"phosphoric" poems - Hello Poetry

233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil! The Slave—forgets—to fill— The Lamp—burns golden—on— Unconscious that the oil is out— As that the Slave—is gone.

0

2.2k

Emily Dickinson

The Lamp burns sure—within

233 The Lamp burns sure—within— Tho’ Serfs—supply the Oil— It matters not the busy Wick— At her phosphoric toil! The Slave—forgets—to fill— The Lamp—burns golden—on— Unconscious that the oil is out— As that the Slave—is gone.

9

On the evening of August 6th The body is separated, eviscerated Stone walls Lost thralls A family takes their evening stroll And finds themselves imprisoned Their umbilical cord, cut down the half Microwave oven Searing monsoon shower Vagrant feet are shackled Eyes are blinded with exhaust pipes The East is not allowed to cry alone Decay, wail on Wail on Contain us Dear Marcus, free me From these Pyrrhic victories Clean this dusky mall I feel safe under phosphoric lights Guerillas swing on electric wires Transatlantic conversations Acquired on paper Perverse Desecrated Red cloth seizes everything Stray, running felines The impassioned, waving flag Kept in a velvet pocket Stay here, stay a while This cold era is a rising draft The Bermuda Triangle Quarantined No more ships crawl along the winded shore A time capsule The nation sinks into antiquity The brink of armageddon Cusp of oblivion Crimson hand of eternity An old, whittled clock Last minute Cold Turkey! God almighty Peace is never promised But we may yearn again Nobody is free But we are safe for another hour God almighty Leases on the lands Paid in thorns Nations playing circles Mr. Versus Mr. An ever-changing world Stagnant and tightly oiled Save this soil It will cave in silence The clockmaker sits in the backdrop Readying her tools

0

Dec 6, 2018

Dec 6, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC

DerrekEstrella

Before, The Memoir

On the evening of August 6th The body is separated, eviscerated Stone walls Lost thralls A family takes their evening stroll And finds themselves imprisoned Their umbilical cord, cut down the half Microwave oven Searing monsoon shower Vagrant feet are shackled Eyes are blinded with exhaust pipes The East is not allowed to cry alone Decay, wail on Wail on Contain us Dear Marcus, free me From these Pyrrhic victories Clean this dusky mall I feel safe under phosphoric lights Guerillas swing on electric wires Transatlantic conversations Acquired on paper Perverse Desecrated Red cloth seizes everything Stray, running felines The impassioned, waving flag Kept in a velvet pocket Stay here, stay a while This cold era is a rising draft The Bermuda Triangle Quarantined No more ships crawl along the winded shore A time capsule The nation sinks into antiquity The brink of armageddon Cusp of oblivion Crimson hand of eternity An old, whittled clock Last minute Cold Turkey! God almighty Peace is never promised But we may yearn again Nobody is free But we are safe for another hour God almighty Leases on the lands Paid in thorns Nations playing circles Mr. Versus Mr. An ever-changing world Stagnant and tightly oiled Save this soil It will cave in silence The clockmaker sits in the backdrop Readying her tools

57

su sussidio... oh oh. cashier tarah talks, talks, really talks, 6 hours east to sri lanka, 12 hour flight, 15 hours back, mother in law died, sorry, yeah, something got my boy out of the womb, dubai was lost as a terminal worth docking at, too much shopping too little insomnia... but i just came in for my whiskey and my coca-cola... chubby cheek tarah hasn't asked me what i do... oh you know, i write poetry, the stuff pop artists are famous for... not actually doing... i was never a serious gamer, from tetris and su doku i progressed to candy crush sagas... you know, i didn't get the multiple-choice narrative and the lost joystick freedom of up down east west, instead getting short snips of a story unfold with a quick-drawn press button action draw of the story unfold; i wish gaming appealed to me like the way advertising companies got fooled by the way television works these days: oops, paused five minutes into the show, then skim eyed the adverts past not even caring to be influenced by consumerism propaganda... i love it, i can finally watch t.v. and skip the adverts! thanks for the detergent and salt and pepper, raw materials on the ready, you improve your aesthetics elsewhere, i'll drink my cheap whiskey with cheap phosphoric barley tinged caramel cola quicker than you can say the tongue tie: eager ****** had the weakest liver bone munching onomatopoeias of ribcage rattle.

0

Feb 23, 2016

Feb 23, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

talking with a supermarket cashier

su sussidio... oh oh. cashier tarah talks, talks, really talks, 6 hours east to sri lanka, 12 hour flight, 15 hours back, mother in law died, sorry, yeah, something got my boy out of the womb, dubai was lost as a terminal worth docking at, too much shopping too little insomnia... but i just came in for my whiskey and my coca-cola... chubby cheek tarah hasn't asked me what i do... oh you know, i write poetry, the stuff pop artists are famous for... not actually doing... i was never a serious gamer, from tetris and su doku i progressed to candy crush sagas... you know, i didn't get the multiple-choice narrative and the lost joystick freedom of up down east west, instead getting short snips of a story unfold with a quick-drawn press button action draw of the story unfold; i wish gaming appealed to me like the way advertising companies got fooled by the way television works these days: oops, paused five minutes into the show, then skim eyed the adverts past not even caring to be influenced by consumerism propaganda... i love it, i can finally watch t.v. and skip the adverts! thanks for the detergent and salt and pepper, raw materials on the ready, you improve your aesthetics elsewhere, i'll drink my cheap whiskey with cheap phosphoric barley tinged caramel cola quicker than you can say the tongue tie: eager ****** had the weakest liver bone munching onomatopoeias of ribcage rattle.

44

A city made from music and gas -a humor of golden mass in the boiler room phosphoric eyes launching up; heroes come slower now, fearful, decadent as if engorged by war for too long changed; within the soil looking up from the street with malleable bones like antennae sending up endless prayers expressing nothing if not heard a city, a dome, a breast cannibals small, eating freely ‘a passing rebuttal’ a glance in the ride – which smiles back and the world followed will and the earth gladly sipped cooks cooking better asleep; poems, gas, meat, hunger locked in horn knowing they’re the wrong type of poem free to do whatever they ever wish even the energy of old worms has sense and the concrete knows the distance from where they have come from the earth-helping them back, by natural pull, or passerby before the parade comes and the hooligans still have rage and bayonet colliding inside faces like metered bodies unable to learn dance helixing around you their song- neither taking or meaning anything to your own; the west-coast train leaves the power station to my right opening its three pounding mouths to the quiet drone of the fog and sky a sandwich and a coach full of drunks -communing -inside -memory and hail hits the window solidifying rapid water cocktails; nearing a station and familiar fields office, and tired sun letting your face know she only jokes when her tongue radiates later on when her body finally breaks; soaking the last dust a home within scent calling out to everything else; calling it a liar.

0

Jun 5, 2013

Jun 5, 2013 at 9:13 AM UTC

Renemutume

Gas Gun City

A city made from music and gas -a humor of golden mass in the boiler room phosphoric eyes launching up; heroes come slower now, fearful, decadent as if engorged by war for too long changed; within the soil looking up from the street with malleable bones like antennae sending up endless prayers expressing nothing if not heard a city, a dome, a breast cannibals small, eating freely ‘a passing rebuttal’ a glance in the ride – which smiles back and the world followed will and the earth gladly sipped cooks cooking better asleep; poems, gas, meat, hunger locked in horn knowing they’re the wrong type of poem free to do whatever they ever wish even the energy of old worms has sense and the concrete knows the distance from where they have come from the earth-helping them back, by natural pull, or passerby before the parade comes and the hooligans still have rage and bayonet colliding inside faces like metered bodies unable to learn dance helixing around you their song- neither taking or meaning anything to your own; the west-coast train leaves the power station to my right opening its three pounding mouths to the quiet drone of the fog and sky a sandwich and a coach full of drunks -communing -inside -memory and hail hits the window solidifying rapid water cocktails; nearing a station and familiar fields office, and tired sun letting your face know she only jokes when her tongue radiates later on when her body finally breaks; soaking the last dust a home within scent calling out to everything else; calling it a liar.

64

You're daring enough to have ventured into the night, he sounded delirious in the wispy light. Half a mile across the lagoon moondrunk Ridleys in ghostly shadows would be digging holes in the sands to lay their lives for posterity away from the phosphoric melody leaving the orphaned to find their way once the shells cracked under silica. They look like a procession of mourners, the man whispered between strokes of oars sloshing the rising tides of the channel his deft hands rowing the fastest cutting across the half mile to Cuthbert Bay. The night ripened enough by that time unfolded the crawling shadows from the sea slowing time in frameshot motions of rows of celebrating marchers. Dead of night the stars were burning out and I called out to the boatman. To this day I don't believe what I heard. None was ever ferried back by the boatman.

0

Apr 22, 2018

Apr 22, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

Cuthbert Bay

You're daring enough to have ventured into the night, he sounded delirious in the wispy light. Half a mile across the lagoon moondrunk Ridleys in ghostly shadows would be digging holes in the sands to lay their lives for posterity away from the phosphoric melody leaving the orphaned to find their way once the shells cracked under silica. They look like a procession of mourners, the man whispered between strokes of oars sloshing the rising tides of the channel his deft hands rowing the fastest cutting across the half mile to Cuthbert Bay. The night ripened enough by that time unfolded the crawling shadows from the sea slowing time in frameshot motions of rows of celebrating marchers. Dead of night the stars were burning out and I called out to the boatman. To this day I don't believe what I heard. None was ever ferried back by the boatman.

22

Out of an arid ocean you came. Draped in kelp and pearls. Lush lips and Picean hips You've been a witness to The liquid dreams of Neptune, The lofty spires of Atlantis, The beaded shores of Islands unknown, The phosphoric teeth of Creatures never seen. The languid swirling Of seahorses tantalizing The mating of tendrils... Your rivals recline on the Ravaged rocks... patiently Waiting for the frigate or Schooner, or if lucky a ***** Man-o-War. Silent Smiles perch on their lips... They look to the broken Boards and driftwood around Their rocky abodes. The Skeletons have sunk into The sea... Ahoy! A tall ship, by Poseidon! They lift their seductive voices To draw the sailors to the Rocks & reefs... to no avail! The mermaids, like dolphins, Cavortingly draw them with Their antics to safe harbor! Jewels adorn their swirling Hair, and gems their tails. Their pear-shaped ******* Modestly covered with Glowing seaweed & shells... While the sirens sit naked On the rocks. SøułSurvivør (C) 5/27/2017

0

May 27, 2017

May 27, 2017 at 7:18 PM UTC

SoulSurvivor

Mermaids & Sirens

Out of an arid ocean you came. Draped in kelp and pearls. Lush lips and Picean hips You've been a witness to The liquid dreams of Neptune, The lofty spires of Atlantis, The beaded shores of Islands unknown, The phosphoric teeth of Creatures never seen. The languid swirling Of seahorses tantalizing The mating of tendrils... Your rivals recline on the Ravaged rocks... patiently Waiting for the frigate or Schooner, or if lucky a ***** Man-o-War. Silent Smiles perch on their lips... They look to the broken Boards and driftwood around Their rocky abodes. The Skeletons have sunk into The sea... Ahoy! A tall ship, by Poseidon! They lift their seductive voices To draw the sailors to the Rocks & reefs... to no avail! The mermaids, like dolphins, Cavortingly draw them with Their antics to safe harbor! Jewels adorn their swirling Hair, and gems their tails. Their pear-shaped ******* Modestly covered with Glowing seaweed & shells... While the sirens sit naked On the rocks. SøułSurvivør (C) 5/27/2017

40

*Fragments of fire stand like blade of grass On the threads of my awakened nerves. Compass succeeds here frequently To detect similarities between east and west, As sweetness is flowing like a river Towards our measureless Mediterranean Sea. All of my blues turn into phosphoric orange Without any bruises, that A reckless sin can cause in the darkness of desire. Seasons mingle together to create a new spring, Since your flexible fingers are blooming like petals On every inch of my crimson skin.*

0

Oct 25, 2015

Oct 25, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC

sanjukta-nag

Unfathomable Love

*Fragments of fire stand like blade of grass On the threads of my awakened nerves. Compass succeeds here frequently To detect similarities between east and west, As sweetness is flowing like a river Towards our measureless Mediterranean Sea. All of my blues turn into phosphoric orange Without any bruises, that A reckless sin can cause in the darkness of desire. Seasons mingle together to create a new spring, Since your flexible fingers are blooming like petals On every inch of my crimson skin.*

12

Under the still and open stars of a cousin's farm too far to touch, I've dreamt of whiskers on catfish since we last had tea. The Waitomo Caves are strung by glowworms I was too afraid to be touched by. What if it touched my arm and had me turn around? If one had stuck my lip? If I'd feel my face in blue glow light just for a while? I'd rest my head upon your arm to take a memory for Facebook. Your college crush would see herself as phosphoric string that brushed your hair. At night we'd drink a flower-blossomed tea and meet again, two cave fish in a dream.

0

Feb 8, 2020

Feb 8, 2020 at 10:49 AM UTC

micktarts

cave fish

Under the still and open stars of a cousin's farm too far to touch, I've dreamt of whiskers on catfish since we last had tea. The Waitomo Caves are strung by glowworms I was too afraid to be touched by. What if it touched my arm and had me turn around? If one had stuck my lip? If I'd feel my face in blue glow light just for a while? I'd rest my head upon your arm to take a memory for Facebook. Your college crush would see herself as phosphoric string that brushed your hair. At night we'd drink a flower-blossomed tea and meet again, two cave fish in a dream.

16