak and how to live, not just once,
But along my Father, she taught it all twice.
My Mother, along my Father, defines God,
Probably this is the case with everybody,
But few realise it when Death makes a ****
I have seen her weeping for me when I was unwell,
Now it's my obligatory duty apart from a natural one,
Her I shall make proud along with my father, not just once but always.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 4:33 AM UTC
Inward apathy is not
to be confused with
sociopathic credence.
It's a blade held to the throat
of the man that wields it.
Never would the cold steel touch
the person who thinks of suicide
as cowardice, but believes bravery
to be disillusionment in the form
of medication, or speaking up and out
offering solutions to problems
that they do not know the variables
that come along with it.
How many teeth make up a smile?
How many lines form a frown?
If lines are infinite,
what does that tell you about
an expression that is countered by
obligatory inquisitive ambivalence.
Shoulders are for tears.
Spines are for intrepidness.
Skin is layered; tough and thick
no matter benevolent or malevolent,
a person's love is misconstrued
as skin deep, albeit it is formed
between synapses.
It's a spark, a fire, the intuition
to never say goodbye
and ignore accountability.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
Buckled at the knees, face in the dirt,
one can only pray for enlightenment, but
at a time when morality is valued by
silver and gold,
a baton twirled
is mightier than the sword dipped in ink
and sprawled across ancient parchment.
Men march in unison, into foreign lands,
while chanting words of a dead language:
Democratia Sit Virtus
Flag inserted into the land, the
obligatory explanation is written
on paper, covered with black marks, in soot.
Erupt in glory, a city once was.
Redacted sentences are had for
good reason:
to keep characters in the dark.
Transparency is only a concept that
belongs on the back of a bookmark.
Dust covers
clouds and envelopes the sky,
as dark and as black as superstition.
We speak with symbols, because subliminal
advertising becomes cogitative rather than
entering one ear and leaving the other.
What belongs in the border is bold, as we
marginalize open space, although the occasional
proverbial foot will cross the line. A slash of the
throat will tell you that all eyes are dotted,
just as some lines are crossed.
Like an olive branch exposed as thorns.
A proper medium is exploiting
vulnerability under rule.
Hot air is expelled when converting oxygen,
or exclaiming honesty and integrity;
lest we forget land comes from sea.
It is in their nature; our nature to build
roots underground.
Better to keep intricacies hidden.
Never is an iceberg fully exposed.
A brain.
The Temple.
Certainly a vault.
What you keep from the people
is for the people.
And common ground is neither
left nor right,
despite what you've been made
to believe.
It's about the courage
to think before you speak.
It's the courage it takes
to gather strength and
beseech the weak.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 9:34 AM UTC
The song on the radio when you took
Your last suitcase out of my life
Was not poetically fitting
But still hurts all the same
You didn't give one last look back
But that doesn't mean I forgot your eyes
The last conversation didn't end well
But I remember your smile
You didn't leave on Valentine's Day
Your birthday, my birthday,
Or our anniversary
But that doesn't mean I won't cry next year
We never said forever
But I didn't mean so soon
I didn't change the locks
When I gave you space
I still draw your scars in my sleep
And wipe your tears from your cheeks during day dreams
But don't come back
I couldn't handle that
Don't text me at three in the morning
With whatever he won't do for you
I don't care how much tequila you've had
My heart is off limits
Your self esteem
Is no longer my responsibility
Civility not obligatory
I don't have quarters for your meter
And I am not happy for you
So don't come back
I couldn't handle disappointing you twice
We never had a song to dance to
Never lit a candle during ***
You weren't a long walks kind of girl
I'm not a mosh pit kind of guy
Poetry did not float your boat
And sailing is most definitely not the motion in my ocean
But none of that made sense until just now
We were a twister through a trailer park
A fire in the City of Bridges
Bullets in a slaughter house
Made lovers jealous
And parents regret
Built our foundation on sand
And said **** you to the ocean
Surfed tsunamis
And skied avalanches
And none of that seemed dangerous
Until just now
We complimented each other with insults
Threw stones in glass houses
Sang praises off key
Called it love
Smiled through an earthquake
Called it an ******
Talked through the silence
And called it fate
Which made sense until just now
When I said 'us' out loud
Held 'we' in my hands
And made what we were out of clay
Fired it in the kiln and had nothing come out
Which all makes sense, now
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 9:25 PM UTC
my shy, hesitant frame was first taken to obligatory ballet lessons when it was only 5 years old
the pale pink clinging leotards and scuffed leather slippers decorated with neat string bows would always outweigh the strain of my mothers scraping nails against my scalp in order to achieve the perfect ballerina bun seconds before each and every lesson in the vastly daunting and vacant room
where our innocent and wide-eyed little selves were our sole company in the face of the towering glass pane staring straight back at us
the sheen of the never-ending polished pole stretched right across the middle
and we strained to try and make ourselves grow taller than each other
to look like real dancers practising their pliés for hours upon hours
and I made my small body bear the unbearable
the strung out aching the myriad of assorted stretches lit in my weak limbs as I tried to train my fingers to kiss my tippy toes
like a desperate attempt at mimicking the distance between fingertips in The Creation of Adam
always almost within reach
but never meeting
soon enough the pink and the pretty and the pleasing image this form of dance appeared to me to be was no longer enough
and the sparkles and sequins and garish glitter costumes began to fade along with reflecting rainbow coloured stage lights and 4 years worth of overpriced Academy Lessons and Exams
I guess I gave up on touching my toes
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
I was going to write a poem
about the distance
I walk
girls to their cars.
You know, to the door?
down the stairs to the front porch?
out to the first step for that last, awkward hug?
do I really like them?
Am I concerned for their safety
or is this just
the obligatory,
socially and culturally
acceptable
distance for me to walk with this particular individual?
Did I even get out of bed?
Is the distance I walk directly proportional to the amount of feelings I have for that person at that time?
Or does time of day or night play into it?
Do I actually walk them
all the way
down the hill
to where they are allowed to park,
if they are a one nighter but it is 3 a.m.?
Or perhaps to the end of my lawn,
at the opening of my small,
rickety,
barely noticed
fence,
which keeps nothing in or out,
to hold them so tight that they know,
they just know
with every molecule in their essence
that I am theirs,
all of me,
and that I do not want them
to leave
but if they must,
I shall be waiting
eagerly
with every molecule of my essence
to breathe them in again,
to feel them near me again,
to smell their sweat again?
I was going to write about that.
But then I thought,
why not write about your plants?
I realized the other day,
while watering my various plants,
six in total,
that all of them had been given to me.
They were all gifts.
By women.
My dear mother,
both of my beautiful sisters,
two rotten ex-girlfriends of mine,
and a kickass lesbian friend
I met through somebody
that got walked to the front porch.
Surely
there must be a poem
in there somewhere, I thought.
With all the females
and the ***
and the plants
and soil
and life
and all that other ********
surely
I must be able
to conjure up
something beautiful,
something wonderful
and profound
and bewildering
and inspiring
and all that other ********
but sadly for you
dear reader,
all I could come up with
was this piece of ****
you just read.
The good thing is,
I didn't write this for you.
I wrote this for me.
I have to.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
the view
stands beneath
the carousel efforts
to blast through
impregnancy aBLOOM!!!!
(w)ith feral legacies
aligned intimately ornately
posthumous adulterer
awakens in need
of
****** corrective agency
towards Fenitbow
and Glightrovee ab-surd as
qua as qua
asqua aqua qua
a^s is trite melody infer[no]
t a x i yellowing each pavement
by truth in yo ' fa ' ' lo ((lo))
i by horns and turns
in plyable waves arrest
what justice juices
freel_y
obligatory
antecedent
quai noyh thlume
ye
HEaVY
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 6:17 AM UTC