"permanency" poems
Submissiveness:
give into man. silence yourself. his word is final. rush to his beck and call when he is angered. we are wrong. man is dominant, and woman is soft. if man is the bone, we are the gushy cartilage cushioning his fall. body dominated and composed of bone, but we are the organs that keep the body functioning. forever being transplanted, while our men are broken. submit.
Purity:
save yourself for man. wait for him with all your white so you are not tainted. innocence upheld. it is all for him, only him. wait for him to take it all, whenever he desires. be pure.
Domesticity:
the home calls our name. it is our calling. our knees bound to scrubbing, hands tied to kneading because our family needs us. we are to be the slaves of our homes just as we were to the white man. permanency of pressing collars that are not our own. domestic labor.
Piety:
we come from the rib of adam. without the presence of man we, ourselves would not exist. for this reason, we worship. we worship to reiterate our purity, to maintain our sanity when others challenge our virtues of womanhood. the lord is our shepherd. we uphold our lord. besides our husbands, he is all that we shall want.
womanhood.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
it’s confusing to me
and maybe this is where
the grooming,
psychological abusing
comes from.
i’m used and discarded,
tossed into the recycling bin
until i’m reused again.
and again.
every time making me
a little weaker
than the time before.
a little less able to refuse.
a little easier to bend,
to break.
the lack of permanency
in the place i long for,
the place in which
i never got to stay for long,
only to be hauled away and
returned upon further notice.
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 7:00 AM UTC
shuffling feet & carry-on suitcases
walking through countries
temporarily nameless, faceless, homeless
in the middle of nowhere
cut off from society
people who, for the time being,
don’t really belong anywhere
a mixture of nationalities & cultures
thousands of different languages,
different races,
different colors
just passing through the terminal
one country to another
some with a final destination in mind
others finding meaning in the journey itself
a lack of permanency
a lack of belonging
i must admit
there’s just something about airports
which makes me feel very much at home
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
***A Woman's Reflection on Her Reflection (Valence and Value)
one poem, written by two authors***
~~~
**Ever the analyst,
A mirror functions as surface to
Parse the fleeting constant
Of youth's beauty.
From genetic gift
Of symmetry and bone,
To technological tampering,
Until the equation is solved,
As experience and character
Models and maps the result.
The answer, a reflection,
Of individual valence and value**
(written by S.D., a woman)
~~~
(written by N.L., a man)
unbidden and unannounced, a
"not fully formed poem,
but a simple reflection"
inbound missile arrives inbox,
armed with silent power,
the lethality of the
Holy Unexpected
the man reflects
on her mirror-on-the-wall's
fulsome reply,
parsing the words of a
woman's reflection,
while gazing on her own
every human's momentary glass notation,
but an instance of summation,
a human poem, whose editing,
unceasing
a comma here,
a period inserted,
an eye shadowed, an eyebrow tweezed,
a eye dark circle line added,
to tree-mark time's authorship
all these
but a person's
excerpted extraction,
notarized,
then auto-erased and revised,
as out of date,
instantaneously compromised
but,
***it is upon the conceptual,
valence and value,
more that the man reflects perpetual,
less on transitory morphing changes of
exterior mortality
while overlooking her
glassine realization from behind,
he concludes:
every reflection,
no matter how oft the snapshot,
the unfleeting constancy
of the combining of the
princes of principles,
valence and value
that he witnesses,
in the calming pool
of her eyes,
(those borrowed windows into her soul's well,)
so well reflect
her unchanging greater finery,
her character
this reflection,
metamorphosis transformed.
into a planetary permanency poem,
high placed in his the firmament
of their conjoined sky***
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC
I'm not too inclined to write.
Because my roots lie deep in soil
unmended
and highly offended by such
apathetic precipitation. Approximating that
any hint of hope
was barren.
So a love life-
one, call her wife.
She austerely abided by permanency
despite omnipresent strife.
There was simply no life.
Nothing.
Not an attempt to stick it out
past
imaginary doubt.
All when you were
all my life was about?
Days of
ferris wheels
and
tickled squeals
bring on such sweet strength.
But I can't say anything
blunted the light
more than your shadow.
I digress.
It's always been a battle
My blind past,
they say,
shows only decay.
If green is still visible,
on a day chemically dismal
remember
that still
I'm not inclined to write.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
On my journey to my grandmother’s, the landscape holds my attention with subtleties.
Muted hues of soft lavender, pale brown, and ashy green painted outside the dashboard. Everything peeking out from a gentle coat of dust.
Yellow weeds and thistles dot the golden hills.
This corner of the country feels like a cherished family heirloom. The color palette resonates with my only sense of familiarity. Maybe it is my fixation on the colors themselves that buffer any sense of grief I carry towards instability. None of us in my family have claimed permanency in structure. Yet, my grandmother’s home is a sanctuary.
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 1:32 AM UTC
This *****
Artificially awake
Lydia
apples 20 years have passed
oranges i want a do over
manhole cover coins
savage glares across the 4 wheeled property lines
young moms not giving a **** that's alright
kiss of sun hidden from
anxious from blue oak , it's ridges pluming in the dappled twist
and floundering wave, wiggling wave of oak leaves green as frogs.
ponytail suzy, *** from galaxy sci-fi
i brought up a cup while it was empty there,
but so distracted by my own trembling effort,
every hair a furry hood, every fatty fixture of my face a rebounding basset hound
tennis shoes up to my neck, dumb naked in my greenery,
already old somehow, the window closing,
the permanency of parks, like a stilletto in a limosine,
green fixture of my white blinded attempt to see tomorrow,
tourist .
thoughts of Sylvia
, my gaping awe at the feminine,
and its green garden.
-cbrander
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 12:26 PM UTC
learn to settle in.
no matter what the situation
no matter how bleak it may appear,
settle in.
you expect permanacy.
after all these years of change
you still sit back and
on a subconscious level, anyways,
expect permanency.
it's not going to happen.
so.
knowing that its not going to happen,
you can settle in and wait for the change.
you never get too comfortable at all.
and whenever there's a change,
and there's a big upraor about it,
you can join and and sing
"RA RA RA"
and
"i can't believe this is happening !"
......
and to yourself,
[again.]
settle in and
maybe shut the hell up about everything being
so miserable all the time.
chill out.
it'll pass.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC
I walk the gauntlet every day
As do those who have no place
Of permanency, somewhere they
Can call their private place
Self esteem and confidence
fills them with a state of grace
Their position, is not justified
For the rest to look on down
They don't look for your approval
Just don't kick them while they're down
Just think about logistics
One month's pay is just how close
Most are to not surviving
With no where left, homelessness
Is just where you'll be arriving
A person is a person
With a fundamental right,
To fair treatment and respect
And a place to spend the night
Being poor is not a career path
That someone picks in school
But, people who have nothing
Still respect the golden rule
I'll bet you half a dollar
That you really do not know
That they live and work along you
And their difference doesn't show.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
Permanency can go **** itself.
Remember when you were fifteen
When you were all yellow teeth and bad poetry.
You were in love with death back then.
Thought she was some beauty -
Some backless dress
Some lipstick stain
Now she's stretched in front of you like a black, endless void.
All broken fingers.
All self blame.
All midnight drives to ditches only deep enough to call shallow graves.
She's like walking across a dried up lake bed.
Moments before the water returns.
Drown.
He's never going to see me get married
Sometimes I think about suffocating myself.
Thumb to index finger
Crushing larynx
Straddling my own chest.
Break it open.
Imagine me carcass roadside
Ribs crushed, pulled apart, what kind of cage doesn't know how to hold things together.
There will be blood on the sidewalk.
He's never going to meet my children.
Now you're nineteen
And you are all bad spelling and coffee stains
When the body experiences trauma sometimes all it needs to process is to shake hard enough -
enough though.
What is. Enough.
Just endless vibrating.
Breath in throat.
I can't.
I can't.
Breathe.
Tomorrow they are pulling his plug at 1 o clock.
Like plans for brunch.
Expect to not be able to keep this meal down.
You will return to it.
Over and over.
Like a dog to its own *****
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 11:33 PM UTC
How fain doth thine memories remain
Lo! shouldst thou endure the infinite repetitions of these haunting facades that The Abyss glares its gaze upon thine fragile life
The tired clingeth to the images fused to the permanency of thine recollections
Chiseled to the marble of the mind for the mason himself to gazeth upon its work
For betwixt a battered heart and a fickle mind lyeth the remnant of the resentments of life
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
There’s something about the bleeding of
a pen through paper and on to
the other side
It gives me
a sense of permanency
Trying hard to stay put
it bleeds for its home
A mother hoping so much
to hold on. Leaves a
mark on their children
A tattoo of trauma
Leaves a mark on your
children
A love so sweet it’s tattoo
permanent mark my skin
with your presence on my
shoulder; permanent
A hope so sweet, I hope it’s
permanent
Bleed through my skin, leave a
splotch like pen to a paper
marking home reminding
you of its permanence
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 4:53 PM UTC
Maybe, fold those fingers
into the openings of mine
because i am obsessed with
the unnecessary filling of all open spaces
And hopefully sing all the lyrics wrong
in case i mess up like i always do
fumbling synonyms out through
the air that rushes from my bitter tongue to my teeth
Please press those palms against my flaming ears
to boom the sounds inside me
so that my mind can listen
to its own screaming
i will need - to
i will require - to
i will ask - to
Help me out of bed each morning
because with each sleep
i gain another universal weight
in each of my limbs
Always, Always, Always
answer to the suffering
with the full knowledge
of my next reaction
Never question the ache
for the sake of the peace
i bring in the silencing of answers
Forever
i will repeat forever until
you
are caught in the permanency of
Forever
in the end,
I
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 9:16 PM UTC
The sky opens up
And the clouds of my mind rain down
Pour on the dreams of tomorrow
Until they're soggy, ruined things
Bleeding into one another until all that's left is a mess
A jumble of black ink.
Broken memories of a time before
Are swept into the flood
And the river of me flows rapidly
Until the sharp stones are worn smooth
And I'm left with little of what I once had.
Until my emotions build a raft
Of good times and bad
Of uncertain hope for the future
Void of fickle ink that can blotch
And written instead with permanent marker in its place.
Because the good times are now
But surely there are more to come
So I forge paddles out of thin webs of happiness
And begin to fight the current
To start moving back upstream.
And the webs weave into permanency
Until the future irons itself out
And the past replays over and over
And they both meet in the present
So a golden light shines on it all.
I can breathe without the fear of drowning at last.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 9:55 PM UTC
Like petals from the flower bloomed
her smile wades
as eyes consume
the personification of beauty...
of which every angel longs
but could never hope to be
because their wings are over encumbered
by the burden of our wrongs.
Shadows cast upon the face
of the ever-blazing sun
top rung being...
of the evolution sprung...
proof of natural selection
is the breath that leaves her lungs.
hour glassed and figurine(d)
are the angles of her curves
parabolas that round just right,
i wish they'd never end,
penned in shape with permanency
nerves twist and wined to lips
that trade kiss with me like currency.
Her soul peers out through her iris
desirous to capture this moment.
because this moment will last forever...
universally content
lips bent & crease at both corners
when i rest my hands upon her hips.
and treat each passing glance as the priceless...
the priceless gift of knowing bliss.
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 5:00 PM UTC
"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor.
That's my dream. It's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering,
along the edge of a straight razor … and surviving."
– Col. Kurtz, Apocalypse Now
~
Remember
the golden age, Wally ***
And the songs
my mother taught me?
We sang about what was.
Or might never be.
Like permanency.
Distinction comes
out of stiff and frozen silences.
Take it with
a spoonful of disdain.
Take it in the eye.
Actors are like breakfast cereals.
They're obvious
and according to taste.
I stopped needing them
long ago.
Beautiful
Tallulah.
Beautiful,
"less to this than
meets the eye"
Tallulah,
dismiss me,
that I may be free
to find Tennessee.
Open windows
and closing doors.
Always a breeze,
but never a way out.
Right on cue
the cards shuffle.
Butter and cotton *****
tricks of the trade.
I mumble to be heard.
I am legend
to disciples
of the Method.
I wear my friends to bed,
burn them like newspaper.
They call me "Bud"
—cigarettes at dawn
after devouring the night.
And now my song ebbs,
as the stylus hits the leadout groove.
Tomorrow, I'll be better.
Today, I'm just me.
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 11:04 AM UTC
Love, last night you walked
Into my room and peeled off your skin
For me, a sigh still clinging to your throat,
Waiting for the forceful
Expulsion of your exhale.
Peel it for me.
You hung your fears on my pleas,
Whispering the words I mouthed to you,
Mouthing them back onto me.
Lights off this is you
At your finest.
I love you, at your most nervous.
Last night you wrote on my skin
With your tongue, the words still cool
On my warm body.
Only the tips of your fingers remain,
Scrawling your name on my back as if you
Could tattoo the permanency of love with touch.
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 11:12 PM UTC
forgetting the traces of who i knew you to be and scraping off the dried blood
along my legs
and my wrists and picking the scabs of almost healed wounds
from when you slid your precious knife of prose across my skin
which carved our initials inside of a heart but skin doesn't last like bark does
and when we carved our poem into the concrete it dried only over my name
and our love is forever carved
into the sidewalk
along my hands.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Etched into the flesh
With the permanency of a tattoo
But it tells another story
Like the medals of bravery soldiers dare not speak of the horrors they survived to earn
You carry them always
They commemorate the struggle
They are dark shooting stars forming constellations of wishes that were never granted
But carry them without shame, without self doubt, without self pity
They are not random marks, but battle scars from the wars that most will never see
You did not deserve them, but you’ve earned a right, the place reserved for veterans, the unspeakable survivors who can share their stories only with each other, often more with glances of emotion than words
Take pride that you have overcome the overwhelming, that you’ve weathered the worst storms and you have come to where you are, wearing scars
They say war is hell and no one really wins but you held back demons who clawed at things much deeper than just skin
Remember for the fallen, they must not have died in vain
Live on in their memory, take victories in their name
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:10 AM UTC
When I write, I can’t cry.
When I cry, I can’t write.
I have ended up weeping as I am stranded between a rock and a pen.
I want a blood transfusion.
The red for the black.
I want ink to spill from me when they splinter my skin with their scalpeled words.
I want it to fountain from me when I trip on my own sentences and shoelaces, skinning my knee.
And I want it to bleed the permanency of black, when you take my stained glass heart and hold it dripping in your hand.
With your stained finger tips like midnight freeing the mocking birds and scarlet poppies to burst forth from me like water through the cracks of a crumbling levy.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
From my observations
the poets language
leans towards
repetitions.
Poems are a colourful
diversity
of syllabic phonems
****** in a virtual permanency
An Ink dried up; drifting away
un-catchable in the totality.
The mean-ing-ness!
Wisdom wandering around
the hot *** of poetry's
boiling brew.
The Talent is an attractor
Turning Disharmonious to the
Love Beat.
A Credo from the misty monsoons and the full moon's
'la lingua pool'
borrowed, beaten,
chewed and eaten.
Some would say: "Some
words you could just eat!"
They're so sweet~To the beat. . .!
Poets love certain
words whether
they are good or not.
Words or them!
The words:
whimiscal
lame
green
vigorous
transcendental
blackness
blue sea **** love
Honeysuckles
To be.
I see. . .
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
Certain moments leave us in the room of curiosity where the existing tends to take snail's pace. The clock abandons its race. It looks as if time took a nap. And in such gravity, our body reacts in the most oblivious of ways. It is almost analogous to a body in space. Involuntary and Indecisive in its movements. While we want to say a million things, our gut takes over by muting us. All the feelings that revolve around a hundred thousand thoughts come out in form of a salt water composition. Metaphorically, our eyes do the talk by reflecting a whole gush of diverse sentiments.
The strangest part enters the scene like a temporary protagonist when there comes a choice between happiness or sadness. If we choose the former, there is no way we can avoid the latter. It takes us a while to process the fact that these two emotions are each other's Ying and Yang. They never come alone.
All this befuddlement lands us into a directionless vehicle.
To satisfy oneself is the greatest accomplishment. In a state like this, we never forgo this belief. Our soul tries to console our mind repeatedly. It tries to salvage us from the impossible questions of our own. Such invisible restrictive force is met with either frustration or fascination. There is no chain that binds us, yet we feel grounded. We feel over-ready to imagine but our minds capture us in the box of boggle. Time has such manipulation on us that we're hypnotised to feel it's power. Not in aspects where it proves its presence but in aspects where it threatens us with its nothingness.
Such junctures of timelessness are highly uncertain in their permanency. They exist and then one moment cease to do so. And when they denounce, we come back to our lives of consciousness and mortality.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
Will someone ever understand me?
As simple as it sounds, the word ‘understanding’ is an uncanny term. To expect understanding from others is like a screaming paradox that uninvitingly and inevitably gives its RSVP. Definition of understanding varies from person to person. While some term ‘compatibility’ as basic understanding, others think understanding as a means to gain affirmation. Both interpretations sound alike but in fact very much like bibliophile and bibliomaniac. It gets peculiar as we proceed.
Why in this world do we need affirmation?
It’s profoundly queer to ask for acceptance. Do we really need ‘approval’ for our existence? We’re not illegal. Illegal things require approval. Drugs require consent. We don’t need to prove why we should be accepted. Giving heed to such a peculiarity is equivalent to symbolising yourselves as illegitimate. You have a birth certificate. You’re a registered citizen of a country and you have a house to live. You go to school/college/ work. You’re normal. Believe me, you’re not a felon.
Why don’t people fulfil our expectation?
Major Irony Alert. Expectations being fulfilled is, I believe, one of those rare miraculous occurring in our lives. When people get it, they find the solace hard to digest. Just when they are faintly ready to accept it, they change the course the things by doing deeds to blindly adhere to the balance of sad and happy. And when the ruination has been already done, they crave for it. Dear fellow beings of earth, stop expecting. It’s purely a hypothesis. The permanency of the damage expectations leave behind needs no explanation. It’s one of the most obvious and self-explanatory dictum on this planet.
People around me crave for being accepted. Girlfriends incessantly complain about their boyfriends not understanding them and vice versa. Parents lament over the ignorance their children. Children whine about the gap between them and their parents. People spend humungous cash to buy endurance. The reasons for such acts, I don’t reckon.
There’s an old African belief that hovers around the truth of being singularities. I find it deeply humbling. Why ask for plurality when the sole purpose for our creation was to be singular and fulfilling.
The purpose for this entry is to some extent not defined to what I believe. It is not meant to mould you. It is meant to be analysed by you. Critique it. Make your own moulds. It’s just what the existing needs.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
There is a longing somewhere deep deep within me
Deeper than the hurt
Deeper than the pain
Deeper than my depravity
Deeper than my darkness
Deeper than my own human will
That longs to sing out
That longs to shout
That longs to cry
That longs to long to long
To hold onto something permanent
That longs for an anchor in this ever-screaming sea
That longs for a line tied around my waste as I seemingly cascade down this sheer mountain side
That longs for a compass in the evil dense of my thoughts
That longs for a glimmer of a door in a windowless room
That longs for a hidden key in the floorboards of my captors dungeon
That longs for a drink of something wet and not dry
That longs for something more stable than the stilts to which my feet are tied
That longs for something more steady than the sways and swifts of the tower to which I have been hoisted
In all of these things and more I am a survivor
In all of these things and more I am a witness to they’re in-permanency
In all of these things and more I am a survivor
Only because of the revelation of something to which I can cling to
in tragedy, that is convinced it must continue to move
"The Longing" -JP
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 2:46 PM UTC