"outlived" poems
Seduced by clichés of love,
We signed on for wedding doves,
Being at those wedding receptions,
All clichés of norms' conventions,
Having a cream puff wedding day,
An expensive way of getting laid,
All clichés for the bridal industry,
Trite cant, and hypocrisy,
BUT--the appliances outlived everyone!!
Wedding gifts when once were young,
On film noir weddings I ponder on,
As these golden years I wander from,
All that phony hypocrisy,
Cliches and norms of society,
D.I.V.O.R.C.E.
(Who didn't hate going to the in-laws for tea?)
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 10:23 PM UTC
Hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
Lies a stone.
And as I sit, drinking a gin and tonic
Looking over the spent plates
where crusty bread
fried calamari, which is a fancy word for squid,
and two Oysters Rockefeller
sat
until recently consumed by two parents
both in that awkward state of freedom
and longing
when their child is at camp,
out past the ducks on granite rocks
puffing themselves up
flapping their wings
towards afternoon sun on Winnipesaukee
my thoughts and eyes are drawn back
to the wheel of stone
leaning against the rotting wall of railroad ties
covered in a remoulade of Honeysuckle
Rose of Sharon
and other viney things
that are unidentifiable to me.
It has been painted during its time
but the paint is faded and chipped
and the feeling is that the stone
has outlived the painter.
Yet I do wonder.
What was its job 50, 100, 200
years ago?
Was it in a mill?
Did it lie flat, grinding?
Did it roll, upright, crushing things?
What else did they use round stones for?
Is this what retirement for a working stone is?
Cast to the side,
forgotten
hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
in an alley next to a waterside Wolfboro restaurant
where parents sit
Looking at Winnipesaukee
over spent plates of bread, squid and Oysters Rockefeller
thinking of a child at camp.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
It made scallops on my shirt, dried like salt
in seashells —
the final appearance of our love.
I
could have mourned it
as if it were more than the possibility of life
disguised by a million tadpoles. A whole
day, it took him to get home
it may be even more
miles than my body fluids travel in a week.
His, still on my shirt. Hits my knees
(always the knees, have built oceans on them)
He thinks he left, but it was I
who cleaned sand castles from all my crevices
he thinks he left, he
the snail
I have
caught up in years of needing to be ******
He thought he left, but white beaches
are still in my dresser —
it is what remains.
I am so tempted to say, "your *** outlived you"
but it would not be the
first time his **** did the work for him.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
I heard a woman singing in the car,
about being reborn as a peacock for Krishna
so that she could sit in beautiful penance for him.
While watching whizzing morning work trucks,
and beat-up corollas and motion blur,
I thought of you in the stillness of sleep.
If I were to be reborn I'd like to be a bird as well
so that I could provide the down in your pillow,
and be cushion to your carousel crown
But then I would be lonely when you go to work.
If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your sunglasses,
so that I could protect your squinting eyes,
and live by your lushest lashes.
But then you'd lock me away in a case, and I won't be able to see you.
If I were to be reborn, I'd be a bracelet made of magic beads,
so that I could promise health around your often pained wrists,
and fix the freedom in your fiery fingers.
But then you'll probably lose me, or unstring me accidentally with time.
If I were to be reborn, I'd like to be your favorite puppy,
so that I could pacify your inner turmoils.
and be held by your human hands.
But then you'll possibly outlive me, and I wish to watch you grow.
If I were to be reborn, I'd be lonely, locked away, left, lost, and outlived-
so I'd rather stay in this life with all of my privileges
of providing, protecting, promising and pacifying
as your lucky lover.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
[Being an humble address to Her Majesty's Naval advisers, who sold Nelson's old flagship to the Germans for a thousand pounds.]
WHO says the Nation's purse is lean,
Who fears for claim or bond or debt,
When all the glories that have been
Are scheduled as a cash asset?
If times are bleak and trade is slack,
If coal and cotton fail at last,
We've something left to barter yet--
Our glorious past.
There's many a crypt in which lies hid
The dust of statesman or of king;
There's Shakespeare's home to raise a bid,
And Milton's house its price would bring.
What for the sword that Cromwell drew?
What for Prince Edward's coat of mail?
What for our Saxon Alfred's tomb?
They're all for sale!
And stone and marble may be sold
Which serve no present daily need;
There's Edward's Windsor, labelled old,
And Wolsey's palace, guaranteed.
St. Clement Danes and fifty fanes,
The Tower and the Temple grounds;
How much for these? Just price them, please,
In British pounds.
You hucksters, have you still to learn,
The things which money will not buy?
Can you not read that, cold and stern
As we may be, there still does lie
Deep in our hearts a hungry love
For what concerns our island story?
We sell our work -- perchance our lives,
But not our glory.
Go barter to the knacker's yard
The steed that has outlived its time!
Send hungry to the pauper ward
The man who served you in his prime!
But when you touch the Nation's store,
Be broad your mind and tight your grip.
Take heed! And bring us back once more
Our Nelson's ship.
And if no mooring can be found
In all our harbours near or far,
Then tow the old three-decker round
To where the deep-sea soundings are;
There, with her pennon flying clear,
And with her ensign lashed peak high,
Sink her a thousand fathoms sheer.
There let her lie!
3.2k
I have outlived suffering,
I have endured pain.
I have gently walked
thru fire and rain.
I have swallowed anger,
I have eaten sin.
I have bled
and lost what lies within.
I have surpassed doubt,
I have suppressed blame.
I have taken stock
of what remains.
I have absorbed sadness,
I have taken loss.
I have appraised the damage
and paid the cost.
I have been loveless,
I have been true.
I will never
be beaten by you.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 2:40 AM UTC
You wake me up
Yelling and screaming
Clawing scratching
Demanding satisfaction
So stubborn full of your own desires
Pull me from slumber by the roots of my hair
Searching frantically for the fix you cannot find
Violence is the sign of a true addict
Cursing and blaspheming you tear into my skin
Failing to find it you resort to torture
Once I relent you greedily ****** up your coveted prize
Leave me
My usefulness has been outlived
Your claim to it is only that it is yours
Never thinking of the risks or problems it brings
So addicted you can't survive a day without it
Constantly craving
You forget the world
Come back to the living it isn't too late
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 1:22 PM UTC
!!!
**Dreamt
a dream with childish eyes,
Burnt in the belly the flame of patriotic fire,
Decided to become a soldier and dedicate my love to my land.
The promise I made,
I cherished, I fulfilled.
Imparted soldiers duty filled with passion,
For my motherland,
My heart was filled with proud and patriotism,
Promise to die for my motherland held above all.
Today proudly,
I am enfolded in tricolor of my country..
For my last journey,
For my final abode.
Dream outlived me.
I will be born again to serve my motherland.
**
Sparkle In Wisdom
27 Feb 2019
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 3:48 AM UTC
Keats was twenty-four
when he wrote, "To Autumn"
then he died of tuberculosis
when he was twenty-five.
I will be twenty
in twenty-six days.
In one thousand,
eight hundred,
and fifty-two days,
I will have outlived Keats' age.
so it is then,
that I will decide,
if I am a
has-been or never-was
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
I feel excluded
From everything
From the jokes
To the pains of my “friends”
I feel excluded
Because they don’t talk to me
My friends keep their pain
Why don’t they talk to me?
Didn’t they used to?
I feel excluded
Because they’ll make jokes
And laugh
But they ignore me
Muscle me out of the circles
Did I do something wrong?
Have I outlived my use?
Have I just imposed
This whole time?
I feel excluded
But maybe
Just maybe
I was never included at all
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 12:54 PM UTC
341
After great pain, a formal feeling comes—
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs—
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round—
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought—
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone—
This is the Hour of Lead—
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow—
First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go—
2.9k
My coworker speaks in idioms,
he says he's true blue, I say, yeah,
like red and white and wayward too.
People like that are a dime a dozen:
cheap, until outlived: a legend in his own mind,
always drawing out to kids.
When I speak to him, I hear his thunder,
Come again? Speak up sister! His reaction -
like a flash in a pan, because, because,
I could not listen, as the story goes, any bit - faster.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
I remember it
all too well
her tears were there
and she was unfixable
at 2 a.m., she was
taken for granted
and she thought
how sure it was she'd be outlived
I remember her
voice cracked, raw
as she said
I can't
and I can see it now
those doe eyes filled my vision
and tears swam round her lashes
so tired of crying
I remember it
I can feel it in my bones
how the air grew hotter
between spaces when no one spoke
but most of all
I remember me
speechless and dazed
filled with sorrow
my words were nothing
against her pain
she was still screaming
when I said to her
softly as I could
don't give up on yourself
for we both know
it isn't fair to you
stay away from your razors tonight.
look me in the eyes
you are so loved, and by so many
memories may fade
but flashbacks are forever
coming back
haunting my nightmares
refusing to die.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Transported
by the waves of sound
so transcendentally human
I am swallowed, surrounded
The basses are an ocean swell
the tenors, a hull of solid oak.
We stand upon the altos’ sturdy deck,
gaze upwards at soprano sails
swollen with song
What strange creatures we,
to join and mingle so
to vanish in the whole.
This ritual enacted
for this God, or that
has outlived immortals and still
floods with lifeblood
Anu, Enlil, Enki, Baal,
dived divinely
in the sea of song
and vanished.
Forgotten gods adrift
in harmony, in melody
And while I wish
all gods forgotten
I would abase myself
before Jehovah’s golden toes
to be a part
of this eternal choir.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
We being so hidden from those who
Have quietly borne and fed us,
How can we answer civilly
Their innocent invitations?
How can we say "we see you
As but-for-God's-grace-ourselves, as
Our caricatures (we yours), with
Time's telescope between us"?
How can we say "you presumed on
The accident of kinship,
Assumed our friendship coatlike,
Not as a badge one fights for"?
How say "and you remembered
The sins of our outlived selves and
Your own forgiveness, buried
The hatchet to slow music;
Shared money but not your secrets;
Will leave as your final legacy
A box double-locked by the spider
Packed with your unsolved problems"?
How say all this without capitals,
Italics, anger or pathos,
To those who have seen from the womb come
Enemies? How not say it?
2k
There is nothing so constant as
a dirt road in Nebraska,
beyond where the pavement ends.
This timeline beneath my feet
Crunches on and on,
Further than even I know.
This methodical sound of time passing,
Echoes off the fields of an ancient prairie
so superior to its cousin, the **** carpet
of my grandma’s house where
I would hide all my coal-colored jellybeans,
Pretending they were herds of cattle, grazing
Along dirt roads, such as this—
My venerable trail of rock,
Stretching out as far as time perfected.
A trail of ceaseless rock
Worn down by the years of
feet stomping to the memories
of the house, and the jellybeans, and the grandma,
all outlived by a dirt road that reminds me
for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
H ow is it possible to have so much hate
A midst all of those that I’m ordered to love.
T orn by the need to stay here and fight-
R eeling from weakness I thought I’d outlived,
E dging towards a fall I must stop, I’m
D odging the arrows, to keep keeping on.
F rightened that I’m not as young or as smart,
O lder than I ought to be at my age, I’m
R emembering when I wielded weapons of youth.
M y armies of wit were were invincible then,
Y et now only shadows of warriors past.
E nemies bumping the sore spots they caused me, with
N ever a thought or respect for my toil, I
E nvy their callous neglect of my pain and
M emorize odes to the loathing I feel.
I light bonfires of hatred and hope not to get burned
E scaping through tunnels of madness and fear into
S afer environs where I can breathe free.
ljm
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
An old green motel chair
sits on a flagstone porch
overlooking a lake
and a gap in the mountains
the center of which frames
another peak.
The chair has outlived
three generations
of my family
who are drawn here
to this spot
in West Virginia
where a mountain is reflected,
mirrored in fact,
in the lake
created by my great-grandfather
for that very purpose.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
my wedding photo hints of some foul play
of death, destruction lurking, looming 'round
as four have cracked or burrowed under ground
while two remain who yet have lived to stay
for two by two the years have counted them
who've left this picture someone has condemned
and neither they nor evil can be found
from left to clockwise tragedy has struck
this picture taken in 2004
a blissful wedding day with bliss in store
has seen no bliss yet only jet black luck
for two years is the pattern found within
as if installments paid for unknown sin
and two by two the years have taken more
2006 my brother passed too soon
at thirty this was not his time to go
from one disease a cure does not yet know
and from his loss we still are not immune
as one by one his organs fell asleep
until he too slipped through, we couldn't keep
and he was just a prelude to this show
2008 my grandpa, ninety-five
had lived a healthy, fruitful fulfilled life,
outlived even his loving doting wife
by eight years more the man remained alive
for two years of his grandson was berieved
whose name he often spoke of as he grieved
an old man overwhelmed with burdened strife
2010 the blissful pair had split
whose wedding day this picture to us bore
after six years her joy had been no more
explaining that my throne no longer fit
for i'd become a burden to her cause
and cut off, bleeding freely without gauze
i cannot find the life i had before
2012 my father's heart had failed,
in April he was saved but for a spell
until in May his heart one last time fell
despite all of our efforts as we railed
and as it were, a grandson he'd not see
a son of my wife's flesh enjoined to me
now how this pattern plays i cannot tell
the back row in the picture's marred complete
the front row bears the two that now remain
this pattern of two years i can't explain
but if continues more will see defeat
the clockwise movement left to right is done
now right to left the foreground move will run
2014 promises new stain
the next in line, my mother in two years
and two years after her my aunt is left
then i will be of everyone bereft
an orphan, fate fulfilling all my fears
by this 2016 none may laugh
but one, this silent chilling photograph
completing all my family's great theft
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
The survivor,
Outlived the dinosaurs,
Pathetic creatures running from the sun,
We stayed safe in our wetland,
Feeling pretty clever, pretty grand.
We terrify,
Our teeth are sharp,
But we swim as smooth and silent as a harp,
I'm smiling,
Smiling at you.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 6:04 AM UTC
Red lips curl watching Earl Grey unfold in clouds inside a cup
and brown eyes flicker over long fingers folded around porcelain.
She is a carefully written poem on ivory paper, royal blue
ink blooming on a page, kissed and tied with a ribbon.
She is a timeless woman, inhabiting a thousand eras.
Her sharp eyes have outlived the courts of many kings,
have seen revolutions unfold and succeed and be shattered;
she has watched fights started over her in warm saloons and
soapboxed revolution on Boston Common, smiling dangerously.
She is the brightest of all muses.
He is in his element, shining bright with eyes like starlight,
a compliment to the beauty he saw first of everyone.
I feel a soft adoration for what she is to him, and think how
that, really, is poetry.
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 3:23 PM UTC
*I trekked across the icy shores of Alaska and survived with Gary Paulsen and his dogs
I went on many cross-country road trips, hitchhiking, train riding, and drinking with Jack Kerouac
I shot up ****** and did some time in Interzone with William S Burroughs
I dropped acid and read poetry with Jim Morrison
I murdered a girl and committed suicide with J.R. Hayes
I insulted everyone I knew with Jay Randall and laughed about it afterwards
I meditated high up in the mountaintops with Gary Snyder
I suffered New Orleans police brutality and withdrawal with Mike Williams
I drank, worked, gambled, ****** myself with Charles Bukowski
I admired the beauty of nature and God as self with Walt Whitman
I admired the beauty and balance of nature and city life with Henry David Thoreau
I wandered the desert landscape and sabotaged those that would harm the Earth with Edward Abbey
I painted a world of pictures out of words with e.e. cummings
I loved like no one has ever been loved in this wretched world with Pablo Neruda
I outlived macabre and twisted tales from the mind of Edgar Allan Poe
I spent a few months in France with the cryptic mind of Charles Baudelaire
I drank and wrote nature literature from animal perspectives with Jack London
I lived the songs that Tom Waits wrote
I went insane with Sparrow in New York
I found myself traveling on a Tour Of Homes, reciting ‘Talk Music’ with Dan Smith
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness” with Allen Ginsberg*
When all was said and done and every word wrote three times or more
I disappeared into the oncoming onslaught of midnight's dreary dreams
Like so many forgotten poets, writers, and orators
Who’s words have faded with the oblivion of time
Only to be remembered by a select few from here and there
That have chosen to remember, to write, to read, to never forget
Which are you and where do you come from?
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 9:26 AM UTC
An old man cries in a home
Bleeding all alone
Young plays in the woods
There'll be no dawn
A monster hides inside a man
Whispering for a lost cause
Beauty lay dead and cold
Covered by the moss
Sin looks for ugly
Creed Is his greed
A saint preaches words
And words breed
An army of cold eyes
Marching on every night
Breaking every wall
That stands against its might
An island engulfed in flames
Oh , water so nigh
Tears lost to an ocean
Can't even cry
No bird without wings
Dosent matter if one can fly
You can fly in your dreams
Dosent meant you can fly
And kiss goodbye
All hope is lost
And now it's time to die
Without a fight
Only the forgotten tries
A home broken and ruined
By the years and cold
Outlived the ones who lived
And lost its soul
Dragons fly in yesterday's
Tommorow is for man
Stories written and lost
Stories he didn't understand
History is a mystery
Not knowing a misery
Hidden but still free
Beauty is so ugly
And ugly so faithful
Better friend than foe
Young is so fast
And the old so slow
But where did the young go
Without a direction he runs
Old sits back and enjoys
The warmth of the fading sun
And can guns Destroy
If its not for the man
Man in ocean , man on moon
There isn't a place where he didn't stand
And whisper his hatred
While holding a gun naked
And ghosts hoot for the mother earth
In a hope she'll make it
But stranger knows she's already dead
God knows 'cause he's in his head
Animals can't know for they're too bored
But science knows she's not dead but just unwell
From a bad disease
Called human specie
And when he's destroyed
She can re-grow freely
And the old sings the songs
Few words for his legacy
About the green and old mountains
That the young did not see
They left nothing for the young
Now that the old songs been sung
Lets all get numb and dumb
And **** for fun
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC