"pitchfork" poems
"One lie weakens a thousand truths."
"Karma finishes what revenge neglects."
"Time heals, steals and reveals."
"The future is uncertain, but we play a part in its design."
"Help when you can. Pray when you can't."
"If your life is out of focus, it's time to change the lens."
"Instincts over impulse, always."
"The only thing better than a second chance is never needing one."
"Fear is a light sleeper."
"The devil is always looking for a dance partner."
"You can't change the past, but it can change you."
"Some are born with a silver spoon, others with a pitchfork."
"Even the smallest of pebbles has its place in the sand."
"Every tear has a name."
"Write your failures in pencil; your triumphs in ink."
"Hope is always listening."
"The best companion is your imagination."
"Two things you should always trust: your gut and your God."
"Scars speak every language."
"Only I think like me."
"We're remembered for three things: the times we did good, the times we did bad and the times we did nothing."
"Every underdog wants to be top cat."
"Love never travels alone."
"Hindsight teaches when the test is over."
"Dreams reveal what memories conceal."
"The problem with the world is the wolves outnumber the sheep."
"You can't spell tragedy without rage."
"Intuition is your strongest ally."
"Focus on the valley and the hills will disappear."
"Never trust an idle thought."
"A wounded animal always shows its teeth."
"When you ignore pain, it ignores you."
"The past and future are distant cousins."
"We're all buried treasures waiting to be found."
"Moonlight is for lovers and devils."
"Temptation always invites itself to the party."
"Everyone's story has a secret."
"Scents and songs are nostalgic reminders."
"Time is a tattletale."
"There's a special place in heaven for those who suffer on earth."
"Life is a dir†y fighter."
"Sometimes all that's left is a penny and a wish."
"The mirror mimics what the mind imagines."
"Tomorrow is a wild card."
"My favorite exercise is sleepwalking."
"What the blind man sees, the sighted man seeks."
"The ego is a phony friend."
"Luck will take you as far as fate allows."
"Two things that never forget: elephants and broken hearts."
"My train of thought has no conductor."
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
unsuccessful potatoes & you found a tree in the ocean
i spent the afternoon digging, digging
my fingernails into my own fear of commitment
the fear of my own reputation
now the cat's in heat & richard nixon (the dog)
is teasing her with his trump card
she takes it
& squeezes it
very gently
then rips it open madly & snarls
& it oozes and drips out of her mouth
we all pick up a thousand pieces of a minute
i cremated my sister this morning & new spirits
arrived at my doorstep before noon
they sang to me of instinct,
whinnying about the antique zenith
up in cheyenne
"gimmie some secrets" she said
so i carved them
into my arm
into a minotaur's chest
into a giant looking glass
into a wooden boat
& i set sail for the sundial,
"there is no truth"
my eyes are wax & the ocean
means nasty filth
but everything is useless now
frogs carry high powered harmonicas
& walk into the spells of Poe
& into the hexagrams of Hamlet
i do not want to carry a pitchfork across
some godforsaken desert
i do not want to feel my own evaporation
while the real artists brood in the meantime
i want to waste away on a slushy evening
i will live in my armpit
& hate you
& never wear deodorant
"your mind is small--it is limited--why must you understand?"
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
Come and hear the tale of a falling
This failure of a king, his story appalling
Come and hear of his last moment's calling
This man whom we once called our king.
A mad king anointed with power in mind
Crowned by desperation, crowned by the blind
A tyrannical king; No worse will you find
For this man is a servant of Hell.
He comes and he swears in God's holy name
To cater the people and lands that they tame
But it's I who knows of his little game
The political regime that he runs.
He sits on his throne and barks at his men
Demanding the whys and demanding the when
Slowly but surely he wears the string thin;
For the people may tolerate so much.
He works through the town, donning his crown
A hat that is envied by all in the town;
For the man is rich, the man is renowned!
This man whom all call their king.
Beneath him men die, but criminals don't pay
Put them to death, that's what I say!
This kings way is in no way the right way
But we the people can do naught but pray.
But good men exist, whom jail the unjust
Good men who work to earn the town's trust
And these good men speak out, shaking out the dust
And speak out against their king
The king starts to fear, his gate is now closed
And he starts to regret the options he chose
And now by good men this king is deposed
By good men this king is denied.
Now we call him a tyrant, we call him a fake
We spit on his image, his throne we forsake
We take up our arms, pitchfork and rake
And march to his door to knock.
Some killed by guards, but good men prevail
And blood rains down like late Summer hail
And in the end we hear the king wail
His death is announced the next morning.
Good men cheer and king's men glance back
Wondering what it was the mad king lacked
Though who didn't expect his castle ransacked
For was not the king of the wicked?
It matters not in the end, you will find
Good men un-knotted this terrible bind
They laugh and jest at history behind
And cast themselves to a new king.
But this ballad of history will soon be repeated
For in the halls of recurrence it is seated
This tragic comedy of rulers so heated
This tragic tale of a king.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Where is it that you find your wonder?
'neath the rainclouds with pitchfork
collecting lightning,
in thunder?
******* is king,
Ecstasy queen.
Phet is my thing
with morning caffeine.
Six days and five nights,
the things that I've seen.
The rabbits and spiders
in the *** noodle canteen.
Where is it that you find your wonder?
'neath the sun with secateurs
collecting the fruits
of agriculture.
Health is king,
love is queen.
In this new life,
sober this spring.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jan 18, 2021
Jan 18, 2021 at 4:40 PM UTC
You were out wandering the
hills and valleys of my
heart
and I said you couldn’t stay, no
you had to go, I can’t bare to
see the pity in your eyes
we were driving through the woods as if God had chosen us,
with no fear in our souls for they
were already sold to the devil
in his handsome navy suit,
not a pitchfork tail in sight
and I learnt what they meant
about disguise, that night
I said leave me now, please
five miles away from home
I said, I can walk it, there are
no holes in my shoes
but you clung to me like a
long forgotten whisper, and
I knew I had no choice but
to love you
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided, who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.
I heard the Duffys shouting **** your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel --
"Here is the march along these iron stones".
That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was more important? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said: I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.
2.7k
promenades the sleepless night through my, like rain, palm;
tears, counting, marble-toward drops
i am to nothing degenerated,
pirating surrealism.
with my contusions, awareness-lacked, tramples
brought to the temple, rotoscoped, liquidates
from the core, curdled blood.
clouds, sickness with apathy, the air
made balcony on, flesh-spoken, impassioned.
i, the night, erotize
begin their flock, sursum corda!
tremble, i, and scrape the tower before me
pulverization may lead to immunization, where i
melt as sulfur in
Midas’s clasp.
i walked his tread, years on end, scoped out
miserable, fragmented, at startwith:
he touched my arm
and to precious
metals, pitchfork incubated, i arose
fashioned his pedestal, glamored in steps, appraised biased
no represent sources, ideal inertia, this primal adoration
slips of drillpressed kisses
caught off guard.
in the tufts, my mortal : remember, i, of parquet deeply hidden;
i am of a world, peace, cast : however,
deeply
lachrymogenic
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
concrete shades the yellow-lighted symphony.
The peso-heavy take taxis;
security valets motors steaming castle gates.
I ask, which way is the 158?
Indifferent, they say, walk straight neath the freeway —
there is a bus stop two blocks away.
****
****
****
Clocktower hands transpose Cindarella-brick
to embers of electricity,
a factory aside scrawled graffiti;
fingers timidly ricket pitchfork fences.
Palermo is 11 km north.
Where is the north star?
I look straight ahead, repeating what
the travel blogs said like,
Be lost, don’t look lost;
flappy plastic maps scream vulnerability.
Be lost, not rich;
iPhones in gotham alleys are batman signals.
Walk fast.
Don’t pay attention to the eyes that pass.
Careless ponytails and brass hair attract
glances back.
Two blocks deep into the homeless shelter
beneath freeways, blankets
in shopping carts toppled over,
cars screaming away the symphony
into shadowed silence between heels striking.
Tunnel breath emerging on the other side,
gasping past stacked Jenga towers,
wired with antennas and empty clotheslines;
families and crack ****** sleep inside.
Safety’s herd thins as couples dart left down
cobblestone tributaries
that either lead to bus stops or parked cars.
I walk straight ahead with
sleeve-covered hands that swing like sticks
in the wind.
The symphony turns to
heartbeats and footsteps
plucking quickly;
fearing the 180 behind,
to zombies with sunken eyes,
thirsty for a thirty-cent high.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 8:45 PM UTC
Let me tell you a story
From a time gone by
The tale of a greedy butcher
And a pig that could fly
In the little village of Piddle Brook
There lived a butcher named Mr.Ham
He was bearded, bulky, and a belcher
And was rumored to eat his own toe jam
A lover of all meat
Pork,beef,duck,chicken, and mutton
All this gorger did was eat
He was a professional glutton
But Mr.Ham’s appetite was not satisfied
He longed for some thick greasy bacon
Just a few strips, nicely fried
Served with pickled daikon
He peeked through his window
And with one beady eye
Spotted his neighbors hog
And pictured a flaky pork pie
His mouth watered
"What a delicious midnight snack!"
"I will barbecue,braise and fry her"
"But first I will launch my attack"
"Oh but I shan’t become a thief!"
"T’was only a whim!"
But Mr.Ham’s thin scruples vanished
His growling belly got the better of him
He grabbed a pitchfork
And the hefty hooligan set out
He advanced on the sleeping hog
And grabbed her by the snout
Her piggy eyes shot open
And in a flash
She darted past the butcher
And ran past the fence in a dash
Mr.Ham bellowed in rage
And waddled after the beast
But the pig was too quick
Yet Mr.Ham never ceased
And so the chase continued
A wild game of cat and mouse
They ran through the streets
Row upon row,house after house
Finally the swine was cornered
The escaped pig let out a squeal
And great feathery wings sprouted from her back
Said the pig “Thou shalt not steal”
And with one final snort
Two leaps and a hop
The winged sow flew away
And Mr. Ham collapsed with a plop
"I suppose it was a sign from above"
Mr.Ham sighed with defeat
From then on the rotund carnivore
Gave up on eating meat
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
what is my promised pain?
from conception
to my first deception
i wondered what my promised pain was
is it as sweet and seductive
as a lovers first touch?
or is it as ****** and dull
as entangled flesh in a bush full of thorny rose crowns?
will my pain be promised from myself,
or someone else who takes my ground?
will our promised pain tell us who we are?
"mirror mirror on the wall, show me, define me"
we all yelled until our breath gave out,
our voices piercing the infinite heaven,
wishing for the mirror on the wall to show us as
the perfect chain
but the only thing that shows us who we are,
is the reality of pain,
our promised pain?
how will i know when i feel my promised pain?
emotional, physical, will i even know it hit me?
will i be on the ground, bawling, unable to be in touch with what is pain?
will i bleed, contort, and bruise?
how do i know when the promised pain that was gifted from me from conception,
will turn it's age old gears unto me?
who promised us this pain?
this pain, whether we deserve or don't
this pain, without a messiah in cloth to save us from
this pain, this pain, this promised pain
this pain, we can't describe
this pain, we were all bound to from birth
this pain, that only your touch may heal
but then again, our promised pain
is god or the devil's deal.
this pain, this vowed pain,
the pain of a demon's pitchfork,
an angel's sword of justice,
this promised pain, this pain of no mercy,
does it last forever, or just a second?
does it return, or leave forever?
what is this promised pain,
we were gifted with from birth?
my memory of your promised pain,
a pain i could not feel,
a pain as slow as the minutes ticking away on the clock,
for i've been watching your for a while,
since you walked into my life,
a monday morning, able to heal a pain.
a monday morning, filled with pain,
a stab of happiness,
a cut of despair,
i was much too shy,
to let my feelings show,
but you let them free,
and that was the beginning of possible promised pain.
at last, we can talk,
maybe in another way,
and at last, i love you,
it became too hard to say,
due to our promised pain,
if only i could say the words i feel.
tell me if you've had promised pain,
tell me what your feelings are,
tell me if you love me not
i have so much, i need to ask you,
but now that chance has gone, flee in the run of a rabbit,
when you reach your fading *****
in my heart,
those promised memories stay,
glowing pride, your only smiling
through that promised pain.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
the way you have your way
i might as well choke on Atlantis
and yield to the twilight pitchfork
of your tongue. an amaranth.
whose nectar
is some
doom.
glue my misery
to the slippery
slope
of lost meaning....
all the while
meaning to do so -
a
farsight
more so
than knot
cope.
but
somehow, jellyfish blinder
than up close...
and
not quite
seeing
what matters
most.
just the sting.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
Birdhouses and farm bell gone , garden spot now a tangled field of grass and small trees . Farmhouse , empty and dying from top to bottom , flower gardens missing , iron kettle hanging by rusted chain . Clothes line , henhouse and both red barns are at the ready, but sadly , empty as well . Logging chains , bale hooks , pitchfork and weathervane , put away forever most likely along with lifetime memories , good and bad.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
A lying brother was paralyzed with fear
When the Father of lies drew his evil lance.
The devil threw his pointy pitchfork,
Signaling the start of the Satanic Dance.
The Power of darkness finally hopped and began to shuffle
With the day closing fast;
The brother lost his soul
As Satan danced his last.
The Thief twirled around the Tree of Knowledge
As hot sparks pierced the sky.
I know not why God appeared then,
But all was lost as He began to cry.
As God brutally tore off the Wicked One's limbs
Beelzebub screamed and slithered away.
God desperately searched for the lost brother's soul,
But, alas, the Serpent still has it to this very day.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
This terrible beating, a soundless roar that I
wear like worry. Caught in lace and sequin,
you stupid pretty thing.
Heart, you are so
devilishly ugly.
You make me awful and needful.
A trouble, an aching break that
never healed right.
Pitchfork and shrapnel jacket, a barbed wire
beauty.
I am disastrous and made of weeds. A hungry throat that
only knows
swallow.
Go on sky,
pour. The art of breath and walk,
of continue,
of live.
Of lust for better.
Awake a sugar glass
soul made tender.
I am great care, building scaffoldings between fistfight and belonging.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
This poem will rock, with a Demon and ****
Sinful hellfire, and brimstone, that's it..
a pitchfork up the *** of rock
so what they'll think I am a ****
A slammin' crashing rage of metal
speedo in the red
stamp that pedal
turn up the fire
turn on the heat
hmm..... my tummy is empty
Mum, what's there to eat........?
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 2:59 PM UTC
the cries of this soul entering the valley of death
where others before him sat and wept.
the life you changed is a life that had gone wrong
it was on the road of self destruction , and for
the devil it was an abduction.
your powerful wings brouht you to my side, when you heard
my far distant cry it was a cry for help so loud and clear
that all others shook with fear.
it was an echo that rang like the bells on a steeple
giving a warning to all its people.
knowing that your battle had begun , they looked down
to the earth to see which one had won.
the wings of the angel knocked the devil to his knees
as his pitchfork struck him and he began to bleed.
the devil jabbing at him with all his might , not wanting
to lose another fight.
the angels wings moved quickly like in a dance
and the devil knew he had no chance.
his arms were tired as he continued to poke
as the angels wings weakened him with every stroke.
with a screech he fell to the ground , screaming to the angel
" you won this round "
no longer did he have control over a child of GOD
because it had become much to hard.
the angel carried the soul to the heavens above
where all he could see was happiness and love.
(C) L . RAMS 062915
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
camera flashes
you shook my pains
rattled my nails
and you just keep pouring
sweat
stop complaining
might get noticed
heavy on the wild stampede
but this whining
it has to go
under the hooves
and I know it's lonely
stuck under rain proof coats
static
but why allow
the creation of looking glass
separate path's and
sink holes?
pitchfork the potholes
I know you are trembling
better to let it spill
better to let it
spill
deep breathing
the clouds will soon clear
and
move on
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC
my life consists of needing mirrors
to remind myself
that I am not invisible
you have taken parts of me
and thrown them away without question
without regret.
the ease with which you let me go
echoes within me
like a **** you" spoken in church
a crack on the pane
of the room's only window.
you were not a liar
but you made yourself one
and I say that I do not hate you
because I've forgiven you
but you made that a lie also
you shaped it so that the reason for my lack of hate
is that I can no longer bring myself to care.
I will smile when I see you
because you can no longer hurt me.
your apathy shook me
like an antique chandelier
just before it crashes to the ground
and the fact that you read my poetry
and feel nothing
makes me shiver
you are cold.
you are the corpse frozen in indifference
a dead heart pumping the liquid
of fake tears.
you look and move like you used to
but I can see the stitches in your skin
the glassy, empty, gaze in your eyes
you are a monster
but I am no longer afraid.
I drop my torch and pitchfork
and watch you
destroy all the things that we built.
I raise my palms
and warm myself by the fire.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
Do
U
.
.
.
heed natures call
can
U
.
.
.
hear souls fall
do
U
.
.
.
feel
the
r
i
pp
l
e
s
rebound.
L
I
ST
E
N
are
U
.
.
.
wired for sound.
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 12:45 PM UTC
Oh blasphemous beauty, how you cloud my judgement.
Your torturous soul engulfs me with
wisdom way to young and old,
for my tender age.
Your speculated claws drive me further and further,
away into the shallow pits of destiny and fate facing face.
Oh blasphemous beauty why do you torture me with,
your tender words and pitiful looks.
Your sorrowful glances are a pitchfork of loveliness.
Your bottled ego makes my rage as empty as
the shallow grave.
Oh Blasphemous beauty you are a woman
of magnificent void.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
Tyres and fires burning
circles of rubber
Rolled down black tongued roads
Heading to city centre
Where others meet
To greet the mighty ruler
With sword and soldiers dressed
In fibreglass shields, green helmets
truncheons with spikes backed water cannons
snipers on rooftops searching for vipers
to drill bullet holes
The tyres rolled in and rounded in a circle
Cutting off escape routes and
Dividing believers and non-believers
Piled high, pulled tight with pitchfork patience
The leaders orders more tyres.
Anything from cars, buses and bicycles
that could hold up the chains of freedom.
Last desperate attempt - not to escape but die
In the ring of fire -soon lit
Underneath the tyres
Which created bursting black flames and bluegrey smoke
Rising above the rants of leaders and shooters
and crackling. Sparks that dulled the day
And lit the night with sparklers of power.
The paratroopers soon retreated into barracks
and the rioters took hold of the city keys,
And over broken glass and burnt buildings
settled in for the long haul to freedom.
The pawns moved on the chess board
knights moved in the night,
The queen was cornered
and checkmate came when the hollow president
flew the palace with his coterie of
ear chewers and shoe polishers!
The tyres burned slowly
the fires burned down slowly.
Freedom came at dawn on the 21 st day
when the rubber factory churned out again
many new models of tyres with tougher treads.
The circle begins again today.
Author Notes
The Revolution continues. All common day gadgets that could burn and blister the new agenda is rolled down the road into the city centre where the
protesters gather to set fire to ambitious policies, unpopular with the people.
The fires from tyres will rage all night and day.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
at ease, hideous you
with blood o'prey
dribbling down
your well-crafted
dimples.
eager ears surround,
live to make meaning
off your rehashed
sentiment you *****
from some recent-dead
and righteous boy.
and i admire you.
yes, yes, yes i do.
oh, enemy
playing us all for fools,
eating us all alive,
we townsfolk don't
give you the torch or pitchfork,
just our unending applause.
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 5:17 PM UTC