"peculiarly" poems
“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”
a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being
a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers
imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels
part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on
demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death
in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth
look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,
I do not know
*how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,*
the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
All the ants have scurried away,
leaving the unstable mud anthill to crumble.
The other older ants are slowly turning grey,
From grey to black,non poisonous and feeble.
Crimson red ants bursting with colorless blood,
Driven by pure prejudiced hunger.
to carry heavier loads,more food ,till they collapse under the burden,
Their ambition ,now,more fiercer.
The grey ants peculiarly fat,dumb and happy,
Oblivious to the scurrying soldiers.
Waiting to be submerged under the fall,to be perished entirely,
Paving way for the red running dots to disperse.
A solitary ant suddenly stops scurrying,
to WAIT
for,they say,patience will conquer all worrying.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 4:34 AM UTC
I am clueless as to how I have dug a hole in this concrete ground, 60 feet deep. The dust I’ve been choking on does not bother me no more, layers piling upon my lungs like snow upon an exposed carcass. The slightest upheaval of my chest and tingling in my lungs reminds me that I still breathe. I’ve met scaffolds of bones down here. As I stare into their hollow sockets, I could never figure if they were ever esurient for something I held. They taught me how the ocean is never blue but only a de facto reflection of the sky. They said many mistook the sea for the sky, but never once mentioned the salt that contaminated their lungs- the impetus that drove their feet 60 steps into the waves. A reconciliation it must have been. I doubt it made any difference, when their hearts were bleeding out; a pity it doesn’t make it any lighter. Down they sank.
I wonder if I mistook these soils for the sky. As I looked up, I realised that the sky only seemed further away. There’s something peculiarly comfortable down here, the little bumps on the walls and contours of the craters looked like jawlines of a new-found friend. The sun is so blindingly high in the sky. I preferred how sometimes I could see the man in the moon- shadows cast by imperfections on the moon’s surface. In the vague moonlight and scrawny silhouettes, the fact that the moon always has a dark side makes it tangible a thousand miles away. Sometimes, I lay on this wooden receptacle discovered upon excavation and gaze at the empty skies with my friend as he tells me what lies outside this trough. Happiness is a pack of hungry wolves and when they are done, you are left with only your marrows. I see things clearer down here, than above where they are smothered by smoke from the trees they burned to the ground. Sometimes the skies are dark with no hint of dusk, sometimes the sky is filled with white nebula; but most of the times, the days are shorter than the nights. But it never gets any darker down here.
I figured I could never mistake this hole for the sky. I was just chasing these broken pieces like I used to chase happiness. I have no idea how I’ve gotten this deep while trying to pick up these pieces that I don’t recognise. But the struggle tells me it’s real, and the pain keeps me awake. They say if you spend enough time with someone, you will fall in love. I guess that’s what happened between sadness and me.
I’m staying here.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 4:09 PM UTC
1415
A wild Blue sky abreast of Winds
That threatened it—did run
And crouched behind his Yellow Door
Was the defiant sun—
Some conflict with those upper friends
So genial in the main
That we deplore peculiarly
Their arrogant campaign—
3.1k
I remember it was cold and quiet. We stood up beneath the scattering stars.
Silently staring at the landscape outspread in front of us, where the mountain touched the sky.
Losing count on the steps taken, you wondered how many dreams townspeople had to reach the summit tower seen from afar;
Spreading lights randomly with no purpose to guide. Little yet arrogant. Like a candlestick being put on the top of the world, accidentally.
Or maybe, incidentally placed to embody the messiah for those who would discover it that way — which might be peculiarly irrational.
Despite the lame fact, it still mesmerized you. I just knew the moment your starry eyes were seen in the dim night. And out of the blue, it captivated me too.
We sneaked from the despotic night, releasing laughs from the deepest and most untouched alley in our lungs. Our fears were freed.
Nonchalant towards the thing ahead of us, even to the time that felt prematurely withered.
"I remember once this priest brought hope to our house, and we just followed him since then", you said. That’s how you told me that miracle wasn’t the thing that kept us living, but hopes that enlightened.
Unyielding lost in the most chaotic ecstasy I have ever encountered. It became that moment when a knock on the door wouldn’t be able to break our reverie.
Modest. Humble.
We then walked unafraid through the open door that led us to the home where the sun rises.
Aug 14, 2022
Aug 14, 2022 at 9:26 AM UTC
unbeknownst to this world
outsider looking in
absorbing, peculiarly
the arrogance surrounding me
oblivious to most
and easily ignored
for my skill is in books
and not in the well known
surrounded by immense talent
and the jealous meek
men that has learnt to walk
without having any feet
yet the stench of inequality
leaves a bitter taste
so easy to differentiate
the humble from the pack
more I pity the minions
wanting to be known
strip the fame and popularity
focus on them bare
will you still like the person
you've mounted in the air?
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 5:49 PM UTC
I think I'm falling in love.
Not the cute and pretty kind,
but the mean and gritty type that
you worry is going to last too long.
Will I end up missing your face?
Watch it fade as those memories dim.
There's a reason it's called falling
and not floating nor gliding.
God, I hate falling in love.
Isn't it so peculiarly terrifying?
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
Took one step into his lonesome world.
The clouds there were peculiarly pixelated in a forgettable shade of #999999
Digitally coded water vapor condensing into dense bubbles of thought
They resembled puzzle pieces childishly misplaced
Naivety was finger-painted along the lining and edges
While other bits played a quiet game that seemed to find them wanting
I did wonder where he hid them
Or if it was someone else who ran away
Who stole the stars in his sky?
Who stole the light in his pocket?
Took another step into his lonesome world.
The wind there had a dance of it's own that seemed to trace a pattern
Oscillating at a rate of 15Hz was a low frequency partner-less sway
Similar to eyelids confused and batting their lashes
Or wiper blades clearing tears off cars during a storm
Occurring without much thought was the drizzle with each wave
I did wonder why he danced alone
Or was it someone else who simply walked off
Who turned his sky on?
Who turned his lights off?
Took a breath standing in the center of his lonesome world.
I looked up and to my surprise found the eye of his mind
Staring back at me from those ***** clouds
It was the reason to all being and the wind was it's doing
Rising high up from an endless undisturbed nap
It was;
Brighter than the Sun itself
Bursting citrus with each blink
Bleeding pulp over my skin
Burning like acid on my own wounds
Delightful heat dripping off my tongue
Psychedelic spirals twisting my limbs
And
i danced and spun
And
i lost and won
Please find me somewhere in those broken memories of yours
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:14 AM UTC
Pure tranquility amongst immense vulnerability
Embrace the placid pace as interlacing moments of divinity create a symmetrical vision of femininity and masculinity
Cultivating humility in unobtrusively exercising providential gifts
Ancient relations uncovered through self-refinement; revel in a realm of silence peculiarly deepening this divine assignment.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
divot discoloration blemished imperfection.
The storybook of my flesh is peppered with these pockmarks of life.
A secret connect the dots maze on my body binding the story pages together.
I grin as I examine my body and all it's protruding oddities, how beautiful it is as I crash course through this crazy ocean my breath still ebbs and flows in synchronization.
I love the nooks of me no one else could possibly understand.
my peculiarly chipped tooth buried in my gums as a reminder of juvenile fun.
I tuck myself into a bed of comfort cradling these imperfections, a grand testament of life.
The girl with the electric smile and lazy eye.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
Peculiarly different in the way of bad connection. The ease of bonding was compromised with the temperament that was borne upon me. Aren't we all worthy of love? Ive found the new love of my life, once so lost and directionless; I have finally found the life's work that is meant for me - by accident.
TRAGIC COMEDY
Driving lost and slowly, no - only a certain speed tears muscle from bone and sinew; the most morbid memory of death and the lead taste of blood from a crushed skull splattered with a hammer over and over again.
It finally happened. A dear crossed the road in slow motion. The entire mass was split into 3 sections as my vehicle plowed through.
Exhilaration!!!
At last, the meaning is discovered. The loneliest connection to life is death.
5 hours driving in preparation of new pleasure. The target must not be rushed. The life of an older person is ideal; they've experienced more of it.
Down the road again. Someone walking on the shoulder of a long stretching road; this is meant to be. Make a quick stop: ask for directions to something, somewhere. After disappearing around the bend, my 10 and 2 calmly exchanged positions over and over again to complete a u-turn.
Heart beating fast - Fire eyes... The walker recognized the vehicle and tried to step out of the way. I put the pedal to the floor board and ****** the wheel at the precise moment we met eyes for the last time.
Terror...
POW!!!!!!
