"onslaughts" poems
Technology wasted on greed and vanity,
Immersed in the web of a fictional reality,
A window to a soul that doesn't exist,
Verbal onslaughts now more powerful than fists,
Modern communications are eerily silent,
Tip, tap, tip tap, can topple a tyrant,
Tunnel vision fixated on the glowing rectangles,
Blue light so bright the mind it mangles,
Hunting for the red hearts of communal acceptane,
If not enough is found on comes a flood of repentance.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 8:53 AM UTC
onslaughts of parasitic butterflies devour her liver each eve
sparing just enough to grow back the next day
her night clothes are torn under razor beaks
then mended each morning by the nimble-fingered Narcissi
who do not lament her predicament,
but sing mellow little tunes in C minor,
a statement: there is no latent compassion for Pandora
nor for her descendants in Greece or in Rome.
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 3:49 PM UTC
and they walked on like clouds float on
the blood red sun on rivers run
waterfalls you see flow one way
and molds don't notice what they decay
a quiet drum to quell those flashes
canvas white for bold stroked splashes
pointedly naming because of growth grown
awake again because of what my mind knows
bearing what brunt? this is the purpose
in the thicket noises form onslaughts
planting bones to grow dreams lost
and these eyes are sharper now
cutting through balloons in air
I want to hope for old eyes, as if growth was easy
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Is this all the product of an unfortunate twist of fate, in which the people of this world know nothing of love?
A percussion of voices in my head act like a monstrous orchestra oscillating through my being without witness
While unmasked feelings flare like wild fires
Instigated only ever so slightly by ravishing winds
Never extinguished, never challenged when faced with onslaughts of violent rains
Forever adapting like the gorgeous shimmering void of unparalleled certainty
Can we ever truly grasp the concept of love?
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
.
Rain falls shooting the grounds.
In walks avoiding the schrapnel pits
Bleeding, over spilling, as they swell
Memories play to the mute bitterness
Of far cold, how we went wrong, bled
At arms, burned within salted wound
Of dishonest rush, assault of friendly
Fires as die smouldered out of smoke,
Taint of grace flew into a cauldron dark
A cross of red was only suture to veins
Ripped in the onslaughts and love was
Our only casualty. We were lost, never
To reach the shining wins of conquered
Spoils, never to bed with timeless downs
Of lovers on leave, we now just soldier on,
To walk with rains, in campaign of sorrows.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
I watch you from the window of the deepest part of my mind
As I attempt to feel the depths of your soul
Oftentimes I wonder about the feelings that rush through
Do they belong to me of if they are part of you
A thrill, a quick rush of excitement, courses through my veins
One of the two of us, is having a lovely day
An oncoming sense of dread, foreboding in my head
Trouble, is coming for one of us straight away
It is so hard for me to explain, these onslaughts of emotion
Other than to chalk it off to being knowing
Please do not think that I, am sifting through your psyche
I am just a sensitive soul, who knows where she is going
One would think you’d find it nice, to have a friend so in tune
With your shifting moods, as they come and go
So do not take offense when I rifle through your soul
As your feelings, are all I wish to know
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 7:07 AM UTC
Drops drum against my window,
And trickle onto the page,
They long for my attention,
For me to put grey skies,
Fine mist and moody tears,
Into yet another poem.
But who am I to argue?
The gods are drumming on my window,
They're asking me to notice,
And I have,
So I must,
As down the valley summer flowers,
Are battered by the sky,
Force-fed vital water,
In bursts and steady onslaughts,
Until the ground can take no more,
And the Earth cries out:
Stop
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
"Go home" they say
Where is home supposed to be,
When the place you were raised
Was torn down by the devil's hands themselves
The walls dripped with crimson memories,
Stronger than any IV provided in dingy hospitals
Home is fantasized as a comfort
A place to shield yourself from the daily onslaughts
I've become well acquainted with the back of cars
And random beds
"Home is where the heart is"
Well, my heart is set on state-hopping
And on the morphine provided by your luxury
If there's any place I want to stay,
It would be far from you
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
perhaps you don't remember
those sempiternal moments
the ones that stalk our mind
perhaps you don't really care
who we were in our past
these sacred relics of our days
the remnants of desire—
now dissolved to naught
the onslaughts of memories
the plethoras of your smile
the wandering apparitions
of our time—
returns to haunt us now
breathing lies into our ear
pleading for sanctuary and yet
we deny them access;
encasing hearts in cement mix
and eyes behind cold steel
with a frantic brush of
tangled fingertips we
bid final farewell—
now even smiles from photographs
mock us with their twisted lips
- - -
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 9:32 AM UTC
As the impact begins to settle,
As my life deviates,
Realizations set in.
A sense of clarity and desperation.
Past onslaughts of wars long believed to be won,
Begin to bridge.
I am triumphant over assaults,
But the true victor has yet to be crowned.
I must continue my weary, burdensome stride.
As long as I breathe I will challenge the assault.
As long as my heart beats I will resist the barrage.
