"overgrowing" poems
The windows are dark
Paint is chipping and faded
Life has left its mark
On this old abandoned house
There are whispers in the air
Ghosts of the past
From the people who lived here
In this old abandoned house
The roof is caving in
Allowing rain to sodden the interior
Creaky floors squealing in distress
In this old abandoned house
Shadows wander room to room
Some crying, others silent
Life for them wasn't fair
In this old abandoned house
Ignored within the neighborhood
Weeds overgrowing
Hiding the path
To this old abandoned house
Always in the dark
Shaded by trees of willow
Drooping down to hide
This old abandoned house
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill
So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.
The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.
When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.
A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.
Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.
After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees
Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.
They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.
Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
Kingfisher flits and waits
a small twig on an overgrowing willow
Flash of Blue Stardust Feathers
The stickleback fish the prize
that Kingfisher master of the river
fisher supreme
Those cobalt volcanic flutters
capture the eye of all onlookers
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
a perfect, newly unveiled horizon line
ancient and promising
yet reborn as a newborn
to my industrialized eyes.
I haven’t heard sirens in days.
still, there is the hustle and bustle
of movement everywhere,
but not by people
nor Porsches and Escalades
and their infiltrating thick smog.
no inane chatter
and fake oohing and aahing
over Louis’ and who saw who.
no
here the possessions move
the so-called inorganic
the buildings, doors, and gates
yearning to be free
swaying, creaking
their tiny reins of confinement
too much to bear
for their free spirits.
taking their cue
from trees, plants, vines, leaves
which are overgrowing fences
and clambering over walls
a massive riotous uprising at a glacier-pace
to triumph over the bipeds
imagine the horror of the flora
at a sudden interment to La-La-Land
the hopelessness and oppression
at being trimmed twice a week
mutilated and then slaughtered.
no
they are the secret underground rulers
stubbornly proud but humble tyrants
mercifully loving their lowly subjects
feeling sorry for us
we who have been forced into
this unnatural industrial order
not their beautiful chaos.
and yet...
they lie in wait
patiently, silently
anticipating the day
when we throw up our arms in exasperation and relief
and acquiesce to their dominion
a return to times before times.
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 1:33 PM UTC
You have to trespass to find Nature
Man made wonders overgrowing with moss
Tell me, where did we get lost?
Was it the wars
Was it the politics
The drugs, the guns?
Or was it the money
Greed to rid the world of green
So our pockets can be full of it
Tell me why we pour concrete and call it a park
No such thing as a beautiful tree in a pavement park
Where are the Birds, where are the herds?
I’m sure they went south for the winter,
But this time next year that southern city will be covered in asphalt
Paved over with greed
The green will be gray
The ocean turned black
But my president made his buddies rich
And the soil filled with trash,
The world will start flooding, might as well build another ditch
Dam the **** city, protect the banks
The guidelines are gilded
And there’s no going back.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
Let the rain descend and sacralize the blood-stained earth
Let it veil the martyr's body and wash his mudded face
Let it be destructive, let it collapse the skyscrapers as we rebirth
Let the lighting streak the sky, let the thunder play its music as the winds dance with grace
Dance with me, collide your body with mine, let us become one and let us fight the overgrowing darkness
This is the last fight, the only chance to revive Winter and to create Spring
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
Your careful hands levelled out the budding bloom, and set the staging pots aside the heat of noon, thoughtful timing shifted them from watery sheltered vase to rough garden ensembles, like that you shaped the ravenous growths again and again.
With careful fingers you massaged around the banks, no garden book to guide such terrifying specimens, you could not bring the scythes to taper off the exploding flanks, so you watched from further every night.
And so with time you peer with awe at the new garden features, puzzled by a wilting stem, delighted by a fanning brush, sometimes tracing natures path, other times your gaze will be lost. Your garden bright and overgrowing.
Open the door dear gardener for life has been unleashed, when the toil of daily demands has reached its peaks, remember your creation. Know that all the blooms that cheer the neighbours, would, with your hand - the Nation.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 5:49 PM UTC
a slow slipping into the dark abyss of thinking
such dark wicked thought twists
on the vines overgrowing the living breathing edge of perception
its hard white metal edge baking in ever present sunlight
like wine i am a drunkard of the softest touch
i am a ***** to the sweetest line
master of none...fool for some
its all a memory a moment after it happened
so why am i so glued to the window paine
staring into the brief bright glitter of passing time
staring into the abyss
her eyes slowly scattered across my form
as her words escaping in rapid succession
splatter the cold tile like breadcrumbs for the miserable beast
the trail of which is lewd in my mind like razors
her reservations slip back into her lips past thick gloss
her dire predictions limp hollow into the
heavy thick humid florida air
laughing like a mad mad woman
like a mad mad man
teeth gritted and hands contorted to the form
of the pill bottle long empty
the headache has returned to her lips
spew itself across the dim room
leaving splashes of hand wrought pain
leaving traces of hand carved memories
her tricycle broken and burning
her doll sitting in darkness
she weeps
i sleep
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
Hair disheveled, beard overgrowing,
My eyes squint at anything over-glowing.
With every sip of gin I’m reminded of you,
Am I waking in blue?
Am I the old geezer they all call me?
As folly as finding logic in Lost,
I still don’t know your final cost,
I lie to everyone; say I’m just fine,
They stop asking questions with that line.
They say I’m crazy, or wild, and let me be.
You are not free, as long I’m not;
But you don’t know where or if you are caught
I’ve gotten as good as you at faking it
But maybe you were faking at all.
And I am just failing to see.
Jan 6, 2011
Jan 6, 2011 at 5:38 AM UTC
how do you stop yourself from becoming a living contradiction? what do you do when no one has taught you the proper way to respond to the pain sprouting through cracks and seams and overgrowing the gardens of your mind, suffocating the beautiful because there is simply not enough room, what do you do when you’re trying to swallow the panic bubbling up in your throat? where does that heat come from, that builds in the backs of your eyes like all the hurt you bundled up for safe-keeping because some fights aren’t worth having, even when you can feel your heart breaking, a little at a time? why is the emptiness and the darkness always so much bigger than anything else? when does it stop feeling like a form of torture to leave the house and when does everything stop representing him in small and insignificant ways, every hour, every minute, every second? how do you stop the deep pit from forming in that area of your chest every time you accidentally stumble on a song that holds echoes of him in it’s crevices? echoes that escape like whispers of smoke and riddle holes in you, relentlessly and eternally? how the hell is someone both everywhere and nowhere all at once? when do you stop waking up in cold sweats because you are so achingly alone? where is the pavilion of shelter? when does it stop feeling like a war that you’re only fighting with yourself?
-k.c.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
I have twirled into the arms
of a Prince
with a petal-light touch
holding my hips.
He caresses me to the beat
of the breeze of music
that hammers in my heart:
blood pounding with the thrill
of that first night
soon to come but not yet arrived.
The Prince is a surreal, majestic garden-
cheeks warm with the rosy blush
of youthful blooming buds,
eyes like the dawn cascading
light onto wherever he peers.
He peers at me.
And as he leans in,
with smiling dew-sprinkled lips
like grass on a spring's morning,
I realize his arms are vines.
I realize I am trapped.
The Prince is an overgrown garden,
his rosy cheeks are of alcohol
pumping in his veins.
His body sways to beat the howling wind-
the blaring music-
caressing me to the beat
of his own desires.
My refusal is the deafening bloom
of a sunflower in a field of sunflowers-
unfelt.
His lips are soaking in the liquid
that sloshes in his solo cup,
and churns in my rumbling stomach,
a rain that drowned the crop.
My Prince is not just my prince.
He is the Prince of the countless girls
he has swooned before tonight.
As I stumble in his arms,
I am a mistake waiting to happen.
I am a mistake in a field of mistaken female flowers
being entangled by the vines of self-titled Princes.
Tomorrow, these Princes will say
it is my mistake for not raising my fences
to protect myself from the overgrowing garden
that is stretching around me.
Today, my blood pumps with fear
of my first regretful night that approaches
but has not yet arrived.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 1:28 AM UTC
what a twisted portrait
i now find myself in
a warped frame
broken at its corners
my colors are leaking out
i am free
my frown distorted to my teeth
my bones overgrowing my eyes
my mirth overflows and
fills the room
my candlelight scored
by the apollo of friendship
my twisted portrait
shredded in sum
i am now a positron to
a dipole
my teeth have grown tenfold
and now sit incumbently
outside my own mouth
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
The day innocence disappeared
As life was created down by the sleepy hollow
The days of great sayings
Children bringing up children
We did okay for a time
Sadly maturity does what it always does
Brings new horizons
Sets new goals
We were okay about it
Others weren’t
Maybe they couldn’t see beyond the hill
Time moved on, and the bond was broken
Years later, you found your soulmate
A second child was born
I found out later, a girl
I was leading my life
So in a way, it wasn’t my business
Just made it more final in a way
I agreed you should take full custody
It was the right thing to do
Upset some
But it was always me and you
I passed by the sleepy hollow
Maybe just to understand
It was wild and overgrowing
Pushing further to the road
Someday it would reach beyond the hill
Never looking back
I would be waiting.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
Darlings-
I am a flower overgrowing,
Beautiful for a while, my petals
delicate and a treat to the eye,
but my body is blowing
towards the sky,
and my roots overflowing,
with water and feed that
is too much for me.
Say goodbye my loves,
my skin is leaves, as though it is winter
and I am dying.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
Why do I attach to people so easily
They come into my life
And I latch onto them like a leech
I can't settle these internal cravings
To find the one
That latched back on to me
Yet instead I find myself easily disappointed
Tossed aside like a useless piece of trash
My soul searches
To realize my own worth
Yet I measure it
Based on the actions of those around me
How many time
Will I be tossed away and forgot
Left without a second look
My need for acceptance is forever growing
Yet this love for me is shrinking
And the dislike is overgrowing
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 12:34 PM UTC
overgrowing passion
overlooking thought
impulsive decision
the effects are distraught
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC