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Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
You can feel it spinning
                                         fast
the Chinese, Japanese, American and European junk
orbiting at several thousand miles per hour could
                                                           ­                             punch
a hole in your armor, future. Thanksgiving passes, then Christmas.
A nuclear detonation, we absorb that fact. The scientist in us
delays sadness by recording observations. What is is,
sorrow's for tomorrow.

By reducing probabilities to near zero I hope to avoid sorrow.
In yr suburb.
In history when there were many fewer people we still found reason
to cross space, explore, trade and war. Now
                                                             ­                 overpopulation
may not be the problem but food and water shortages
get our attention.
                              I have Korf's fears.
And hear what I want to hear.

Some hear singing, some hear speeches or complaining.
Martin Luther King sang his complaints, dreamed of a brotherly nation
which came to pass, spinning fast, past Thanksgivings, past jailings
into reconnaissance, small wars, drones, renaissance, inventions.
At the border,
                         where the Juaristas fought Maximilian:
Benito Juarez (1806-1872) Zapotec Amerindian who served five terms as president of Mexico. He was the first Mexican leader who did not have a military background and also the first full-blooded indigenous person to lead a country in the western hemisphere in over 300 years. For resisting French occupation, overthrowing the Empire, and restoring the Republic, Juarez is regarded as Mexicoxs greatest and most beloved leader. 

Each soldier chooses what war at what border, or just
                                                            ­                                   shows up
spinning with the planet.
The neighborhood and surrounding nature is orderly.
But always there is implied force, violence holding it together,
                                                       ­                                                       chaos
is contained
kept out of the playground, government buildings, childrenxs games
but lies within
the force maintaining order, a spinning tumor, a gyroscope of
                                                              ­                                                inertia.
The force of the spinning, the speed of the force bring one to one's
      death
seasons, weather, earth.
                                         While the emperor's being beheaded
enduring seeds are discovered and invented, cross-fertilized and bred.
Corn, yams, potatoes, sunflowers, rice.
                                                           ­       Food is life and a good study,
useful discipline
                           daily meditation.
                                                     ­   The fighting man protects the farmer
and the farmer feeds the fighting man.
They elect the governor
                                        who serves the people. Peace out.

Peace and war are transitory manifestations of spinning
electrons, planets.
                               The sun's a nuclear detonation, essential
to spring and planting. Food is life. Seeds endure
if man goes to his daily discipline. If woman is man.
Birth and death
                           together are orderly, the border can be known,
voluntarily. How we live together, by prayer or force,
is our story.

Knowledge
from laboratory to starry corridor keeps us very
                                                            ­                         versed.
Did Juaristas consider the rights of animals not to be eaten?
Not during that spinning.
                                              And perform the history that surrounds us.
All that can be done
is written in the spinning:
"The people of the land, the Indian farmers of North America - like their counterparts in Mesoamerica, the Andean region, and the Amazon - have continuously cultivated maize, beans, squash and other crops for more than five thousand years. One of the salient features of their traditional farming systems is the high degree of biodiversity. These traditional farming systems have emerged over centuries of cultural and biological evolution, and they represent the accumulated experience of indigenous farmers interacting with the environment without access to external inputs, capital or scientific knowledge. In Latin America alone, more than 2.5 million hectares under traditional agriculture in the form of raised fields, polycultures, agroforestry systems and the like document indigenous farmers' successful adaptations to difficult environments."
--Wikipedia,  "Benito Juarez"
-- Altieri , Miguel A., Foreword to Enduring Seeds: Native American Agriculture and Wild Plant Conservation, by Gary Paul Nabhan, The University of Arizona Press, 1989

www.ronnowpoetry.com
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
Lisa Neu Feb 2015
People don't know it,
    but I'm subtly overthrowing the world.
I'm in the process of rewriting reality;
    of changing global paradigms.

Maybe people don't realize it,
     but the world changes every day,
     and so do they.

I'm a catalyst of that change;
I'm commissioned with vision;
I choose to follow.

People don't know it,
    but I'm subtly overthrowing the world
    with love.
September 4, 2003
Martin Narrod Feb 2015
Part I


the plateau. the truest of them all. coast line. night spells and even controlled by the dream of meeting again. the ribbon of darker than light in your crown. No region overlooked. Third picnic table to the drive at Half Moon Bay, meet me there, decant my speech there. the table by the restroom block. While the tide is in show me your oyster garden, 3:00p.m. at half-light here in the evilest torments that have been shed.---------------door locked.  The moors. Cow herds and lymph nodes, rancorous afternoon West light and bending roads, the cliffs, a sister, the need to jump. There is nothing as serious as this. There is nothing nor no one that could ever, or would ever on this side come between. Who needs sleep or jokes or snow or rivers or bombs or to turn or be a rat or a fly or ceiling fan or a gurney or a cadaver or piece of cloth or a bed spread or a couch or a game or the flint of a lighter or the bell of a dress; the bell of your dress, yes, perhaps. Having been crushed like orange cigarette light in a pool of Spanish tongues. I feel the heave, the pull; not a yawn but a wired, thread-like twist about my core. Up around the neck it makes the first cut, through the eyes out and into the nostrils down over the left arm, on the inside of the bicep, contorting my length, feigning sleep, and then cutting over my stomach, around and around multiples of times- pulled at the hips and under the groin, across each leg and in-between each nerve, capillary, artery, hair, dot, dimple, muscle, to the toes and in-between them. Wiry dream-like and nervous nightmarish, hellacious plateaus of leapers. Penguin heads and more penguin heads. Startling torment. The evilest of the vile mind. The dance of despair: if feet contorted and bound could move. The beach off Belmont. The hills and the reasons I stared. Caveat after caveat at the heads of letters, on the heads of crowns, and the wrists, and on the palms. Being pulled and signed, and moved away so greatly and so heavily at once in a moment, that even if it were a year or a set of many months it would always be a moment too taking away to be considered an expanse, and it would be too hellacious to be presumptuous. It could only be a shadow over my right shoulder as I write the letters over and again. One after another. Internally I ask if I would even grant a convo with Keats or Yeats or Plath or Hughes? Does mine come close? Does it matter the bellies reddish and cerise giving of pain? Does it have to have many names?


"This is the only Earth," I would say with the bouquet of lilies spread out on the table. Are lilies only for funerals, I would never make or risk or wish this metaphor, even play it like the drawn out notes of a melody unwritten and un-played: my black box and latched, corner of the room saxophone. Top-floor, end of the hall two-room never-ending story, I'm the left side of the bed Chicago and I see pink walls, bathrooms, the two masonite paintings, the Chanel books, the bookshelves, the white desk, the white dresser, you on the left side of the bed in such sentimental woe, **** carpet and tilted blinds, and still the moors and the whispering in the driver's seat in afternoon pasture. Sunset, sunrise, nighttime and bike room writing in other places, apartments, rooms where I inked out fingertips, blights, and moods; nothing ever being so bleak, so eerily woe-like or stoic. Nothing has ever made me so serious.

Put it on the rib, in a t-shirt. Make it a hand and guide it up a set of two skinny legs under a short-sheeted bed in small room and literary Belmont, address included. Trash cans set out morning and night, deck-readied cigarette smoking. Sliding glass door and kitchen fright. Low-lit living room white couch, kaleidoscope, and zoetrope. Spin me right round baby right round. I am my own revenge of toxic night. Attack the skin, the soul, the eyes, the mind, and the lids. The finger lids and their tips. Rot it out. Blearing wild and deafening blow after blow: left side of the bed the both of us, whilst stirs the intrepid hate and ousts each ******* tongue I can bellow and blow.

Last resort lake note in snow bank and my river speak and forest walk. Wrapped in blocks and boxes, Christmas packaging and giant over-sized red ribbons and bows. Shall I mention the bassinet, the stroller, the yard, several rings of gold and silver, several necklaces of black and thread? I draw dagger from box, jagged ended and paper-wrapped in white and amber: lit in candle light and black room shadow-kept and sleeping partisan unforgettable forever. Do I mention Hawaii, my mother dying, invisible ligatures and the unveiling of the sweat and horror? Villainous and frightening, the breath as a bleat or heart-beat and matchstick stirring slightly every friends' woe and tantrum of their spirit.

Lobster-legged, waiting, sifting through the sea shore at the sea line, the bright tyrannosaurs in mahogany, in maple, and in twine over throw rose meadow over-looks, honey-brimming and warehouse built terrariums in the underbelly of the ravine, twist and turn: road bending, hollowing, in and out and in and out, forever, the everlasting and too fastidious driving towards; and it's but what .2 miles? I sign my name but I'll never get out. I am mocked and musing at tortoise speed. Headless while improvising. Purring at any example of continue or extremity or coolness of mind, meddling, or temptation. I rock, bellowing. Talk, sending shivers up my spine. I'm cramped, and one thousand fore-words and after words that split like a million large chunks of spit, grime, and *****; **** and more ****. I might even be standing now. I could be a candle, in England, a kingdom, in Palo Alto, a rook in St. Petersburg. Mottled by giants or sleepless nights, I could be the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty, a heated marble flower or the figure dying to be carved out. I'm veering off highways, I'm belittling myself: this heathen of the unforgettable, the bog man and bow-tied vagrant of dross falsification and dross despair. I am at the sea shore, tide-righted and tongue-tide, bilingual, and multi-inhibited by sweat, spit, quaffs of sea salt, lake water, and the like. Rotten wergild ridden- stitched of a poor man's ringworm and his tattered top hat and knee-holed trousers. I'm at the sea shore, with the cucumbers dying, the rain coming in sideways, the drifts and the sandbars twisting and turning. I'm at the sea shore with the light house bruise-bending the sweet ships of victory out backwards into the backwaters of a mislead moonlight; guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos swept like black coffees on green walled night clubs, arenose and eroding, grainy and distraught, bleeding and well, just bleeding.






I'm at the sea shore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets, ******* and two lines left in the letter. I’m at the sea shore, my mouth is a ghost. I've seen nothing but darkness. I'm at the seashore, second picnic table, bench facing the squat and gobble, the tin roof and riled weir near the roadside. .2 and I'm still here with my bouquet wading and waiting. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. My inches are growing shorter by the second, cold, whet by the sunset, its moon men, their heavy claws and bi-laws overthrowing and throwing me out. The thorns stick. The tyrannosaurs scream. I'm at the sea shore, plateau, left bedside to write three more letters. Sign my name and there's nobody here.

I'm at the sea shore: here are my lips, my palms (both of them facing up), here are my legs (twine and all), my torso, and my head shooting sideways. I'm at the seashore and this is my grave, this is my purposeful calotype, my hide and go seek, my show and tell, my forever. .2 and forever and never ending. I was just one dream away come and keep me. I'm at the sea shore come and see me and seam me. I'm without nothing, the sky has drifted, the sea is leaving, my seat is a matchbox and I'm all wound up. The snow settling, the ice box and its glory taken for granted. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. The room with its white sets of furniture, the lilies, the Chanel, the masonite paintings, the bed, your ribbon of darker on light, the throw rug **** carpet, pink walled sister's room, and the couch at the top of the stairs. I'm at the sea shore, my windows opened wide, my skin thrown with threat, rhinoceri, reddish bruises bent of cerise staled sunsets. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. I'm at the plateau and there isn't a single ship. There are the rocks below and I'm counting. My caveats all implored and my goodbyes written. I'm in my bed and the sleep never set in. I'm name dropping God and there's nobody there. I'm in a chair with my hands on a keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock, horse-riding into candle light on a wicked wedding of wild words and teary-eyed gazes and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder. I'm all alone but I feel like you're here.



Part II




I wake up in Panama. The axe there. Sleeping on the floors in the guest bedroom, the floor of the garden shed, the choir closet, the rut of dirt at the end of the flower bed; just a towel, grayish-blue, alone, lawnmower at my side, and sky blue setting all around. I was a family man. No I just taste bits of dirt watching a quiet and contrary feeling of cool limestone wrap over and about my arms and my legs. Lungs battered by snapping tongues, and ancient conversations; I think it was the Malaysian Express. Mom quieted. Sister quieted. Father wept. And is still weeping. Never have I heard such horrifying and un-kindly words.-----------------------It's going to take giant steel cavernous explorations of the nose, brain cell after brain cell quartered, giant ******* quaffs of alcohol, harboring false lanterns and even worse chemicals. Inhalations and more inhalations. I'm going to need to leap, flight, drop into bodies of waters from air planes and swallow capsules of psychotropics, sedatives beyond recalcitrance. I'm requiring shock treatments and shock values. Periodic elements and galvanized steel drums. Malevolence and more malevolence. Forest walks, and why am I still in Panama. I don't want to talk, to sleep, to dream, to play stale-mating games of chess, checkers, Monopoly, or anything Risk involving. I can't sleep, eat, treaty or retreat. I'm wickeded by temptations of grandeur and threats of anomaly, widening only in proverb and swept only by opposing endeavors. Horrified, enveloped, pictured and persuaded by the evilest of haunts, spirits, and match head weeping women. I can't even open my mouth without hearing voices anymore. The colors are beginning to be enormous and I still can't swim. I couldn't drown with my ears open if I kept my nose dry and my mouth full of a plane ticket and first class beanstalk to elysian fields. It's pervasive and I'm purveyed. It's unquantifiable. It's the epitomizing and the epitome. I have my epaulets set for turbulent battles though I still can't fend off night. Speak and I might remember. Hear and it's second rite. Sea attacks, oceans roaring, lakes swallowing me whole. Grand bodies of waters and faces and arms appendages, crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and I'm still shaking, and I'm still just a button. And I still can't sleep. And I'm still waiting.

It is night. The moon ripening, peeling back his face. Writhing. Seamed by the beauty of the nocturne, his ways made by sun, sky, and stars. Rolled and rampant. Moved across the plateau of the air, and its even and coolly majestic wanton shades of twilight. It heads off mountains, is swept as the plains of beauty, their faces in wild and feral growths. Bent and bolded, indelible and facing off Roman Empires too gladly well in inked and whet tips of bolder hands to soothe them forth.-----------Here in their grand and grandiose furnaces of the heart, whipped tails and tall fables fettered and tarnished in gold’s and lime. Here with their mothers' doting. Here with their Jimi Hendrix and poor poetry and stand-up downtrodden wergild and retardation. I don't give a ****. I could weep for the ***** if they even had hair half as fine as my own. I am real now. Limited by nothing. Served by no worship or warship. My flotilla serves tostadas at full-price. So now we have a game going.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------  My cowlick is not Sinatra's and it certainly doesn't beat women. As a matter of factotum and of writ and bylaw. I'm running down words more quickly than the stanza's of Longfellow. I'm moving subtexts like Eliot. I'm rampant and gaining speed. Methamphetamine and five star meats. Alfalfa and pea tendrils. Loves and the lovers I fall over and apart on. Heroes and my fortune over told and ever telling. Moving in arc light and keeping a warm glow.

the fish line caves. the shimmy and the shake. Bluegrass music and big wafting bell tones. snakes and the river, hands on the heads, through the hair; I look straight at the Pacific. I hate plastic flowers, those inanimate stems and machine-processed flesh tones. Waltzing the state divide. I am hooked on the intrepid doom of startling ego. I let it rake into my spine. It's hooves are heavy and singe and bind like manacles all over me. My first, my last, my favorite lover. I'm stalemating in the bathtub. Harnessing Crystal Lite and making rose gardens out of CD inserts and leaf covers. I'm fascinated by magic and gods. Guns and hunters. Thieving and mold, and laundry, and stereotypes, and great stereos, and boom-boxes, and the hi-fi nightlife of Chicago, roasting on a pith and meaty flame, built like a horror story five feet tall and laced with ruggedness and small needles. My skin is a chromium orchid and the grizzly subtext of a Nick Cave tune. I've allowed myself to be over-amplified, to mistake in falsetto and vice versa. To writhe on the heavy metallic reverberations of an altercated palpitation. The heart is the lonely hunted. First the waterproof matchsticks, then the water, the bowie knife, crass grasses and hard-necked pitch-hitters and phony friends; for doing lunch in the park on a frozen pond, I play like I invented blonde and really none of my **** even smells like gold.--------------------- There are the tales of false worship. I heard a street vendor sell a story about Ovid that was worse than local politics. As far as intermittent and esoteric histories go I'm the king of the present, second stage act in the shadow of the sideshow. Tonight I'm greeting the characters with Vaseline. For their love of music and their love of philosophy. For their twilight choirs and their skinny women who wear black antler masks and PVC and polyurethane body suits standing in inner-city gardens chanting. For their chanting. The pacific. For the fish line caves. For the buzzing and the kazoos. For the alfalfa and the three fathers of blue, red, and yellow. For the state of the nation. But still mostly working for the state of equality, more than a room for one’s own.-------------------------------------------------------------­------"Rice milk for all of you." " Kensington and whittled spirits."
(Doppelganger enters stage left)MAN: Prism state, flash of the golden arc. Beastly flowers and teeming woodlands. Heir to the throes and heir to the throng.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------- The sheep meadow press in the house of affection. The terns on my hem or the hide in my beak; all across the steel girder and whipping ******* the windows facing out. The mystery gaze that seers the diplopic eye. Still its opening shunned. I put a cage over it and carry it like a child through Haight-Ashbury. At times I hint that I'm bored, but there is no letting of blood or rattle of hope. When you live with a risk you begin at times to identify with the routes. Above the regional converse, the two on two or the two on four. At times for reasons of sadness but usually its just exhaustion. At times before the come and go gets to you, but usually that is wrong and they get to you first. Lathering up in a small cerulean piece of sky at the end turnabout of a dirt road
Ian Cairns Dec 2013
I'm speechless
That's my approach as you approach me
And usually I'm too focused on finding the perfect words
To penetrate the simple space I provide
So when beautiful girls intentionally invade my atmosphere
My need for speech is satisfied
Your beauty speaks sufficiently for two
So while I'm struggling for oxygen, I hope you recognize
Your presence is all I've ever needed to breathe easily

I'm stuck
Between unexpressed elegance
And helplessness
My mouth is screaming out
But frozen completely shut
I'm worried my compliments
May be complications
That my suggestions
Might suppress my objective here

We typically rely on our words
To settle the score
As if you and I are in overtime
Of a tie ballgame
Looking for phrases to frame the scoreboard
With an absolute victor
But I was hoping that you'd be willing to join forces
To break through the proverbial force field
That prohibits rivals from overthrowing obstacles
Because I've always believed the input overpowers the outcome

What if it were possible
To eliminate our speech
So our ears could erase the need to draw conclusions
We don't etch our words in pencil
Our words are enunciated in permanent marker
Brutally beating through our eardrums
Rhythmically reminding us
That silence can be more sweet sounding than any set of syllables

All I know is I'm hell-bent on remaining a straight shooter
My arrows will always be designed for the bulls-eye
But lately I've been questioning my targets
They haven't been painted red and white for all the world to see
They've been camouflaged by constricted communication
Secretly searching for statements that haven't met the airwaves yet
So I'd much rather absorb your definite thoughts
Than accept your remarks as absolute
  
The truth is
I'm not sure
What needs to be said.
The syllables I've learned to form
Don't apply to situations where
Words remain inherently absent.
And too often we force our hand
To make phrases appear
Where they don't belong.

But something about
Silent speeches is appealing to me.
Because the power in your eyes reduce
The need for any type of sound.
And the shock waves your steps make
As you inch closer to mine
Create the sweetest melodies.
So all I will tell you is this:
Let's leave words out of this.
Dahlia Nov 2012
Reaching out for what delivers its existence

The thirsty tree extends its limbs further to the sun

An encounter craved, but still valuing its bestowment

Forever longing anxiously for that connection



The summer winds carrying this hopeful firefly        

Emitting the lonely light that calls out for another

Releasing these signals in hopes of discovering you

Again a flicker and finally the mate is matched



Sprinting to the sea, the relentless river runs

Passionately carving its way through the slighted landscape

Obviously enraptured by its desirous charge

Awaiting the second its frenzied rush reaches home



Like the sun now churning our eager energy

Overthrowing senses with this rampantly raging need

Overwhelming magnetism lures us toward temptation

Inescapably mesmerized by this sensation


Profound in nature, driven by this timeless dance

Sophisticatedly conjoining into fulfillment

A base for these unbridled electrical impulses

The quintessence of our fusion now realized


We are the union of two wandering forces

Ignition progresses affectionate meditations

Quietly absorbing the synthesizing of segments

Once unrelated, now entangled eternally
Gary Gibbens Dec 2011
The sun sank in the tendrils of the winter winds

Light quickly faded

The long night begins

What is our hope for the spring to come beyond this winter?

The old rulers are dying, their grasp weakened

Their desperate ****** clawing for power falters

What will the youth of the world build?

Overthrowing the gray tired old men with no vision

Will there be a new light glowing in an abandoned barn?

An opening of joy to a time of new growth?

It is now dark in the cavern

The animals have bowed their heads

Fearing the burning world that surrounds

Glaciers melting, deserts blowing

Is there a song that will lead us to

A new morning, Sagan's galaxy rise?

With a billion suns shining?

Or will we crouch in the corners again

Fighting for any lethal advantage

Sacrificing the world?

We should pray
Harsh Apr 2016
To be perfectly honest this was one of the more difficult poems to string together for the sheer fear of possibly jinxing it,
as there appears to be a pattern to every story involving a boy and me lately,
which begins with the same overrated butterflies in the stomach sensation followed by a poem,
sleepless nights, cigarettes, ***** and a tragic ending.
So having reached the poem stage my instincts and the part of my brain receptive to pain are already bracing themselves,
I can feel them clenching in my gut.  
As this three nights stand situation burns the lines between a *******, friendship with benefits and something to the extent of a budding romance,
my expectations are protesting against being so fiercely oppressed,
frankly they are getting out of control,
as the dislike of not wanting to be clingy, chivalry of not wanting to subdue to any labels nor the fear of yet another heartbreak itself,
are no longer sufficient to keep these rising hopes in place.
Ironically, when I think of you I think more of who I become when I'm with you, than actually you,
even though I do sincerely adore you. Very much.
I'm bemused by how comfortable I feel in my own skin,
naked and burnished, next to your warm, ivory touch.
Each time you trail your fingers down my body and take in a quick breath as if you were seeing me for the very first time,
I treasure the look in your eyes for later in the week when the going gets tough.
I idolize your rough, blistered, bleeding palms with all its calluses for they mirror my own much subtle bruises,
representing our shared interest, commitment, strength and transformation.
Your new found superpower to completely eradicate my necessity to socially smoke when socializing with you, speaks for itself really,
and we haven't even got to the laughter, the banter, the top notch sarcasm, the conversation, the warmest embrace,
breakfast ending in a ridiculously serious spectacle of coffee making,
which I thoroughly enjoy from the best seat in the kitchen wearing your shirt which fits me far more perfectly,
and the skip in my step as I head home.
So when the day comes for the revolution, of my expectations, overthrowing this rather tiresome governance of fear,
I just might pop the question, will you be my forever one night stand? ,
in the hope that you might just say yes...
This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 10/04/2016]
Steven Fortune Apr 2014
High ground
I concede to you
in the disproportion of a time allotted to you
for the choice of robe to grace
a glorified cameo around your flesh
like a sheet designated for an overthrowing
in an honorary statue's unveiling

Liturgy is looming in the bathroom
already hot-boxed in the metal waterfall's
mist of moisture and the mountain range of bubbles
I have settled comfortably into in wait

High ground
awaits your hallowed prance
into the concealed languish of your man's
dangling imagination

I salute you with incentive
through a lowering of eyes made necessary
by your towering above my horizontal soak

I'm beseeching you to wield royal sway
over the humility of my reclined posture
with the hidden scepter of your body
fated to dictate the pace of my
anticipated knighting

The gentle thud of fabric on linoleum
incites a turning of my head to take in
the litany of parts available to my
frenetic feels and jumbled focus

Stationary in your naked smile of proximity
you extend to me excessive time to entertain options
as I coat myself in lukewarm opportunities
and rise to meet you for a bathing in my excess wetness

I accelerate my exit to negate the bubbled tribuataries
sliding to the floor to meet the remnants of your mystery

The wall is cold and you protrude
haplessly to meet the rapid chilling of my undried frame
Warmth is of the essence
Fingers split your hair in celebration
of our uniform heights and I feel you slouch
signalling our first hint of friction
and a twitch in my diviner of your cradle of essential warmth
Do you realize you now rescind creative license?
Or have you filled the snare of your intentions?
Now your balance shivers in the mercy
of my curled leg of leverage
and an coiled arm collecting your ambrosial attributes
like an ice cream scoop
Uniform heights allowing eye contact
makes optional the visual acknowledgment
of my elastic hunting in the smooth field of your breast
with a dancing thumb
I connect and latch onto what is now
our binding axis and shuffle eye contact
with the universal rhythm of a pelvic power ballad
03 26 14
The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,
The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates,
The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,
Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar.

There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise,
The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze.
His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light,
A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite.

Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up,
Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup,
And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low,
But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go.

He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky,
Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high,
Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows,
With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.

Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled,
On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold,
Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold.

Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings,
And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire,
As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre.

Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done,
And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves
In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves.

Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous,
Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus,
See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.

You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan,
Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance,
Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance.

On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place,
In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death
Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath.

Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear
Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings,
Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!
Sieve Dec 2013
when you hear politics
you usually think
poli-tricks
as in
the man in the suit
who stands up on stage
speaking false words and
reaping false prais
or the election promises
to End the War, Save the Children, Create More Jobs
Pony's for Everyone.

or the media pundits
who bicker and argue and flaunt
their superiority, their cynicism
over the public nightly
in Prime Time and technicolor lighting
you think of the pyramids
of the gods and the masters
imploring and coercing and driving
us,
faster, faster

of all the wars and drilling just beyond your control
of a separation and distance
from the actions this very instance
which are taken in your name
and worst of all, for most of us
politics, is Out There.
beyond your domain
or beyond your care

but politics is more than
an anonymous ballot drop
in an anonymous ballet box
politics is in the way
you step out your door
and follow that yearning
for something More

politics is in the way
you treat the Other
be it your next door neighbor, the stranger on the street,
or your lifelong brother

politics isn't being politically correct
but it's about having a level of respect
deep enough to accept
that your Words,
shape your World

politics is in connecting the
Me to the We
so that together we might
Be
something more than the sum of our parts

politics is in the conversation you had with
the person behind the cardboard sign
and whether you let them remind
you that God Loves You
and I don't mean God Above
sending you love letters on the wings of a dove
but the God in you and in me
the God we can all feel and see
the God of perfect unity

politics is in the linking of our arms
because although
we may have retreated
the People, United
Will Never Be Defeated

politics isn't in ivory towers behind closed doors
or strictly for super-powers
politics isn't in the oval office
any more than a sarcophagus
because politics isn't a photo op,
kissing babies, or a meet and greet
politics is You and I, together
in the streets
and in the parks
before, during, and after dark

politics is reclamation and restoration
regrowth and renewal
it's in the invisible fibers
which bind and align us
in how we redesign Us
to encompass that which must
become part of our moral compass

because it seems to me
that hierarchy
is a bunch of malarkey
a system of oppression and exploitation
compounded over millenia
of violent suppression and spiritual stagnation
until, Today
where we stand divided
by color class creed
****** preference
and gender id
enframed and maimed by bureaucracy
each of us, alone
doubting our own efficacy
so I tell you,
stand up, and smash your TV

because you won't find revolution
inside of a box
or get it from attending
inflammatory talks
because revolution is more
than overthrowing capital or the state
revolution is in the relationships that we create
within the rotting shell of this system of hate
revolution is in discourse and public debate
in neighborhood assemblies
and Occupations of late
because power, true power
isn't where they told us
power is, and always will be
with us in the polis, the people, el pueblo, rejoice!
and as we begin to awaken,
to this most true realization
remember,
We,
Are Unstoppable
Another World is Possible
Jordan Fischer Jun 2013
A loose brick in a castle wall allows the wind to seep through,
Carrying with it the whispers of the outsiders
The soft spoken words influence the beings within
They begin to come alive and demand to be free'd
Overthrowing the king and breaking down the wall
All protection is lost now, through the rubble they crawl
Out into the world
With no fear of rejection.
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2013
On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown,
Soon, after new mornings impromptu
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite
Stone to contain that day—  I would
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows
Waking.
Fred Kinard Mar 2013
Darkness sets in with mankind,
throughout time words will transform the inferior man into the superior man.
The age of name calling will emerge.
Barbarian,
savages,
uncivil,
Let me stop for a second...

Telling the world another man is unimportant shouldnt take away the fact that he is still a man.

Name callers need peace while overthrowing others who also play a role in mankind by dissecting their own consciousness.
They have a need to
belittle,
  discredit,
transform,
transform into something greater,
even though it's all in the mind that one is greater.

Truth be told wars are pushed forward to the masses by name calling the enemy,
Imagine looking a man in his eyes and calling him a cockroach,
for whatever reason one will feel like he is now squashing a bug,
yet no bug is present.

History will tell a story about mankind no matter the name.
Big Virge Aug 2020
So I’m Now An EXPONENT...
of Rhymes That Are POTENT... !!!

No Numbers or Quotient...
Can Limit Their Motion... !!!
INFINITE Like The Ocean...
Or Big Swarms of Locust... !!!!

FOCUSED On SHOWING...
How My Thoughts Be Flowing...
With Notions of Motions...
OVERTHROWING Like Boulders...
Dropped Onto The Shoulders...
of Those Who Are COLDEST... !!!!!!

When It Comes To Them Showing...
More Love For Life’s Soldiers...

YES Those Who Have SOLDERED...
This World For These... JOKERS... !!!
Who Deal In LOW Quotas...
of Hope For... Young Voters... !!!

They Make Things Seem HOPELESS...
But... NOT To EXPONENTS...
of Flows That Are FAULTLESS...
Because They’re NOT JAUNDICED... !!!

They’re STRONG NOT Distorted...
So... Do NOT Export Things...
Like Drugs For Those SNORTING... !!!

Exponents Be FLAUNTING...
SKILLS That Are DAUNTING...
To Those Who Be Courting...
Ideas of... SLACK Talking...
Or.... Lyrical WARRING... !!!!!!!!

Because They Are DEEPER...
Than.... Manic Street Preachers... !!!

What We Do Is Teach Ya...
Like... KRS Teachers... !!!!!!!!

Through More Than Your Speakers...
Exponents Like These Do Not Fear Disease...
Because Our Beliefs Supersede What Is Deemed...
To Be PURE HONESTY By The Powers That Be...

We REJECT... FALLACIES...
But Acknowledge That Grief...
Is Something That’s Seen …
FAR TOO REGULARLY...
By People … BENEATH …
All These HIGH Flying THIEVES... !!!

So RECOGNISE THIS... !!!
Exponents of Lyrics...
Who Write Things Like This... !!!
Are Clearly What’s Known...
As... ABOVE The AVERAGE... !!!

ARROGANCE Is DISMISSED....
But We REALLY FLIP SCRIPTS... !!!

Because......
  
Whether WRITTEN or SPOKEN...
When Poets Start Flowing...
And Their Rhymes Start GLOWING...
As If They’re... ALL KNOWNG... !!!

Then You KNOW You’ve Read Words...
From... One Of Those KNOW As...

..... " The REAL EXPONENTS ".....
A few thoughts on what makes a good exponent of this poetic craft.......
Sheldon Dsouza Sep 2016
I've been quite busy of late,
Work and life got me in that state.
Poetry got put on hold for the time being,
But an observation and a chance encounter got the poet bleeding.

This little flower I saw standing strong and shining bright,
Smiling and dancing in the bright sunlight.
From a bud to blooming and bursting with energy,
This little yellow flower making use of the soil and water synergy.

Then came a day where a little worm came her way,
Caressed her delicate little petals and made her sway,
His words rang through her senses and made her petals flutter,
Little did she know his dark intentions were from the gutter.

He talked about the little details of her beauty,
This poor little thing fell for cutie patootie.
Then one day without any warning,
He started nipping at her petals after adorning.

She thought it was not intentional as he pleaded forgiveness,
But then he started nipping, biting and eating with swiftness.
She bore all the pain as he continued with filling his tummy,
She thought he would soon go back to being her lovesick dummy.

Down to the last leaf she was when the wind started blowing,
Off the worm flew , the wind his fat overgrown body overthrowing.
With time her beauty she restored to her past glory,
Took care and made sure she did not fall for the same story.

Along came a bee buzzing his way in,
With her every move his heart over n over she would win.
He tried to make conversation with this pretty little thing,
Tell her how he felt about her and got him buzzing.

Her scars grew red again from her past encounter,
Fearing this moment she had built walls around her.
Her response to this stranger was heartless and cold,
Any advances he'd make she'd curl into herself and enfold.

No matter how much he tried to convince her,
Her walls wouldn't budge, for him to deter.
All he wanted to do was be with her,
But at this point everything was so blur.

She had advanced in life far ahead,
Achieved what she dreamt of in nature's bed.
Confident and bold she had become in this time,
Love was all she was left to fear of that feeling sublime.

The bee continued and never gave up,
Every morning to her sweet face he wanted to wake up,
Seeing his stubbornness something changed within her that day,
A leap of faith she took the walls breaking away.

Had she not, she wouldn't really know,
A fruit she would transform into with a lovely glow.
Love has been given a bad name by a filthy few,
But with the right person it can be sweeter than honey dew.
Sxrendipic Mar 2014
I am
A feather duster.
Clogged with fears
and
Fluffy cobwebs
How odd
There is no more me
Only more
It.
A thing
a material kind of demeanour fling
slash
overthrowing one night plastic wonder
And I have found
myself
hiding beneath oblivion
and
a cheap stock price
Renewed,
exchanged
changed
paid with loose change
a chain of recurring events
Money making
plays me out of my
hiding spot
And I gross
in all vastness
the price times infinite
of what it took to create me
The other feather dusters
they
would be ashamed
to have me sitting with them
Because I cannot begin to
stop wanting more
More than an item of plastic.
a.l.h
Economics drive me up the wall.
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2012
On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned 
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown, 
Soon, after new mornings impromptu 
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite 
Stone to contain that day—  I would 
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting 
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows 
Waking.
Jeffrey Pua Dec 2015
The thing about love is that
     It is strategically tragic,
Built to last, made to make you feel,
Feel good and alive, to feel enough,
     Gracefully and sudden
Like a gentle kiss, the spreading
Of wings of the soul, the fall
     Of listless stars, but
          Just as lasting.

I do not know what else to feel
Upon seeing this ocean, except
To remember you with the same
     Natural feeling, inexplicable,
Like the color blue catches on
     With the bleach of white,
Aiming to accentuate, searching
     For the old burn of red
          In vain.

And beauty is felt more
     Than it is seen. Eyes have
Seen more than they have rested,
And they have seen things best,
     While they are closed.

More than sorrow, pain and suffering,
More than sure looped-goodbyes,
     It is the serendipitous affection
That rules over all, overthrowing
The flowing madness of passing worlds,
Passing all the lovers by, mad enough,
     And mad still, yet the fight
          Is worth loving for.

Love is worth fighting with.
Life is worth it. Love
Is priceless, yet, I love you
A little less
     Than love itself.

Love never grew, it just stays beside,
Just beside, them, us, blown
     By the havoc of life, fate and time,
Drifting amongst the drifters
Surrounding us, dizzied,
     Ever-tested, enduring all.*

© 2015 J.S.P.
Draft.
Lucy Tonic Sep 2012
Father sees in secret
Praying in the closet
To let the cup pass on
Fulfilling not destroying
The curse of family units
To let the cup pass on
Planting mustard seeds
Overthrowing tetrarchs
To let the cup pass on
People full of dead men’s bones
A generation of vipers
To let the cup pass on
Wailing and gnashing
Once it’s 70 x 7
To let the cup pass on
Convert to little children
Align your heart and mouth
To let the cup pass on
He who isn’t with me
Is surely against me
So let the cup pass on
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2013
On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown,
Soon, after new mornings impromptu
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite
Stone to contain that day—  I would
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows
Waking.
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2013
On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown,
Soon, after new mornings impromptu
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite
Stone to contain that day—  I would
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows
Waking.
Eliot Greene Dec 2013
I.
Nothing lasts long enough
To out live its time line
So I weave mine into
A concert celebrating the sound
That our bodies beat to
This organic clockwork armada
Of single cell ships singing lions roars
Before time aligns my spine with the dirt

And though I know gray hair will claim crowns
Overthrowing the royalty of youth
These ball headed blessings
Are nothing more then a water park river slide
We must all ride toward oblivion

So my fatal flawed form
Speaks a beautiful broken clock symphony
For these poems to fill up
Facing the future as if it was an old friend
To bed down with
Laughing at how long it’s been
Since we claimed tomorrow
As a carpe diem doctrine
To rock in

And I hope that when the waterfall of my life
Meets rock-bottom-spray-mist-rainbow-prism-old-age-epiphany  
My grandchildren will cling to me
Like vines to a towering oak tree
So I can whisper to them through a white Walt Whitman mane

"I may be a washed up old lion
But you
You are the roar of a crescendo
To an aria arranged before the birth of music
As if each note was placed purposely to hang in harmony
With the budding of your bones
They sing in the same key as the fickler flashbulbs
Of the stars you were forged in
Who sweet talk to you in your sleep nightly"  
Saying
        Listen my lovelies
        To the lullaby of the universe
        As it sings itself toward salvation
Which when translated into night
        Says come gather your dreams
        In the concert of my body
Babies
You were born
        As a single rift
        In the solo
Of some Charlie parker bird flight ascension
So let this bedtime word weaving remind you of the halo about your head
For you
Were born as angels
Back when the big bang band first leaned how to blow

So if you stagnate
         Like we all do
Fearing that you are all alone in the prison cell of your skin
Remember the old lions still roaring in your gut
Listen close
        For there has never been a moment of silence
        And there will never been a moment of silence
Cause there is music buried beneath your bones my children
Come sing in the choir of your forefathers the winds
        Your solo is about to begin
Gigi Tiji Oct 2014
fuzzy buzzy flickering light fixtures
court me for days -
tired, unlatched
and in a daze

broken hinges hang from
untapped doorways,
painted with
shattered looking glasses
and laces overthrowing
unseen faces
crawling at ungodly paces,

blind red rages boil over
onto sentient pages to die
on unlit stages,
reeking with rows
of rotting audiences,
decomposing millions of
masterpieces.

sleepless death
undertaken,
like a sorry soul,
to a hole new level
six breaths under

reborn into a dogs tail
clenched between
it's own teeth.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2017
Life, be not arrogant, though some have called thee
Terrifying and delighting, thou art so; sowing random confusion,
Overthrowing mortals with unequal puzzles of both extremes,
Humans, condemned, to collect travails, improvident provisions,
Live, Life! But only through us, for thy are slave to imprecisions, conflated constant reversible, the free choice of souls' decisions,
Random and inopportune, thy bedeviling choice of hurdles,
Our swelled heads so vulnerable to robbers and roadblocks,
But cannot thou onfess, rare is thy victory, oft thy defeat.
Until we meet thy comrade in arms, our paths irregular coursing,
Of our own choice, so acknowledge thou makest our path to veer,
Impotent prince, 'tis always our hands, arms upon the tiller to steer.
Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou **** me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2015
On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown,
Soon, after new mornings impromptu
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite
Stone to contain that day—  I would
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows
Waking.
julius May 2021
i stop at the t-junction
between your throat and your collarbone
loving people with a t-suppliment
overthrowing any judgement

you forced me up
and squeezed lemon juice down my throat
i'm pretending that this was never real
but feeling my skin flake and peel

do you ever miss the pain of a new scar?
because there is too much space between my fingers
and it feels raw and unwelcome.

there is something alluring about
unraveling string-
loose ends splitting and breaking
forever vanishing into oblivion
i came home and ate a lemon and rubbed the peels against my eyes until i cried blood
D Hill Dec 2012
Torn down by television, poisoned by *******.
raked by regret and bludgeoned by biography.
Anything but retrospect will happen in your head.
It's crammed full to shut it up then sent to bed.

There are the loudest of riots happening in your brain.
Dictators overthrowing sense and establishing reign!
And you fund them in all of their their warfare!
I can no longer in good consciense send my words there.

You struggle as a product of your fight and the proof is this:
The words are useless.
Feedback would be greatly appreciated.
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2016
.
On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown,
Soon, after new mornings impromptu
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite
Stone to contain that day—  I would
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows
Waking.
mal Nov 2013
you and i
are like anarchy
overthrowing the constraints
of previous hearts
breathtakingly free
and terrifying
lawless
unbridled
dangerous

you and i
are like anarchy
ridiculed and rejected
for being foolish
and torn apart
by human nature

you and i
are like anarchy
individualists alone
but mutualists together
perilously
and constantly
on the brink of collapse
waiting for the other
to pull away
and leave us
in ruins

you and i
are like anarchy
because we only
work
in theory
VV Lettish Apr 2019
one day, one day, one day, armour
deadbeat brother’s gleaming armour
harmonizing with the armour
itching in embrace
gravity respects the armour
you’re a big boy now, my armour
deep below they hid my armour
all around the place.

one day, one day, one day, armour
underneath the living armour
golden all unclean, my armour
by the will of this
even this is god, my armour
realizing thicker armour
for what imitates my armour
substitutes for his.

one day, one day, one day, armour
piercing beams of being, armour
bollywood, besieged, my armour
nuclear in blue
razor field, eleven, armour
twelve, departing with the armour
clever, thirteen, dearest armour
multiplied by you.

one day, one day, one day, armour
not a situation, armour
ever universal, armour
only sharing flows
overthow the loving armour
love the overthrowing armour
lust for other greater armour
shall it overthrow.
shanika yrs Apr 2019
Red blushing cheeks
Oomph of her curly joy
Overthrowing your anguish
There where my freedom

Dolphin girl barely to be seen
Bless the world with your love
And an and, an and
Let me to dive with you
Somewhere deep into that ocean
To that **** bluish ocean
shanikayrs
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2016
On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown,
Soon, after new mornings impromptu
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite
Stone to contain that day—  I would
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows
Waking.
Seán Mac Falls May 2014
On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown,
Soon, after new mornings impromptu
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite
Stone to contain that day—  I would
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows
Waking.
Qasid Ali Dec 2016
Red roses have turned black now
The clouds of rain whisper in my ears
Time has thrown me back now
In the days of no fears....

Somethin i see when I look into a mirror.
The good times and the horror
The wrinkles on my face
The smiles given to me by grace
Description of my time spent
The days I didn't have my back bent


Smiling in the face of world
Flying like a free bird
The Arrogance and the pride
Like an oceans high tide

The unruly ways
The untruly says
The trustworthy fellas
And that secret crush of Bella's

Alas.. I had the days
Where I could have said the phrase
Could have made my life with her
But the bitterness of love we all have to taste

The energy overflowing in me
The joy overthrowing me
The nights merging into days
Roses losing it's petals


Back when i was a boy
Goin through the wet days and the dry
Better know as the black sheep
Nothing to hide no feelings so deep


Dancing my way through the crowd
My presence shouting my name out loud
No emptiness there was to fill
No guilty I had to ****....



The summers and winters of the life
Everyone has to witness
Spring is the choices we make
Autumn is the destiny....


I've known the four Seasons
I've lived them in a way
when you get to the truth
Life sways away with the death.


The old days have gone now
The silence now speaks to me
Those memories mess my head
Now there's not a long road Ahead.

I see my death on my door everyday
Always finding a way to take me away
A million things I've left to say
Wishing to get one more day.
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2014
On that western isle, bathed in gold-
Drenching sun, my only, giddy love,
Weaved a daisy chain and crowned
Herself, above the clouds and purple-
Violet seas, her grace, topping yellow-
Sparkled weeds, to flower, marching
In fealty, round her red, reign of crown,
Soon, after new mornings impromptu
Coronation, misty, bluer, eyes felt slow
Distant dread, the subtle, burning fate,
The inevitable nights of overthrowing
And fade of love's noble, corona light.

Were I shaper of dream, I would build
A grand labyrinthian castle of granite
Stone to contain that day—  I would
Conjure a moat, impervious to shifting
Time, the mute corruption of sorrows
Waking.

— The End —