"overspill" poems
I woke up from a nightmare
I could not stand to keep
to myself
you were stretched across the couch
coffee going cold on the table
a half finished cigarette
still burning
you wrapped me up
in kind words that
I could not bare
to hear
whispered into my ear
"one day we will go wandering
and this tiny house will overspill
with dreams'
you are not your memories, darling
you are not the bad things
that have been done to you
you are a fierce flame
that warms my heart
forget them, my love
they are nothing
and you, and you
are everything
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 4:18 PM UTC
--To C. M.
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds--
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the ******
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds--
To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds--
To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
3.9k
Her body aches for him nightly,
The moonlight shows her writhe,
She tries to make believe,
His mouth caressing both her thighs,
Her fingers gently stroking,
The void she needs to fill,
Her back is arched, her moans
entice her fluid to overspill,
Her vision of her soulmate,
Is tender, warm and sweet,
But passion takes them over, when
she visits and they meet,
Her body aches for him nightly,
The moonlight brings them close,
She waits for him to haunt her dreams,
And love her, head to toe.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 5:41 AM UTC
I sit at the window sill
Summoning for spring's till
Of thickets of green mandates fill
The procession and succession with frill
All rise with new blossoms being a thrill
My spring garden fitting the bill
For the little birdies that mill
With their pleas of a worms swill
First, let's arrest the lingering winter chill
The deliberating ill
Citing that bitter bitter pill
That sentences my grief's overspill
With the last backlog of snow on the hill
Of the icy roads that overkill
Free my hammer from waiting still
For the arrival of springs shrill
And the exit of winter's will
My eyes hold court for the first daffodil
Logan Robertson
4/08/2019
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 5:38 AM UTC
Choose your satirical weapon of choice,
Draw a three-dimensional box and conceal the hidden within a two-dimensional sphere,
Needle-point holes squeeze tightly, a misty spray like that of a busted soda-pop can,
The knowledge leaks consistently into the universe, morphing tear droplets into The Great Lakes,
These ten toes hover and glance over the edge, zoning prints like words in a descending motion,
A touch of the shoulder from a folded palm gently comforting and confirming life above this Earth,
A speedy squeeze of all five joints, now on my knees, the gravel latches onto my scabs, pushing and pounding through the pain,
Molars grind, tongue-dried, salty saliva salvaged, yet sitting silently on a secretive cold-sore,
The knowledge is flooding the dam gates, burying ankles in piercing hot grains of sand, diving into a castle's moat, a rush like traffic on a Friday evening,
The world seeps into the depths of my transparent drain,
The seepage creeps slowly downwards into a mental shaft constructed purposely for psychological phenomenon,
I worry there may be excessive overspill of rescued reality,
An unopened present, the anticipation and expectation as a child dreams,
As the gaps and cracks expand, I am able to touch base with memories as they pour outwards like a dog's busted territorial marker, a firefighter's ammunition,
Extinguish the forrest fire,
Paint the canvas gently with a spin of the color wheel,
Play the part of a lonely plumber,
Plug every hole.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 1:48 PM UTC
just look at her,
she wears the love she receives
it's overflowing, and she has no idea
where it should go
the overspill of others generosity
onto her, the air around her
charged and
here i sit,
here i sit,
should i dare say
that i find myself comparing?
**the love you wear,
and the love i hold
are not two in the same**
you walk around this town
like you have nowhere to go,
if i told you i could tell,
would you turn your head
in denial?
and if you lost it,
would you do anything...
anything at all,
to get it back into
your undeserving hands?
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 11:00 AM UTC
Sometimes, tides behind teeth get stuck
as if the moon, distracted,
looses its inexorable pull
then all the weight of water
sits stagnant
while each pescatarian thought
from the zipping, inconsequential minnow
to the ponderous whale bulk
sulks, sick and stuck
If you see these green gills,
or the overspill in the eyes of those
you know
maybe sit awhile, harbour side
and cast a line or two
Mar 18, 2022
Mar 18, 2022 at 3:24 AM UTC
The warp of time,
a memory so refined
and pigmented
that it sits naked
and parboiled;
cradled in your mind.
My baby, you cry
‘oh, what is this division
that has cast us so apart?’
Time. Time and tremors
and the absence of lusture
in our lives.
I kiss the scars of our past.
The heady punch of whiskey,
and the overspill
from your father’s ice machine.
I remember it well.
And, my friend;
the cigarettes in the park,
the first time we split
and cut school together.
I remember it well.
Sat cross-legged
in the supermarket aisles
or else
mistaken for lovers
by the strangers on the streets.
Half-right and half-witted
we fell into the role
with a bumbling
grace. Bless yourself
with the compliments
you know I have for you.
Remember them well
whilst I kiss the scars of our past.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
There was no choice
not if we're discussing,
survival.
Tidal waves crashed
to shore.
Even the sand laden
sacks
bore the burden
of turbulence
anger, shaking
shore lines.
Grasping on a
fisherman's
net,
hands splashing.
The belligerent mood
of countries
at war.
Mother Nature
herself, a
tyrant leader
asserting
her, hostile
hatred of,
humanities
degenerative, recurrent
bloodshed.
Oceans overspill,
dropping anchor
sea salt cleansing
open wounds
bleeding, oceanic
flow.
Scarlett filled
waters,
a mouth,
fish hooked.
The choice
of survival,
gone.
A reclaimed
reign of,
terror.
Mother Nature,
she always,
wins.
© Sia Jane
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
As dawn faded to dusk
I watched shadows
Slide under the walls
Leaving me completely alone
And the moon forlornly
Gazed down
To where its golden light
Failed to shine
So I found solace in the rain
That raced down to greet me
Drowning out
The noise of my thumping heart
That pumped faster
In spite of the pain
Threatening to overspill
Or maybe it did
That's why the moon
Became blood red
And despite being full
It too
Was empty
Hollow like a burning lantern
Just like me •
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
You can't compare,
You can't complete
The line, the sentence, the poem, the life.
You can't comprehend the mind of a poet,
Speak not of what you don't know.
Overspill reconnecting gilded twines of truth,
Splashed and dabbled into ink,
Paper soaking in wisdom.
Lacking inspiration, strayed away from the sacred muses.
Desecrated the holy routine, violated -
The sacred spring of inspiration dried to a dust bowl.
You've had the draught and drunk it dry,
Now scraping the base for drops of dew,
Underfed and underdrunk, afterloved and now
The plate is empty.
Starched dry of opportunity, for progress' sake.
Busy lives no longer free to mingle with life,
To drink the horns of gilded mead.
To write poetry, to bleed the music of the heart.
But I must cease,
For I speak of what I know not,
What I no longer know.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
When I was a child,
I only slept once in awhile.
I would always be too scared
that the monsters would be there.
Now I lay awake at night in bed,
but the scary monsters don't live in the closet anymore,
they live inside my head instead
and they're not just folklore.
All the monsters became voices
that fill and overspill in my mind
telling me I made the wrong choices,
and then sleep, I rarely find.
The shadows don't make me scream,
they don't have faces like they used to.
It's different now, even when I dream,
I'm not afraid of the things I used to,
so instead of boogeyman and sandman,
I have nightmares about being alone,
about death, about memories that can
start the tears, and turn me to stone.
Paralyzed in fear still; much the same,
but there is no mommy to run to when you're 25,
and these monsters play a stronger game,
because 24/7, they are alive
and they know me, inside out,
leeching onto every insecurity,
keeping me awake with voices about
how I'll never be free from me.
It's so much more terrifying now.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
air
in the holes where your eyes are supposed to go,
I saw a friend, I saw you feed a soul.
No more.
Now, left in pockets of you,
those moments that I used to know;
echo, cold, a black hole echoes.
Backwards,
falling back to earth
where silence grows in the atmosphere until there’s nowhere left to go,
but home.
The patterns clear,
falling down.
and getting up,
to fall again
and shed a tear.
And we have grown.
Some say we are insane, the dark arts.
Where fear is the mind killer,
each breath is an overspill of death
and I have no time left for air.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
There is a reservoir of perfect words waiting to be touched,
But I cannot scale the dam.
I can't get up to this water of life,
No matter how profound I am.
There the greats sail,
The poets who shall survive
The erosion of time, but
Will I see this ocean whilst alive?
I can only drink their gilded overspill,
The aftertaste of nectar from the brim.
I must take in as much as I can
And store it deep within.
Would that I could grasp the heights
And stride the distance set before me!
I want this wall to hold fast against the tide,
But it's as impregnable as it shall ever be.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
Harry at my elbow waits,
whispers words,
not quite audible
through death's wall,
but tries, and I
in lowly mood
scarce notice
the words from wind,
gazing out at dawn's light,
searching disinterestedly
view's scene of dull of sky
and tree's green,
Harry murmurs
close to ear,
and I unseeing,
think it brain's overspill,
not aware that Harry's
standing there,
birds chorus excitedly,
sun steps out
****** girl shy,
and I gaze out
dark mooded,
see nothing to excite,
nothing beyond
the dull horizon's show,
and still Harry stands
at elbow's touch
and whispers on
through death's cloth,
and I hear not
nor so seems,
thinking perhaps echo
of night's dreams.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
Yesterday I wrote my thoughts
with the overspill of red wine, and,
bandaids that fell from my cracked finger tips.
I wrote the words I hated saying,
I wrote the words I said too often,
I wrote what you said when your lips bled.
Your lips bled eight times that night;
your lips bleed when you lie.
I watched you scrape tobacco from
under your nails.
I watched you melt away like a candle wick.
Yesterday I wrote my thoughts.
I cut my hair with razor blades, and,
painted my lips that color you hate.
I burned my favorite photo of you,
I burned the tips of my fingers on the candle,
I burned the dinner I had on the stove.
Yesterday I spilled wine on the couch,
I wrapped my fingers in band-aids,
and I wrote.
I wrote about how your lips bled,
and bled.
But I won't write about that tomorrow.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
Unwanted words
keep spilling from my mouth
and I can't escape them.
They cling to my surface,
twisting and seething
every time I reach
my pathetic hands
towards you.
Why did I even bother?
I knew from the start
that I was destined
to fail,
that there was nothing
worth dwelling upon
in my cold blue eyes
and numb, emotionless
smile. You
were my youth,
my everything,
but you were gone before I had you.
You're a wingless bird
flying further,
further away from me,
the beginning of summer
in the middle of a blizzard.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC
The softness of you
Easing my worries
Caressing through me, to me
belonging to you
Heart and soul
Journeys different but destinations one
Letting go
But hopeful still
Momentous memories come to mind and overspill
The All knowing God guiding us to our truth
Belonging to ourselves
soulful journeys our only truth
Gone but never forgotten
Connected always
That's the ultimate truth
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 4:24 AM UTC
Through this old city to fly
to look down and weep from
on high
at the poverty stricken who kick at the doors of cathedrals and food banks
at those who just want to get by,
at those who give thanks to an imaginary creator
at the makers of myths.
On the magazine racks girls on their backs, men with no briefs on, how long does this go on and who really cares?
and it's the pharmaceutical industry that made this machinery and we are being ordered to take two pills of lethargy
four times a day.
Intifada?
it's
harder to break chains than make them.
Filling up land with the landfill and the overspill's dumped far out to sea,
bring it on home to me that we as society are solely to blame.
'I came
I saw...'
swear I'll never
go there again
cross my heart and hope to die
which I probably will
at the end.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
here i am,
once again,
knocking at the door
of adventure,
curious to know
what kind of love
awaits for me,
just to have it
collapse and
shatter all over
my heart, my mind,
my thoughts,
so my words
overspill
and my trust in
myself becomes extinct.
Feb 29, 2020
Feb 29, 2020 at 11:29 PM UTC