No longer the flight of fancy that stayed my waking state with images and cravings; the storm has truly begun. Wind blown laundry on the line, caught in the flying droplets descending slowly at the end of a horizontal trajectory as the strength of wind died down once its range was finally met. The laundry - like me - care free and clean, soaked by the drizzle of an impending storm without the guidance of caring hands. I have heard about what is described as the calm before the storm. For me, the calm was only a foreshadowing of what I have become.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
Ah, the yawn
How strange
Yet peculiarly wonderful
Such an odd quirk of evolution
I have to ponder
What circumstances caused this reaction to develop
In some distant past epoch
Were yawns different
Than we know today
Was there a time when we did not yawn at all
And it was merely an adaptation
That took on a memetic life of its own
And through those glorious mirror neurons
Spread to all creatures
Until it became ubiquitous
How it makes one wonder
How the yawn conquered the world.
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 8:50 AM UTC
My friends abroad think I'm peculiarly English
My English friends think I'm peculiarly northern
My northern friends just think I'm peculiar
But at least I've got friends
By Phil Roberts
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
His sense fell from his pocket
rolled away in-between the floorboards.
He did look
But couldn't find.
She's only now discovering
that her own company is lonely
in the light.
Lonelier still when he tries to solve it
Not your problem
not your puzzle.
It is odd she thinks.
He feels real, seems it
This fake lover of mine.
But if she opens her eyes does he disappear?
Just like the real thing?
Sellotape and rubber bands and super glue
and wooden slats nailed across doorways
Hide her from truth
Curious;
She cannot seem to escape this peculiarly tragic trap
she'd set for another
then distractedly stepped into herself.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 5:03 AM UTC
burst to the slow summit of motorways at dawn
there's a freedom here
golden sun off blinding laurel bridges
people with no need to rise so early
no greater need than you
do you ever think it
when you're going so fast
do you ever think that you could die
do you ever will the combustions
and metals that carry you
to meet their absurd shadows
stretched out before them
faster than you, but getting shorter
and getting slower
roll away the glass
embrace the roar
magnify it
and feel the chill that is not.
the light washes the trees of who they are
the avenues of salute
from obsolete lamps
that draw you into these little cities
whose peoples are the steel and the concrete
whose bridges are megaliths
that ancient whispers foresaw
cutting brilliantly through seafoam wheat
my mother always looked at me peculiarly
but, god! - she tried
i fall to reality with the rising sun
but not of loosening night
simply of greeting stasis
anaemic-light-tunnels
built in visions of what the future used to be
false days in darkening motion
that make the tundras seem so small
and marries the hue of beauty, of brutality
here, upon a hill, something red-brick
there, beyond the mist, something stone
perhaps a church
i care not
the age of the concrete speaks to me
the distances wrap around me
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
One
Pretty and kind
Startlingly considerate
But
He is afraid
Two
Athletic and funny
Strikingly aware
But
He is beloved
Three
Purposeful and hardworking
Peculiarly tolerating
But
He is away
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
She's a stripper,
Who strips to stir the crotches of men.
She's a wanton minx,
But that's what she's paid for.
Her curves and back are
Strewn with a dozen of scary tattoos,
That no one can decipher.
Her honey *** is sacred,
Not even millions will win you a dive.
But come one midnight,
Closed from work she is,
A stalker tailed her
Determined to be the first,
Between her sacred thighs.
He waits till an alley draws near,
Then pounces he does.
Her clothes he rips off,
A couple of blows to stun her.
On the ground he forces her,
And into her he thrusts,
Panting in victory and pleasure.
She doesn't fight, she lets him.
And soon, he feels peculiarly hot,
Screaming in agony, he disintegrates,
Only to be ****** into her body.
His face, that of pure anguish
Joining the numerous tattoos
Of faces on her back.
Up she gets, gathers her clothes
And home she went, to strip come
Another night.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
Today these feelings are billowing
like a prevalent arbitrary
tension
of poets as elves
Is there any
thing new
to be proud of
a words structured in an order
peculiarly pleasant
refind enough
just and justified
as
the right chord
is
as a melody of a classical piano
to be laid down on a virtual array
of a poetry realm
over (( night I've danced
beautifully with you ))
laping erratically striking
harsh on hearing nerves system
embrace thy emptiness
to write is to discover
to arbeit machts mir frei
praying for minutes for a pasus that's not so
poignantly s l o w
after
hysterya of bumping crazy chords stampede
fades
hope that you are looking as nice as a well nurtured horse
horhe
hi **
four legged friends are a balsam
for our torn souls
wrecked emptyness is eating me alive
as a wicked
bewilderd beast
you are a honey jar
tilled with a bunch
of naughty
mischievous
sunny rays
tickle tickle
maroon and gold sweety
I need a bachelor
I needn't think unappropriate
I need to breathe I need to breathe
I needn't think about parasympathics
A n d D a m n I n e e d B a c h
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
hummingbird
behold
to this magical action
peculiarly suspended
magic unfolding
life needs a witness
what better
than the brilliance of wings fluttering unseen
hovering in place reflecting
******* up the very existence
god & goddess
thoughts
emerging energy
drifting in all directions
unchained love
raining like rays from the sun
antipode unconditional love contained
hearts superpowers
revelation of one Love
starting with you
floating gracefully
genius foundation of physics
unfortunate therapeutic consumption
familiar snake oil pitch
hopeful of the Devine powers that be
sort this out dive deep seahorse
entanglement of words like a trolling fishing net
enjoy the creatures depth and wisdom
settling is not an option
believe me
or dip your toes somewhere else
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
The living windowsill heaves in shyness
dappled moon flowers readily indolent,
Saint Joan alone shone in salient hope.
Ambient light peculiarly treads on others' footsteps,
as reticent prays find tearfulness enough
to make the Angels cry,
egress only,
until we've drunk our Peace.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
Ha ha on me. eye still have a full head, of laughing hair...
eye am vain like you, and though advancing steadily with daily doses of aging, and since I am titanicaly nearer my God than thee, i.e. the finish line...end of days...whatever...having a nice head of hair is a happy happenstance for nothing "ages" an immature person faster than a lack or absence of hair....
some say it is all genetic....could be...but my theory is different...I laugh at myself all the time...my foolish words, my creasing vices, my dastardly prejudices, are absurd in extremis...and am in possession of a willingness to be the **** of my own humor to bring creased smiles in others's to the fore...
though serious, I don't take myself seriously...and this self disrespect means I laugh at my own pomposity, posterior and peculiarly peculiar peculiarities.
So I laugh a lot as I am one of those idiots who reflects on the state of himself and goes, eye eye eye!
the laughing releases a dosed vial of special testosterone which makes my hair grow and since I fully expect much sorrow and to be living homeless, on the streets, in my end of days, the fact that I will have a full head of hair as I go down into my grave makes me laugh which releases....
ha ha on me
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
Silvine Blockster
had a book
which it seems
everywhere he took
and thus as is
always the case
as when such books
are ferried in open space
it was not unusual
for folk to ask
if they could look
inside Silvines Blokcsters book
But upon not such uncivil pleas
he would become incenced
and wobble most peculiarly
at the knees
rant and even rave
shout and squeal
but he never would reveal
the pages of the books appeal
so once upon a dark and dreary night
when Mr Poe was real and truly out of sight
some citizens upon themselves they took
a vow to knock Silvine Blockster on the head
and steal his precious book
but alas dear reader
the blow they cast
caused poor Silvine Blockster
to breath his last
all fled in panic but one
who stayed fast
and stood there to the very last
he took a furtive look
inside the book
his knees buckled
his face turned white
and from head to toe
was filled with fright
but the book
he could not let go
this brought a smile to Mr Poe
who was not there
as well you know
now Mr Rephil Pad had a book
which it seems
everywhere he took
and when citizens
begged to take a look
his face whould turn green
and he would puke
and dear reader
please beware
for I do not mean to scare
if you encounter
Mr Rephil Pad
under no circumstnce
ask to look
inside his book
or enter into confederation
with those, who for just one peek
would crack his skull
and watch blood leak
for upon this crinkled parchement
fited and forgotten ink
tells of a curse
of which you must not think
a death note
you must not read
on this very subject
Mr Poe and I and of course the Raven
on this subject are all agreed
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 6:42 AM UTC
(STRANGE, BUT TRUE)
Love
Shifting through dark channels
And illuminated signs
Sounds
Shifting through
Cubic's power amplifiers
Human walking angles
Tactic direction changing rhythmically
Variances
Transfixed steps
Breaking the long loud silence
On human tongues
Hopes
Owing to the existence
Of silver enwrapped surrounding hot stars
And hot feelings
Unavoidably reflected upward
Appearing just as a lightning bolt
Or like a peculiarly fierce faithfulness
Gray clouds
Dropping their snow bracer
Ringing bells
Dropping their sad resonance
In death
For love.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 9:27 AM UTC
I do not want to conform
I do not want to be relevant
I do not want to be common
I do not want to be routine
I was not made for those kind of things
I was not made for the temporary
I was not made for the substitutes
I was not made for the limited
I was made for more
and more I will be
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC