"overgrowth" poems
---
I've done some research
On cancer's cause
Western medicine, Dr Oz.
They don't have answers, I'm afraid.
And the cure is in what GOD made.
Cancer's vector? A simple virus.
A parasite and a fungus.
Candida overgrowth.
Radiation. Stress.
We all face this in the West.
So are there answers? Well. Let's see.
Tell me if you don't agree.
Sodas should go down the drain
They have sugar or aspertame.
Sugar feeds cancer. Cut it out!
I KNOW that this will make you pout
But you can find nuts a tasty treat
Find some that you like to eat!
Say NO to coffee. All caffeine.
Eat kale and other leafy greens.
If you want nutrition saved
Cut the cord on your microwave!
They watered plants
with water nuked
They died. Nutrition down the tubes.
So no TV dinners. Processed foods.
No fruits or veggies grown GMOs.
WHEAT is bad! And on it goes.
So it may cost a little more?
Shop your local health food store!
What does it matter?
What's cancer's cost?
And your life will not be lost!
If you tire of reading this
There may be important
things you miss... READ ON!
NATURAL REMEDIES FOR CANCER
Blackstrap molasses. 1 tablespoon
Baking soda. 1 teaspoon
Mix with a glass of water and drink.
(Baking soda should be found at
a health food store)
Blackstrap molasses can also be used
topically for skin cancer.
Tincture of the husk of the
Black walnut nut. 2 drops
Tincture of clove. 2 drops
Tincture of wormwood. 2 drops
Mix in a glass of water and drink. Add lemon and honey.
It'll taste better.
IMPORTANT!
DO NOT USE TAP
OR BOTTLED WATER!
Get distilled water and add
Minerals in liquid form.
Your health food store will have this.
There are many herbs and spices
Which help.
There's iodine in common kelp.
Turmeric
Cucumin
etc.
VERY POWERFUL
Soursop tea. Green tea sans caffeine
Fresh vegetables of the rainbow...
Colors are viamins!
Vitamin supplements
Especially B-17
If you can't find these in your
Health food store ask them to order.
Or go on Amazon and order.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
The sensual curved line on the bed
perfect.
The eyes: burning, red, leaking for reason unknown.
Private room for me and you.
Darkness quenching the need to hide the
lustrous actions ensued.
Accept your fate, useless strumpet, unrivaled *****
Your garden grows quickly out of control.
Weeds in your rose bush, fence weighed down by
inherent overgrowth
of emotion:
fervor, passion.
A kiss.
The last sweetness of
your lips
that will ever be given
or gotten.
Death.
A sweet relief for the world
from you,
Desdemona.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
I woke up heavy
a thousand blank pages on my mind
a million words buried in stunted overgrowth
I woke up heavy
with all the voices in my ear
driving daggers through my heart
My eyelids were steel traps
and between dream and reality
my nightmares were in the shadows
I woke up heavy
My lungs filled with smoke
My stomach was full of red fire
I woke up heavy
and for another day
I wish I hadn't
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
Overcrowded a hollow sound
In the circumference of birdsong
Rising with the Sun
As roosters crow morning
Wake-up calls
There in Cebu / House
Full of family
Pieces of my other me
Feeding many mouths
That overcrowded feeling / not again
A nest that homes
A clutch of poor
Cuckoos
Consuming, so many babies
Paradise islands
Third world poverty
Not so far away
White man and money
A supposed land of milk & honey
Beyond the tundra snow
Bleak / must speak English
The beautiful broken
The overgrowth of crowding
it's called city life
Unlike Manila
Although artifice and hollow
Full of the fragrances
Colored by Birdsong
Oh beautiful life / I am drowning
In the thicknesses of pollutant
Mouths speaking
ill
Humanity misbegotten / Understood
We connect with nuttin'
“nothing is the cure
When nothing was wrong
With you”
Birdsong in twilight
Xylophone-stars across the ocean blue
Teeth of night
The cold chime
Befallen
In the infinite / magic of you
Oh love I let me
Overcrowd
Still this loneliness
Feels so very loud...
Then I hear / halcyon Birdsong
The soft feelings of truth
Oh love!
Oh god!
Oh my!
Goodness you.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
It was warm in Emilio’s backyard,
The site of their game of explorer.
Emilio cleared the overgrowth;
Michael complained.
He was bent over, trying
To have a conversation with the blood lilies,
But he couldn’t hear them
Above the soft sliding hiss sent up by
The passing snake herd.
(Past the Huano palms, Emilio could see them,
Moving like a fleshy woven mattress)
Both boys noticed
The glut of termites
Crawling over their sneakers.
Michael complained more.
How could he explore
Amid so many noisy distractions?
This was when Emilio went inside
To get his father’s gun.
Michael watched as he fired
Three shots
Into the clouds threading the sky.
Both explorers presumed it was the shots
That punctured the clouds and caused the snow;
In the surprising silence of snowfall,
The two boys trotted across the yard,
Catching flakes in their butterfly nets.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 8:33 PM UTC
Cardinal sun rose
blooming as the
budding flower.
Buddha chants in the
chimes of birds
ethereal caught in gradual hot wind,
Darjeeling tea steam rises on tabletop my
mind is waking over Indonesian morning.
Foreign babel as hours draw even
cacophony of hurricane horns
the Denpasar traffic drumming
chorus midst markets where
radio emitting Li Zengguang
dizi dizzily prancing into the
assortments of spice and coiling fabrics
patterns potent azure and golden
royalty brass clatter caged noise
boiling *** cries the Orient!
Overgrowth spots the charring temples
in majesty and abundance cradling the narrow
Balinese streets while tropic palm
and orchid spring swells the soils.
Ardent sun sheaths eastern archipelagos,
religious offerings canvas sidewalks
incense burning in overwhelming
bouquets of efflorescence smelling
daedal tapestries within the paradise.
Sun goes on setting the jewel easing
underneath the horizon,
butterflies sway in rest
hearts on fire
the ceremonies have finished.
Thunder shrieks against the sea
torrential rain firing on villa ceilings.
My eyes set to sleep
consciousness transitioning
between two dreams.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Amidst the humidity and darkness of the forest floor
ants scurry in hyper-speed over invisible highways
mushrooms spread boldly beneath wise wooden giants
At night, black panthers weave through thick overgrowth,
undetected, as birds quieten their hungry young and sleep
But even in the rich darkness of the dense forest
micro flashes of silken pink and yellow cream can be seen
catching the moon's light, glowing like precious gems
By day these colours dim in their translucent chambers
atop the world's most beautiful, fearless caterpillar
This tiny being boldly ventures from one leaf to another
while all others cower underneath
Its crystal spikes hide only soft, sticky goo
and it is no bigger than a fingernail
But don't be fooled by its size and raw beauty,
this bejeweled crown easily summons its strength
to move faster than the predators awaiting
Its beauty comes not only from its form
but in its lion-hearted spirit and grace
This confident caterpillar lives
and surrenders to change
without the leaden shackles of fear and worry
and when the time comes
she embraces
and is transformed again
to something new.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 12:38 AM UTC
I'd like to cover
our concrete fence
with white paint all over
:::::::::::::::::::
it is right now, choking
with an overgrowth of healthy moss...
i intend to wipe the spreading green
off its surface
:::::::::::::::::::
............it seems too cruel, though,
plucking....scraping....or pulling something
.....away from its habitation,
......................its comfort zone
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
i thought it similar to something
that had happened a long time ago...
..................it left us with no choice,
.........we had to leave the house
where we were born
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
my mother, my siblings and i,
we moved in
....with my aunt and her family,
.....................in a faraway place
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
things weren't the same again
.............after my father died...
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright September 15, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 11:15 PM UTC
What you ask of me
is not possible
nor desirable.
Unconditional love is reserved
for the soil, the seedling
and the blossom,
Not for the overgrowth
of errors, weaknesses
and shortcomings.
I don't even love that
in myself -
why, then, in you?
- fr
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
available for the world to break once again.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
I type in that old address
expecting google not to show a house
to show the empty lot
that from what i heard
was the result of putting a dishwasher
into the kitchen
and causing complete septic failure
that flooded that entire uptown PA acre.
But, it flies me there
and I cry a little
because it's an old picture-
the house is still there,
just as i remember it;
an empty lot to the side,
the dilapidated apartment in the back yard,
the shed at the end of the driveway
(which was just a couple of cement tracks
slightly thinner than the pathfinder tires)
the apple and pie cherry trees we used to climb.
the alley in the back
where we used to skip rocks
and run from the neighborhood dogs (and cats)
looks the same as well,
every car the same,
every empty house still empty,
every tipped trashcan still being tipped each week.
I go down every street I used to walk,
they're all the same,
the bus stop is still where it was
the trails are just as long and dark as they ever were
and each yellow yard looks just as it always did in midsummer.
the ponds in the park are still the same color
with the same algae growing in them
and the same overgrowth hideaways around them.
A mile down the road;
the mini-mart where I bought gum when i had money
hasn't changed a bit,
even the pink umbrellas are still in front of the smoothie bar
but, across the street
the used book store that i would get lost in is gone
and from there i notice subtle changes:
the blackberry bushes by the middle school,
that mom made multiple cobblers from, are gone,
the maternity store moved,
the shed that my stepdad first told us would be our new house,
(before showing us this place)
has been torn down, or fell over
(as i assume it did),
and it doesn't end there,
I practiced my eye in the small details of this small ****** of the world
even though i never talked to anyone
in all the hours i spent walking.
But i guess I remember so well,
because, four-and-a-half years later
I still consider that house home.
that house where my brother was born,
where i first went without my glasses, and liked it
where I was first given the freedom of a bus pass
and permission to leave the house,
where i had my first (and only) overnighter
where i first became addicted to cleaning
where i've packed so many memories
that i can understand why the sewage line broke
sometime after that picture was taken
©Brandon Webb
2012
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 5:14 AM UTC
It started again in July
The warm weather could never lift my spirits
As I have always been cold from the inside
Out, let me out
I’ve been trapped in a snowstorm since I was nine
Shivering in the warmth from the ice in my veins
The tsunami started in the school bathroom
After following my sister to the bathroom after dinner time
Night after night peeking through the cracks
To see her methods
The acidic volcano laid dormant inside me for a couple of years
Until I began to grow
Sprouting towards the sky like a sunflower
All I could think about was my waist
I hated it, I tried every method to destroy myself
And the monstrous overgrowth that devoured my forever changing body
Until one day I didn’t feel how hungry I was
The growling was silenced
All I could hear was her harsh voice droning me through
Take another step, don’t fall down
115 pounds of pure solid ice
The way down my throat is slippery
My fingers thin bunched together for the warmth that they could provide each other
Water is the only thing that comes out
The voice still haunts me
And somedays I wonder why my garden of a body had to be denied of sunlight
When I embraced the freeze
And hurled my body through
Body, I am so sorry
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 11:18 AM UTC
somehow during an
overgrowth of years,
you became frozen
stiff.
right where you spiked.
with what's beyond you--
yet you.
quoting the heart...
most memorably.
to the famished forgetfulness,
of a changing landscape.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC
Hindsight blues,
I'm tangled up in you but you can't see through the overgrowth -
Thick bristles and whistle blowers,
Tell me your perception of me.
Let's laugh together at the discrepancies,
Don't expect more from me,
You know me better than that,
aristocratic nature, I hate where you come from,
That comfortable turf.
I can't be myself in your world,
Solipsism - listen we can only shine on reflection vision and that takes more than you or I alone.
Still tripping,
Tangled up in you.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
I'm caught in a forest
My glass frame is jagged and shattered
I give in to a distant call to rest
And I search for somewhere to lay my head
The forest is quiet
A whisp broke me and left
And I'm alone to care for a grove
I am broken, I am scared, I am upset
Something ahead of me
Trapped in the overgrowth
It can't be!
My armor, my friend, my beautiful cog!
Oh! What have I done to you?
I check it's inner workings
Gears clogged with vines and branches
Iron rusted through
Until I wander deep enough
And I find the source of my distant whisper
My hearth
Once a great and burning flame
To move my cog so powerfully
So patiently
Subserviently
I climb in
And flames long dead begin to burn once more
It melts my glass
And smooths me out
And I lay my head to rest
I close my eyes
When I open them again
I see through the juggernaut's eyes
And I burn so hot from my pain
The overgrowth burns away
Rusted parts shatter away
A plume of smoke billows from me
I am a cog once more
I feel so heavy
So tired
But oh so powerful
A great machine finds me in this grove
And offers me a place in it's inner workings
Other cogs inside, made of shining steel greet me
We grind and toil away
And I feel so at home
After harming and being harmed by a beautiful whisp
Who I now understand never truly understood me
Nor did I understand them
They fled from me
Left me so alone
But I am strong once more
I am so tired
I feel safe and complacent
So I will rest and let my body fall into routine
I will sleep
I will obey my new machine
I will dream
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 11:46 AM UTC
Breathing only in the
middle of the chest, through the heart,
(no side lungs left)
hearts push against a bone cage sunrise like
i am not worthy
we are not worthy
with a reconciliation of
cheap water wine and a two cent vocabulary
the world finds its place
behind the cloudy cancer of mortality, singing
prosperity,
prosperity.
and each letter recognizes its purpose
the consonants cut the vowels short before
the overgrowth trips the text.
"They are not like me" they say
hesitantly, one of us?
one of us.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 11:10 AM UTC
deep sepulcher and shallow pavement.
a sharp exchange of glances,
and then like snow-bed,
gone at first feverish light — all!
in me, the world is still,
(you are my
world)
growing roots, a throb of petals.
you bequeath me, a necklace of hands.
railway of stars, like the white
of your silence and mine,
inaudible stone of our
ever growing distance.
scraps of metal archipelagic
in Manila and the immaterial
language of billboards:
my mind, the crepuscular garden,
your memory,
the overgrowth,
never plucked — stilled, unfazed,
your slenderness a sign of
eternity: lignified.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
Around the backs of houses:
Overgrowth cloaked a
Horde of little rascals with
Pockets full of pennies.
Some were almost as tall as the
Highest stalks and jumped
Once a minute to gauge the number
Of silly long strides left to spring from.
Eyes fixed forwards, soldiering
On to the treeline and then just
Beyond - Through the ditch and
Brambles, emerging onto stones:
Ten feet towered with a
Steep ascent as a clear warning
Raptly ignored by the imps --
The chasers of thrills and stories
And melted misshapen metal -
Wherein lies the innocence of their
Treacherous endeavors. Those
Pennies would return mangled and bent
Enough to weave a tale of valiance
And near-death peril so captivating
It couldn't possibly be spun;
For in your hand you held a token.
"The world vibrated and ear drums
Exploded, running to cover from
The screaming, steaming demon:
Dublin to Belfast express!"
They would say.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
A swingset out in the backyard reminds me
Of years from long ago
It's been over a decade since I've walked those paths
Today I decided to go back on the paths
And I sat in the overgrowth
And allowed myself some tears
I want to go back to the days from long ago
Full of braids and tooth gaps
Free of cares and stress
Back to when my parents were together
Back to when the scariest thing
Was tripping on the sidewalk
Or maybe the clowns
I miss holding hands with both my parents
I miss dancing about freely
Where did the days
Of hope and make believe disappear to
Where is my tooth gap
Where are my braids
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
She held him like a dangling participle,
as mothers sometimes do.
Disconnected from her sentence,
he was held on but stiffly confused.
He possesses a birthright to her hard-wiring,
or is it mandatory?
Woman-datory?
Umbilical, precedence will or won't inherit addictive behaviours.
Likability of some traits but not others, wishing he wasn't.
More like her, realisations go awry.
Pattern of outstretched arms dangling that boy.
His diaper is off, and jettison's stream, so caution.
Hiking along the forgotten path, brambling overgrowth blocked his continuing.
He cuts a new path.
She cuts the umbilical.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 9:39 AM UTC
There once was a lady,
(and there actually still is),
who clandestinely preferred
the growth about her garden gate.
The talk in the village square
these days was all about
pruning the living daylights
out of it, until it was a sad
but smooth barren surface.
Apparently visitors had weighed in
and made this some kind of rule.
Nonetheless, she liked how
the twisting leaves and ivy
created a picturesque latticework,
a natural tapestry,
evoking mystery and anticipation
for what lay beneath.
Oh, she trimmed her foliage
here and there,
keeping the overgrowth
from running wild,
but all things considered
she was not about to change.
Her garden was beautiful
just the way it was.
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 8:50 AM UTC
-
they say if a tree falls in the woods
and no one's around to hear it,
it creates a silence
in vibration,
without even
deaf ears upon which to crash.
-
and they say if a tree dies in the woods,
the only formalities it receives
are a coffin of moss and lichen,
a bouquet of fungi,
and a burial in overgrowth.
-
and i say, if a man dies in the woods
at the trunk of a silently falling tree,
then i am that man,
and the funeral would be attended by none,
and i would garner little more sympathy
than the corpse of the last man before me.
-
and finally, i say too that
this poem is inaptly named,
for i have no victim
to suffer
from
my
loss.
-
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
It’s a constant battle between gold and stone in my chest.
One likes to hold a sword to the dark with the whole city at his back.
The other makes warning bells of paper mâché .
Where I come from we’re mostly dare devils.
We cook food on open flames next to a gas tank and race on bridges with no rails. Only one of those is real.
My mind sometimes seems like a doll house made of old computer processors. Attempt 79.
Most days I try to keep my lips zipped shut but my eyes are like a see through body bag.
On other days music tends to be good enough superglue for broken masks.
I remember the first time time froze and my heart tried to handwrite on the ice.
I tried to draw her attention with the broken lead pencils I have for lips but I’ve never been a fine artist.
We haven’t spoken in a while, I guess making new friends is easy but keeping old ones is hard.
There’s overgrowth on the road less travelled and it’s hard to find.
And when I feel down for following the crowd, I use poetry as a pendulum to help my mood swing.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
This is how I wish to remember you
The steady rush of mountain creeks
guiding us along almost invisible paths
that shimmer slightly overhead
The two of us tumbling
through tall untamable grasses
growing as wild and free
as we hoped to be
The wide eyed wonder of youthful
innocence as we take in
the majesty of obscured sunlight
gracing the thick overgrowth
of the forest floor
The trees trembling as they
share whispered secrets
people have long forgotten
The two of us here
Where there is only the simplicity of tradition immemorial
upholding our primitive dreams
Perfection contained
in a vanishing instant
Ancient testimony
that there is more
than just what is seen
That in the end
We are never alone
This is how I wish to remember you.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
He is the sun if it ever took human form.
Radiant and warm
You treated his love as if it were a heat storm.
As if his love were burning you from the inside.
You mistook his intensity, and you let it suffocate you.
You tried to put out the fire.
As smoke seeped from your painted smile, you subdued him.
You tried to put out the sun.
But I...
I found him
His flame dimmed.
Under the artificial assumption, his light was too much.
He came to me trying to cover that intensity.
But I thought...
Why fit the sun in a lantern?
When it could light the world.
My love like fertile earth.
Smothered with rich soil.
Saplings reached for that warmth of him.
I wanted all of him.
A lantern wouldn't do.
We planted our seeds in moments.
And well nourished they grew.
Many moons came to pass, but now I have before me a garden of overgrowth.
Watered by our tears. Nourished by passion. Warmed by our love, and given life through our memories.
He is larger than life.
He is bold and bright and the light in my sky.
& I will tend to this garden and bathe in his sun.
He is my home, my light, and my reason.
You tried to put out the fire,
but now he is the sun.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 9:05 PM UTC