I will not surrender to the hellion.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Play mae, auld moorlan wise,
Wi' thy martial Steel Lyre,
The enraged Sound of the Thunder,
While ah shall be, again,
In nae unworthy mare,
Wi' Targe Shield and Dagger,
Rising nae fellow-mortal,
Amid thoosan deadly onslaughts,
Ironclad frae the Fire!
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 3:36 AM UTC
THERE WIL BE BAGELS!
<>
New York style, very large,
with burnished, glazed-ed crust,
almost meaty, a meal nearly self~
sufficient, with grapes of creamed
cheese, Scottish salmon, a repast that
states, that the week begins well, that
thus nourished, we are stronger, fortified
to face the onslaughts of life moderne,
our enslavement to the endless news
recycled cycle that flourishes and face
whips us with shades of disaster in mirrors
that will never cease to query us if this is truly:
our appearance
our best selves
our self~doubts,
refuse scars of
prior battles
my cafe porcelain mug of 19 oz. washes
away my unshaven grimaced grime of
mine mind, and I sally forth renewed,
meaty, slightly burnished, with a glazed
protective patina of a hardy New Yorker
who chews, spits out the chaff of noises
that serve only to efface my native rights to
optimism
May 12, 2024
May 12, 2024 at 9:29 AM UTC
In the year 1332, at auld Dupplin Moor,
Wi' a shimmering Dagger of War,
Ah pierced the Looking Glass,
And amid so wild a Fire Mass,
Ironclad and devastating,
Mine awn Wraith cam.
Owre He beheld me!
His Claymore gleaming, unsheathed,
Into a darkness no one could see,
Ghaist, I winna yield to thee!
Across yon shield wa, quo' He,
In tyme of war ah threw myself,
Wi' gilded Targe and unforgiving Fury,
High flames falling athwart my iron wame,
While thoosan times boiling wapin fell
O'er that clan of skellums (Wundor Sceawian!)
Frae the white barbican, before the black well,
While thoosan times rising nae fellow-mortal
Amid thoosan deadly onslaughts
Ironclad frae the Fire;
But now man, to my warlike whisper do listen:
Ere the rust, in robes of Time,
Shall curse thy blade,
Airn fist ye maun ay wear,
To hold the Firestorm,
To avenge yon star shining still,
And auld Duntulm's stane,
Sae ah shall be strolling forth
In battle ahead of thee!
And when before Dirleton's Wa,
Wi' Colour of Hell reddening,
And next to auld South Ruin,
Yell warlike, enraged Wha Daur!
To thy enemies, and to thy consumed flesh
Doomed I say no longer
Within a forerunning Shade of Death;
And now advance! thy lane, and faithfu'
To thy auld Emblem of Steel,
Whar moorlan winds gaed,
Whar Immortality gleamingly dwells.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 3:40 AM UTC
I walk the ether on shattered remnant souls
where upon each beleaguered treading are
the voices that speak,
*pulverized
beyond
contemplation,*
echoes of many mingle upon the reflections.
Abstaining from touching with my vocalization,
fearful onslaughts eager to venture upon me.
"I stay silent,
Inhibited by their yearning to be me, but they
are but only remnants of a principle that was
burrowed upon they were a field of sorrows
now ploughed into oblivion. Seeding this ether
with spores of disillusion that will slowly grow
darker as they flourish upon others torments.
This is a place where no soul should venture by
own wandering, or enticed by the remnant voices
of others once vacant and known.
"They are a harvest of remnant souls,
"To whom they be fed upon, hope we never know...
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
*I stand
amongst the scorching desert storm
eyes rising above the mist
of rock and sand
I lookout
seeing a mire
of improbable outcomes
lives lead that need
things answered
to be achieved.
the sand lashes
against my skin
ripping at bits
of sunken flesh.
Old scars, pulled apart
by new onslaughts.
I see
through the turmoil
a haven that could be mine
it glimpses;
and I stumble
weak eyes only seeing
the howling wind
and gasping dirt.
So I crawl
hand and knees
and foot over elbow
ceaselessly grappling
for the haven of success*
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
Rain falls shooting the grounds.
In walks avoiding the schrapnel pits
Bleeding, over spilling, as they swell
Memories play to the mute bitterness
Of far cold, how we went wrong, bled
At arms, burned within salted wound
Of dishonest rush, assault of friendly
Fires as die smouldered out of smoke,
Taint of grace flew into a cauldron dark
A cross of red was only suture to veins
Ripped in the onslaughts and love was
Our only casualty. We were lost, never
To reach the shining wins of conquered
Spoils, never to bed with timeless downs
Of lovers on leave, we now just soldier on,
To walk with rains, in campaign of sorrows.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
.
Rain falls shooting the grounds.
In walks avoiding the schrapnel pits
Bleeding, over spilling, as they swell
Memories play to the mute bitterness
Of far cold, how we went wrong, bled
At arms, burned within salted wound
Of dishonest rush, assault of friendly
Fires as die smouldered out of smoke,
Taint of grace flew into a cauldron dark
A cross of red was only suture to veins
Ripped in the onslaughts and love was
Our only casualty. We were lost, never
To reach the shining wins of conquered
Spoils, never to bed with timeless downs
Of lovers on leave, we now just soldier on,
To walk with rains, in campaign of sorrows.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 5:22 PM UTC
i aspire to be a kaleidoscope, a useless commodity,
many bits and pieces merged together harmoniously.
the vessel holds sturdy, regardless of my peccant deeds
to have you glance inside of me, observe all of my colors bleed.
see easily my artistry, view the roots surround my arteries
painted with every color of the palette of sublimity,
forming iridescent trees of immaculate coruscation,
appraising the vestige of my aberrant nature.
everything i will ever be is dripping down like watercolour,
pastels falling off the page and landing on another surface.
i beseech your ardor and tendency to be besotted, but
omit your yearning to examine my detachment.
i am corroding under your duplicity, sinking in your inertia
drowning in your astringent disorder of ignoring my existence.
you attempt to dissimulate the deterioration of your artifice
and ruminate the feasible consequences of mild adulation.
what do you envisage as you imbibe from the silky waters
of my fluid emotions, and my convoluted pantomimes?
my enigmatic essence is slowly decomposing and
hovering intermittently in detrimental cessation.
you constantly contravene with the archfiend within yourself
and wage onslaughts in your mind on your impertinent abstractions.
and i am afraid it is interminable, but i will still hold dear my
sanguine complexions and continue to hope for auspice.
you articulate your pronouncements with ease, and implore
that your austere endeavors are deeply earnest, but
the significance of that word unravels on your tongue,
and is meaningless, turning to ash in your mouth.
i supplicate for waves of benevolence, ardent winds and
ingenuous conversations. anchor me, or disengage.
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 9:03 AM UTC
*Old scars
pulled apart by new onslaughts.*
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
*Rain falls shooting the grounds.
In walks avoiding the schrapnel pits
Bleeding, over spilling, as they swell
Memories play to the mute bitterness
Of far cold, how we went wrong, bled
At arms, burned within salted wound
Of dishonest rush, assault of friendly
Fires as die smouldered out of smoke,
Taint of grace flew into a cauldron dark
A cross of red was only suture to veins
Ripped in the onslaughts and love was
Our only casualty. We were lost, never
To reach the shining wins of conquered
Spoils, never to bed with timeless downs
Of lovers on leave, we now just soldier on,
To walk with rains, in campaign of sorrows.*
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
The barbed cycle of abuse
Spins and turns
The perpetrator roams free
No lessons learnt
Constantly escaping
The scales of justice
Fiercely holding its victim
In its angry clutches
Caught in its web
Of control and manipulation
Bound by a billion threads
Powerless under its jurisdiction
Unable to think
Independently
The persecuted victim
Destroyed psychologically
No immunity to fight
The toxic onslaughts
Be they physical, emotional
Or their own Stockholm-syndrome like thoughts
Effectively caged and imprisonned
From systematic debasement
Lacking the self-belief
To fully escape the situation
The abuser in denial
Anything untoward took place
Adopting the ‘victim’ mentality
Now this spider has fallen from grace
Delusional to the hilt
The lies trip from its tongue
The threats pour forth in a torrent
Now it’s victim has tried to run
But the victim begins to falter
The road ahead unclear
Soiled and slippery from the oil slick
The abuser upon it did smear
Sliding backwards
Into the pit of despair
The victim weakens
Descending there
The arms outstretched
To save this poor mite
Not quite strong enough
To wrench the victim out of its plight
Thus the cycle
Engages once more
Spinning and turning
Just as before.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:11 PM UTC
Hence I’m eclipsed in the magnificent indifferent specific specious indecent breeching meaningless exceeding bliss of bombast. My *** is grass, I’ve smoked my last **** and I’m broke so I’m hopeless but riding cloud nine in divine psychotic ****** illustrious lustful insightful divisive incisive mind fuckery. But I’m not talking about *** That’s to be expected from the words I’ve been ejecting, but I’m speaking in terms of the indulgent churning I’m partaking in regularly. To no degree do I need to be cheering, or fearing the ever encroaching approach of a swift and painful death. I’ve been bereft since I was swept out of my hiatus in the ether, and I think I speak much deeper when I’m quiet, but why hide it when I’ve got so little to lose? I’ll just abuse my verbal onslaughts as a way of shaving off some time, cause I went blind a while ago, and seeing truth is burdensome to me, when I just bleed in silence in the mind, and I lack reason to pretend I’m ever fine, because the things I say don’t matter. How could they if I’m lacking any reason, holding onto nought but doubt in this incessant mental clatter. Truly in my mind the voices scream forever, no endeavor to be clever can save me from their decrees of ignorance. Perpetual ambivalence, my only friend, when I’m suspended in the dark.
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 11:56 PM UTC
He stands above the bridged weir,
watching the sunlight striking
the waterfall, where stream joins river,
bright silver spray, subtle spectrum.
Ripples exhaust their energy
on the black glassy surface,
obscuring the waiting menace
pervading his dark imaginings.
He's beyond its reach, sheltered
by artifacts, though exposed
in stillness to ghostly thoughts,
cloaked in ancient folklores' clothes,
savage rites, evil onslaughts.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 10:21 AM UTC