"pausing" poems
A distant look in her eyes,
Stretching beyond the horizon.
A battle long fought,
In her dreams so surreal.
A thousand miles did she walk,
Before pausing to rest.
But the lights began to fade,
For it was time for her sunset.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
Summer morning -
pink jets of clouds
splash out
from the golden well of the east
falling just short
of an ebbing moon.
Streams of swallows
flutter and glide
over the garden -
they are all flying
in the same direction
as if erupting
from the sun’s waking pulse.
Just for a moment
one of the birds hangs
perfectly still -
like the top-most drop of water
from a fountain before it turns
to face the glittering pool.
Beneath them all
the hummingbird
makes her rounds
and a dove scratches the earth
below the feeder
keeping an wary eye
on the scribbling intruder.
So many summer mornings -
too many summer mornings
I have wasted
worrying about the world
and my place in it –
absent from my own body
and breath
the cage of my ribs
rising, falling, and pausing
without me. Meanwhile,
another swallow
stills her wings.
Buoyed by an unseen breeze
she is both feathered sail
and cresting wave as she slices
over my shoulder bearing west.
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
Commanding and adept your hands guide mine along
supple lips.
Pausing
She tastes of cinnamon.
She squirms but can not move.
She is not afraid.
Our hands grasp her neck.
Tonight she belongs to us
With every gasp she moans.
My mouth is quivering, thinking about tasting her.
I search for her thighs from my satin darkness.
They are warm, wet, and inviting like the ocean
she tastes of salt and sunshine.
My tongue glides over her ****** , slowly, tenderly as our body heat rises and
then crack goes the cat o' nine.
She can not breathe and I can not see yet there has been no greater ecstasy.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
when i was a freshman one of my friends told me that there was a girl who was talking about me
asking why i was pretending to be straight and that everyone could tell that i was gay
my friends and i laughed it off like children and i quipped “i’m not pretending anything, just ask anyone and they’ll know”
now, i think of the rainbow socks, the only thing i own with a rainbow on it, being shoved down to the bottom of my sock drawer as if it would pop out at any minute and proclaim it’s existence if it were any higher. now, i think of the rainbow highlight that i applies in the bathroom at midnight, pausing every now and again to make sure i was alone. Now, i think of the pride nail art that i scrubbed off my nails minutes after i painted it on. now, i think of the last word in a poem that i wrote and turned in, scared i was being too obvious with the word they.
now, i think of the horrible creature sitting in my chest that simultaneously begs to never tell my secrets and to also scream them from the roof tops. i think of the sludge that lives in me and climbs up my throat, whispering safety into my ear while also ripping apart everything it touches. i think of the pain i feel whenever i say that i’m gay, because it makes things easier if the works sees me as a girl who loves other girls.
before thinking of this poem i had sat back and wondered how many bottles it would take of the various prescription medicines that my parents kept in the kitchen cabinet to **** me. when i remembered the name they would put on the tombstone i stopped and walked away. i remember the time where i couldn’t walk away and i had reached in and grabbed a full bottle of ibuprofen and i took a single one, hoping that my screaming head could be sated by the feeling of a single pill crawling down my throat.
i had a dream last night about someone called addison.
they looked me in the eyes and before i even knew what they looked like their physical form flickered until they were a bright shining star in a vaguely human form.
they sat next to me as we floated in a void on a picnic blanket and they put their arm around my shoulder which felt like a hug from someone i used to know but had forgotten
i stared at their glasses that looked too much like mine as they flickered in and out of existence and they told me i was not where i was supposed to be.
i didnt ask them where but they heard it anyways as if breaking into my thoughts. they answered that they could not tell me and when i thought why they said they didn’t want to spoil the fun of a brighter future for them and me.
i woke up with the taste of lavender on my tongue and the desire to change my name.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 1:11 AM UTC
Slipping into my apron,
Hungry in body and soul
Humming as a song played...
I grab my knife and chop-board
Unsure of what to cook
Strange inspirations possess me
Filling me with *****
My kitchen becomes a stage
In my hands- a plectrum and fretboard
Silver utensils- my live audience!*
As I play divine recipes
Strumming master acoustic chords
Chopping fresh, colorful vegetables.
I dash to the remote,
Punch "Repeat" and dash back on stage
Landing on E♭ minor,
Scaling impossible notes,
I slice with razor-sharp plectrum,
On onions and other root chords
My fret arrayed with colors,
Of spinach, lettuce, tomatoes
Carrots, potatoes, olives
Pepper, cabbage and cucumbers.
I hear a thunder of applause
As I ignite the cooker
Butter sizzling in the hot pan
A staccato of sharp notes,
*Ready to modulate innocent vegetables
Through spicy aromatic crescendos!*
I fight hard to suppress a sneeze,
No sneezing on-stage! Unprofessional!
Multitudes of seconds rush by and…
Voila!!!
I stand for a moment
Salivating, awed at my bravura!
Wishing I could hang it on my wall
Tis beautiful like art
But I can’t eat this cake and have it!
So I dig in…
Heaven and earth kiss for a moment
L U S C I O U S!!!
Luckily, it didn’t taste nauseating
Like my last attempt.
No time for ceremonies
I munch from pan to mouth
Pausing for what may pass for a prayer,
I relish every bite!
Not that I’m a foodie or something,
But nothing beats this combo-
Of good food and soul music.
And yes,
*Music is indeed food to the soul!*
I devour, in view- the next meal...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
The vampire really craved him some blood,
And thank god; they'd just buried Mrs. Flood:
He pried open her casket,
And was using his ratchet-
But her fluids had turned thick as mud.
Two vampires decided to dine
On a lady, whose blood was like wine;
While pausing to savor
It's delicate flavor,
One said, the House issue is fine!
Vampires sleep days and fly nights,
They are known to be fearful of lights,
And feeding's quite a trick;
It's got a big kick-
Though impossible, with bad over-bites.
To a vampire, an orgy's a feast
On the blood of man, bird or beast;
And he's not into zoology
Psychiatry or psychology;
Doesn't even care, if it's deceased.
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 12:21 PM UTC
Through the country paths, I lazily loitered,
watching Nature in its changing hue
straying farther into the interiors,
sundry and sublime vistas came into view.
in response to zephyr’s warm embrace,
the silvery leaves joyously fluttered.
the bees busied themselves collecting pollen
and birds on tree tops merrily chattered
it was the *** end of verdant spring.
summer’s sun stood behind my head.
bleat of sheep was heard from far.
‘Good day to you’….. Someone said.
There stood on the hill, a boy around fifteen
obviously he was of tribal breed.
with a beaming smile, he greeted me
but on walking to him, he ran like a steed
I saw him disappear behind the trees
and enter into a hut tiny as a nest
he lived in the lap of Mother Nature,
far from the city and its sooty dust
being coaxed, he hesitantly came out.
my tone of assurance and pleasing smile,
seemed to have won his confidence
as to a friend, he shared his eventful tale.
pointing to the sheep grazing in the slope,
he said, he earned a living caring the flock.
he stayed in the woods all day long,
feeding and tending his master’s sheep.
from dawn to dusk, through woods and meads,
he leads his sheep, calling them by their name.
un vexed, with simple pleasures he is content
and with a nomad’s life, he seems to be tame
he said, at home he has his invalid mother.
bringing her back to health is his mission in life
on referring to his mother, I watched his eyes glitter
nothing other than her illness posed to him a strife
from every utterance, I could sense his filial love.
even in abundance, while shadows line many faces,
on his visage, hope lingered as a dancing flame
to me he seemed above many, rich in other graces!
While parting, I handed him a little money
pausing unbelievably, with moist eyes
he accepted it, when a breeze passed caressing us
as if over a kind gesture, Nature seemed to rejoice!
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
1473
We talked with each other about each other
Though neither of us spoke—
We were listening to the seconds’ Races
And the Hoofs of the Clock—
Pausing in Front of our Palsied Faces
Time compassion took—
Arks of Reprieve he offered to us—
Ararats—we took—
8.3k
Lone leatherback cruises up from the deep, pausing on the fragile reef
to feast ancient eyes upon the show, a bright parade laid out below
butterfly couples paired for life, graceful angels in black and white stripe
brilliant clowns and their toxic lovers, a plodding gang of giant groupers
puffers bob like comic balloons, humble gobies on every menu
beaked parrotfish grinding the coral down, in the ears a constant sound
cowfish blowing puckered kisses, sea stars catching fishy wishes
white-tipped, hammerhead, tiger sharks, triggerfish mean bite worse than their bark
untamed unicorns too wild to ride, dogfish snapping, biting alongside
coral trout color-shifting fools, attracting ladies in dull-hued schools
**** headed wrasse rumbling through, thick lips mumbling go get a room
sea horses nod in labyrinth caves, razor-toothed eels lying in wait
if tentacled embrace should be your fate, nudibranchs will light the way
to a place of bliss, none of this can exist, without the builders
coral and algae bewildered, the ways of man egotistical
rising ocean temperatures, carbon emissions, and el Niño
victim of abundant greed, say goodbye to the Great Barrier Reef
so massive is this magical place, one can see it from outer space
astronauts witness its demise, ninety-percent barren, bleached bone white.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
i place my head beside her thigh
as if to sleep in her warmth,
I say Twosday,
she says,what?
I repeat, Twosday,
Yes, she say, it is,
pausing to consider
and connect
my dots:
Ha, you’re writing a poem!
“head connected to my thigh bone,
drawing from within me,
the necessary ingredients to
inspire, perspire,-and respire
this agglomeration of the
in and out of your surroundings
contacting pulses”
I think, ah,
she’s got it,
but all I say and
state with definiteness,
by repeating,
and breathing out
Toosday, Twosday!
Jan 16, 2025
Jan 16, 2025 at 11:09 AM UTC
“I remember the bed just floating there” is how Phil Kaye started his ‘repetition’ poem.
I remember pausing the youtube video after the poem ended.
I remember burying my feelings under 3 blankets and 4 hours of binge watching spoken word poetry.
I do not remember the dreams I could have had.
I remember the set of nightmares that visited religiously like the downstairs neighbor tired of how loud my heart pounds at late evenings.
I remember, very clearly, how they went.
I do not remember if I have written them down.
Dream one: he peels my freckles off my skin; he says he needs them because his coffee is too light. I scream while he calmly adds pints of the cheeks to his cup. He says I can never be as quiet as the girl who managed to sneak into his ribcage and build herself a bedroom.
Dream two: We are standing in the great library of Alexandria. He pulls the sea from underneath my feet and stuffs it into his back pocket. He says he needs it because he is tired of drowning himself in uncertainty. I start to cry and he says: Aries is the god of war, and women born under this sign confuse war for love.
I remember the mole on his left ear growing bigger in my nightmares without me ever watering it.
I remember he smelled of tangerine trees and broken records.
I do not remember if his face looked like the man I almost fell in love with last winter, or my father.
I remember the first time I saw my father after he came back from Ukraine.
I remember his brown leather shoes that oozed of old spice cologne and neat scotch.
I remember his hardly worn pair of glasses and the pieces of me they never cared to read.
I remember the wrinkles that seemed newer than his glasses slowly colonizing his hands... the hands that never held me as tight as the dress I wore to my school prom hoping it would catch my ex’s attention.
I remember that dress.
I remember it had a floral print reminiscent of the season that I was named after hoping maybe it would remind him I’m part him.
I remember realizing he will never remember.
And now, I sit on a carpet of autumnal leafs as crisp as my tied tongue and as dead as my fears, trying to turn my love for him into more than just a memory.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
i've been
reading poetry
ee cummings and--
sylvia plath
pretty pools of words filled with color
--and ducks
charles bukowski is a
***** old man
lots of ***** old
words
and images
but real dirt, not pretend
real's so hard to find
these days
they talk about love like it's
broken--painful--deadly--
always wonderfully beautiful
(like the beautiful snake whose
poison's killing you)
that's not
love
because it's falling asleep with warm breath on the back of your neck and your bed a little too small
because it's laughing so hard that you almost snort macaroni and cheese out your nose
because it's doing laundry and pausing just to notice how your clothes smell like her
because it's waiting alone, imagining how big you'll smile when she comes back - it's always bigger than you think.
because it's knowing that the pain's not part of love, it's part of being human
they don't know
nearly as much as they
think--
they do
i love--
baseball in the park when it's not too hot
(I play shortstop)
chocolate ice cream cones in the hot sun
(dripping down my hand)
flying kites in autumn winds
(the falling leaves make the difference)
sledding through the snow
(and crashing into snowbanks)
i love--
coca-cola
(in the glass bottles)
root beer
(with vanilla ice cream)
7-up
(it's better than sprite)
mountain dew
(caffeine!)
i love--
you
(and the soapy smell after you shower)
you
(making me laugh more)
you
(how much you care about people)
you
(and you let me, too)
that's my proof they
don't know
(what
they're talking about
that is)
so--
i think poetry
is overrated
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 10:08 PM UTC
Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
1219
Now I knew I lost her—
Not that she was gone—
But Remoteness travelled
On her Face and Tongue.
Alien, though adjoining
As a Foreign Race—
Traversed she though pausing
Latitudeless Place.
Elements Unaltered—
Universe the same
But Love’s transmigration—
Somehow this had come—
Henceforth to remember
Nature took the Day
I had paid so much for—
His is Penury
Not who toils for Freedom
Or for Family
But the Restitution
Of Idolatry.
5.2k
its does not matter your age
i can simply love you
at seventeen or seventy
at seventeen as a boy
and i’ll laugh from you
and teach you the sweetness of life
at seventy as a man
probably i would loved you
pausing your hands in my
there has a room between us
may you ask me why
is because ~where is the 30, 40 and 50~?
i read about that and i saw this love
in a movie…so
i dont know anything how big love is
If yours are so so immense
as a lake…
if you can be the mirror over what happens
~inside my heart~
and all is equal
my love…your love…
strange and infinity
Have we meet each other
Before?
I ask you…. have i loved you one time…in my life?
as the time pass by
together ….with a Changed Love?
does not matter
at seventeen or seventy
Is love anyway
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
...
Mystery;
Such that you were to me
But nervously I swayed in your direction
Curious;
I couldn't help but catch
my breath as you spoke of this
dismal city and your photography
So caught
in your wishes to escape
back to your summer adventures
to the hustle and bustle of Tokyo and Seoul;
it was then you felt such anonymity
So it was then you had felt free.
I look to you again,
piecing you in these things that you
dare share with me; so easily,
eagerly.
Quiet now, you look to me but
I apologize, I didn't know quite
where to begin.
Mist and fluttering snow
Clouding over our concrete city,
We walked below the looming
Buildings until pausing,
to take a picture of me.
It seemed, in this hour, it was
only us who
chose to walk through these
deserted snowed-in streets
You suggested something then,
offering to take me up to the top
of the sleekest buildings,
to your rooftop sanctuaries I longed
to see
until it was only in my view-
small specks of life below me
where I could only see my sodden shoes
dangle down
to nothingness, to air, weightlessly as I
taste the mist upon my shoulders and
frozen hair.
In awe I would laugh
at the beautiful sight before me- to
Skyscrapers that cut above clouds
in the glint of the sun reflecting back to
our eyes, and
our cheeks who also felt the bite of
winter's winds.
Shivering,
Soaked in hair and feet
and
Again I turned to face you
but here,
with glittering eyes,
... wondered where
You would then choose to
take me
on our second date?
P.K.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
Thank you, tourists
For pausing.
For capturing
Every moment.
Your cameras draped,
Quivering below your necks
Your necks rosy
with sun.
Sunscreen scents
Swarm the air
But the air bursts
Diverse Dialects,
Dogmas,
and Dreams.
Thank you
From a resident,
A student,
A visitor,
A wanderer.
Thank you
For immobilizing
Glorious minutes
For impeding time
Just for a moment.
For acknowledging-
So that those who neglect to notice,
Once again realize their riches.
Thank you
For your quiet grins
As you regard
The world.
Thank you, travelers.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
Stairs fly as straight as hawks;
Or else in spirals, curve out of curve, pausing
At a ledge to poise their wings before relaunching.
Stairs sway at the height of their flight
Like a melody in Tristan;
Or swoop to the ground with glad spread of their feathers
Before they close them.
They curiously investigate
The shells of buildings,
A hollow core,
Shell in a shell.
Useless to produce their path to infinity
Or turn it to a moral symbol,
For their flight is ambiguous, upwards or downwards as you please;
Their fountain is frozen,
Their concertina is silent.
4.1k
my room was a mess,
and we added to it as we undressed,
because I couldn't wait any longer.
I love the feeling of you on me,
as I try to be quite
You came in my mouth,
gripping my head,
my neck,
you tell me, "moan baby"
you love to hear me moan,
you wanted me to moan so loud the whole town could hear,
when I do I feel so happy to be with you,
I lay next to you,
wrap my body around you,
I hold ur hands and make a face that says everything were going to do,
is going to be *****
but I want to love you,
I kiss you to the point there's no point in stopping,
and when our fingers are unlocking,
they stroke your hair,
hair I love,
you grab my *** and spank it hard,
and I move my hands down your body never pausing,
but I can feel every part of you,
I know that this time its not frightening,
I make my way all the way down to your ****
and I put it in and we go off,
our ********** feels like it never stops,
we took the time to trace the outlines of each others bodies,
we looked into each others souls,
and now I'm getting ***** faster than eminem's Rap God,
and his body feels like a god,
the *********** begins,
and i'm pleased within,
moaning louder than before,
really hopping the neighbors aren't home next door,
and this is how loving you should feel.
so unreal,
even though its all real.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
Worst part of loneliness is being without you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Worst part of loneliness is being without you.
On most days I can fill my life with something
Rather than nothing or feeling sorry for myself
Sorry that now my Darling has gone pain free
Trouble is that we thought we’d live forever
Pausing seldom to think of a reality of ageing
Ageing is deadly. Parts wear out and die off
Reality dawns on us too late. Missed the bus
Typically missed spent youth comes to haunt
On those occasions when tobacco was king
From that day on. The fuse had been lit.
Loneliness now is your legacy to me as I lay
On those days in Queensland when it pours
Never in small droplets. No it really rains. !!
Engulfing the storm drains and rivers n lakes
Like the whole heavens are crying “She’s gone
I ache from the loneliness. I am so missing you
Now I appear to the outside world I cope well
Every holistic solution know to man do I try
So many all the days of the week do I count
Some say they are a great remedy for grief
I argue not ,I think this does work well for me
So in my opinion the loneliness is the worst
Because you were always there to praise me
Exciting my day by your loving exclamation
I love you my darling , I love you , do you know
No doubt in our minds. We loved each other.
God knows how long he plans for me to suffer
Worst part of loneliness is being without you.
I start my day with a sort of positive stance.
Thinking I know exactly what’s in store today.
Having logged all appointments methodically
Only I do it alone. So very alone , very alone.
Unless I come to grips with this I’ll be very sad
Though I hate the loneliness this without you.
You my darling meant so very much to me.
Only through the tribute do I place thoughts
Unnecessary for anyone but you to hear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip. 12 th October 2018.
It’s getting easier at November 26th 2018
With the aid of Gods guidance and Poetry
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
Where to begin
I think to myself as I submerge
my thoughts
In you and what it is that
Gives the tick to your tock.
I think of your eyes
And the depth
That lies
Folded within
Green and brown
Layered
Life
Disguised
And smiling.
Lost glasses
And lager
That comes in pints
Accompanied by
Epic
And
Blatant
Action and statement
Your energy blasts
Fast and furious
Frenzy
I sense more to you
Than what meets my eye.
And in that thought
I lie
Here now
Creased brow
In anticipation of knowing you more.
I think of your nails
And the way they touch
Me deeper than
The welts
That are kissed
Crimson stain
Onto my skin.
Your essence
Seeps inside
Within
And bleeds out of my body
Through my lips
As I savour
The flavour
That makes
You taste
So simply
Divine.
You have this way
Of ceasing time
And pausing
The beat of my heart.
Just a smile
Is all it takes
And your laugh,
The way your eyes
Drop low,
The dip of your neck and
The way you glance up
And out from
Under your
Fringe.
You unhinge
The door
That stands
Shut and heavy
Before
My eyes
Wide open
Surprise
As you storm
Into my soul
And take whole
My delight
And spin its
Weave
Into gold.
I am sold
On you
And your cold hands
Warm heart.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 3:01 AM UTC
blunt tips of bent cigarettes
were incisive as razors -
sliced wrists weeping
bright red sentences,
spattered unborn to blank paper
and turned into statues
so the dead would always remember
what they did,
never safe in the graves
in which they'd took refuge
but blue on blue
was ever her color;
blue on blues
seeping from old sins,
deep, hidden within spidery veins
that traced pale, soft *******
finally filling mute lips as she slept,
subsumed in oceans of color,
blues that gave stories, as waves to shore
subsided, reclaiming their pain,
and cleansed sand once more
What end to life!
a collection of furies like stone turtles
arranged on the mantle -
just a few dozen last words
tucked among ads for
Old Spice and Polident tabs
unread, used to line
litter boxes in Cambridge
or wrap fresh fish at Hay Market;
then, someone pausing to wave at the sky
missed saving the drowning woman
by years, if he'd tried,
finding questions in every answer;
child curled in hard lap of his mother,
her cold affections of words
blew from dead lips like old wishes
without tender touch or wet kisses;
but that life continued,
if lived only blue on blue
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 6:02 PM UTC
Evening was in the wood, louring with storm.
A time of drought had ****** the weedy pool
And baked the channels; birds had done with song.
Thirst was a dream of fountains in the moon,
Or willow-music blown across the water
Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill.
Uneasy was the man who wandered, brooding,
His face a little whiter than the dusk.
A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head.
The end of sunset burning thro' the boughs
Died in a smear of red; exhausted hours
Cumber'd, and ugly sorrows hemmed him in.
He thought: 'Somewhere there's thunder,' as he strove
To shake off dread; he dared not look behind him,
But stood, the sweat of horror on his face.
He blunder'd down a path, trampling on thistles,
In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees.
And: 'Soon I'll be in open fields,' he thought,
And half remembered starlight on the meadows,
Scent of mown grass and voices of tired men,
Fading along the field-paths; home and sleep
And cool-swept upland spaces, whispering leaves,
And far off the long churring night-jar's note.
But something in the wood, trying to daunt him,
Led him confused in circles through the thicket.
He was forgetting his old wretched folly,
And freedom was his need; his throat was choking.
Barbed brambles gripped and clawed him round his legs,
And he floundered over snags and hidden stumps.
Mumbling: 'I will get out! I must get out!'
Butting and thrusting up the baffling gloom,
Pausing to listen in a space 'twixt thorns,
He peers around with peering, frantic eyes.
An evil creature in the twilight looping,
Flapped blindly in his face. Beating it off,
He screeched in terror, and straightway something clambered
Heavily from an oak, and dropped, bent double,
To shamble at him zigzag, squat and *******
Headlong he charges down the wood, and falls
With roaring brain--agony--the snap't spark--
And blots of green and purple in his eyes.
Then the slow fingers groping on his neck,
And at his heart the strangling clasp of death.
3.6k
The hollow wind funneled the voice
of the distant night-train crossings,
awakening a familiar silence
hanging from the vast wilderness sky
A restless heart hearkening the echoes,
imagining a runaway Pullman
flew away off the rails, airborne
on the winged wind headed north
Winter pausing for a moment
in the shadows of familiarity,
as if parsing the unspoken breathings
in an echoless surrendered sigh;
uncertain if tacit words set free
could ever allow a heart broken
to feel whole again
There is no absolving voice
that whispers in a solemner tone :
Death has no mercy ―
love remains marooned in the wake ,..
and it feels like the world’s gone mad
letting time be the arbiter of perpetuity
The fading dream of a motherless child;
a wish to be held maternally
fell to the ground with a thud,
breaking the silence,
dissipating formless as the shape of water
Muted cold lips so full of questions
morphing into fugitive sighs
come the unsettled night;
when shadows disappear like frail memories
that passed too soon to grasp,
thickly palpable as the warm breath
a winter bird alone on frosty branch
There’s no fear in braving the darkness
in the winter wilderness of life borne alone
There’s no way of knowing what you’ll find
down that long empty road back home
Life just flashes by silently before your eyes
through the windshield
of countless miles and miles
And there’s nothing you can do about it ―
It’s like hearing the moment of truth in a lie
when all I was looking for
was how I got here in this now,.. yesterday
only finding a hopeless poet
scribbling slightly stained pages,
spilling a bitter sweet dream ...
harlon rivers ... February 2018
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Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
Poem written by Philip October 12th 2018 Ref 026. An Acrostic:
Worst part of loneliness is being without you
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Worst part of loneliness is being without you.
On most days I can fill my life with something
Rather than nothing or feeling sorry for myself
Sorry that now my Darling has gone pain free
Trouble is that we thought we’d live forever
Pausing seldom to think of a reality of ageing
Ageing is deadly. Parts wear out and die off
Reality dawns on us too late. Missed the bus
Typically missed spent youth comes to haunt
On those occasions when tobacco was king
From that day on. The fuse had been lit.
Loneliness now is your legacy to me as I lay
On those days in Queensland when it pours
Never in small droplets. No it really rains. !!
Engulfing the storm drains and rivers n lakes
Like the whole heavens are crying “She’s gone
I ache from the loneliness. I am so missing you
Now I appear to the outside world I cope well
Every holistic solution know to man do I try
So many all the days of the week do I count
Some say they are a great remedy for grief
I argue not ,I think this does work well for me
So in my opinion the loneliness is the worst
Because you were always there to praise me
Exciting my day by your loving exclamation
I love you my darling , I love you , do you know
No doubt in our minds. We loved each other.
God knows how long he plans for me to suffer
Worst part of loneliness is being without you.
I start my day with a sort of positive stance.
Thinking I know exactly what’s in store today.
Having logged all appointments methodically
Only I do it alone. So very alone , very alone.
Unless I come to grips with this I’ll be very sad
Though I hate the loneliness this without you.
You my darling meant so very much to me.
Only through the tribute do I place thoughts
Unnecessary for anyone but you to hear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip. 12 th October 2018.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC