"pivoted" poems
Attention pivoted on the farthest
Blurry are the things at hand
The horizon seems reachable
Near ones distances themselves further
Clarion call from beyond the realm
Here, the soul is writhing in anonymity
A void, that threatens to engulf the known
Uncertainties of the realization is real
Heart is anchored here with situation
Yet, the world beckons this soul
The traveler yearns to break loose
The farthest seems logical and reachable
Distance will be traversed through unrevealed
Journey holds key to reach the destination
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
What once was warm and welcome
Is now but distant cold and silent death.
But the setting of a friendships sun
Not quite as yet a souls dying breath.
-
Up in arms and marching forward
There is no need for anyone of us to be alone tonight
Who'd have known that brotherhood pivoted upon speech untoward
And who'd have known that some love, to kiss through embrace of fight.
-
From cradles and cots
When were we supposed to learn
That parking lots and graveside plots
Were our only future to discern.
And just like all of those bedroom eyes
friendship itself also often dies.
N.H.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
Where Is Shelter?
depends on the location of the storm…
so oft have I queried the gods and you?
Where is Shelter?
*to which, my response, while surrounded so well (!)
within
my moated island circumferences redoubt,
always was a simple:
“Here, Here is shelter!
But so human, thus so prone to delimited vision,
always, we scan the skies outward, fearful of
the hurricane and storm that approach,
from without, appearing, and the brewing
sky’s danger is visceral~visible to the naked eyes,
when,
it is disguised within the chambers of the
body, festering, until it is pestering, and
shelter, sadly, is not injectable, transferable,
easy remedial, and the hunkering down
with four walls not the solution, for the walls
themselves are damaged by decades of
waves of innocuous gently lapping that* still
*erode igneous granite(1) and fissure the self,
this secretive, enemy insidious…*
so it comes to be, that my own daggers have
pivoted, the pointy dangers pointed outwards,
well entrenched in their own defenses, now targeting
the whole of me, my outer walls breached, and
fired upon by cannons of cells, a treacherous
attack, bombardement par l'artillerie et les drones,
of the Fifth Column (2)…
so once more, say no more, but ask the brief of demand,
Where is Shelter?
the answer is as of yet to be decided,
but the forces
arrayed for and against
are equally determined!
W.S.
Jul 29, 2023
Jul 29, 2023 at 3:30 PM UTC
Who's that leopard in ecstasy
(and Ampersand Cornelius Gray)
who learned to trot briskly under lamp poles
and rescue a ***** worn mug from the clay
that which bore them.
She signaled with a passing glance that the entrenchment should pass,
giggling eyes that sparkled from pearls and concrete teeth.
I pivoted on the unmoving coordinates, the universe revolved.
From within her a spirit rose up and clasped my face in its hands,
and I, red with terror, dove head first towards the sands.
He howls out, burdened.
He is unaware of my condition, beneath the waters;
here I lie in wait,
too, in weight.
Here I lie
beneath the crushing force of the universe.
On the bottom of the sea, the top of the Earth,
a smokestack, of golden flames, fills my heart,
rumbling, confident and unafraid.
The Leopard sits, its paws splayed out on a bed of ferns.
Upon its raised position, it lies, basked in ethereal warm light.
The fierce awe of strength and knives of metal,
racing above ground on knees of silent, yellowed corduroy.
Who waits with the Leopard, alone and cold?
Who knows the beast the captures my wonder?
Here I lie, in servitude, enslaved in my claw cave.
My paws are pale, in this oddly worn nave.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
*In soot black darkness we lie
between thin, worn out sheets.
A cheap hotel, false names,
cash only, no trace.
Our bodies became a canvas
to sin. We pivoted on an axis of
need, our madness and sadness
lost amongst the tobacco stained walls.
From chin to shin we've tasted,
tainted lust, clung mewling to each other
anchored in this, coal black, soot black,
ebony black night.
Skin to sin we wait for daylight, its
redemption, and chagrin and sadness
to leave. Anxious and unbalanced
we wait for planets to align, so that we
may await the day that this darkness
fades to grey*
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
Life is for living, they say.
But,
Pivoted around ego recognition endless ways.
We,
Churn out to be everyone but oneself
In denial untruth
We find a playmate
"Immersed in pretense"
Our loved game,we play.
"Relish" we say in unison,
"A rule"of the game.
Fooled into believing
There is no such thing as "Doomsday"
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
Near 90 degrees outside today.
I did go out there once, maybe twice.
I'm wearing a sweatshirt (with the hood up)
and some basketball shorts
('cause it is near 90 degrees out today).
Lingering stares and strange faces
burn holes in the side of it.
"Whats with the hoodie?" she said.
I grinned the utmost, forged,
forced pirate-smile, i had faked,
in the longest of long whiles.
I pivoted to hide my tears.
"Its nearly 90 degrees outside,"
she is saying.
...little does she know...
inside this hood-
its raining.
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 1:25 PM UTC
_
You are wildly in love with me
because you made the stars and the
sun and the universe and everything in between.
You are wildly in love with me
because you cover my scars with grace
and you pivoted the mirror to
see all my blemishes yet still
chose to sing over me.
You are wildly in love with me because
you positioned the nails on the cross
to give me life.
_
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 8:02 PM UTC
Omnipresence of void
Nothing but insatiable
Universe throws riddles
Inexplicable for mankind
Changing so eloquently
Every particle shifts
Clandestine movements
Sometimes roaring upheavals
Renewing the void
None can decipher the puzzle
Lost in the labyrinth
Life here has no clue
It’s an elliptical tour
Pivoted precariously
Answers shall not reveal
More challenges for us
With some vagueness
We blindly walk ahead
Not sure of our destination
It’s a tour of the void
Memories are erased
Birthed are new riddles
We are not here for ever
In the void’s omnipresence
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
We've been cautioned to surrender
Before jack-boots hit our streets;
It was an open warning
With podium bleats like sheep.
They side-stepped all discretion,
They pivoted 'round masked stealth;
They aired their anonymity
On the media's lips of wealth.
And there, behind the curtain skirts,
Lurking in the wings,
In shadows and back street doors,
They listened,
Pulling strings.
Sep 17, 2022
Sep 17, 2022 at 10:44 AM UTC
Sour floor
Salty heat
Indefinitely delayed
Instant satisfaction
Bitter cup
Relish sweet
Pivoted pupils
Precipitated perplexion
Yours tastefully,
Openmouthed me
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
I don’t know how this happened
but here’s a brief summary of what I do know:
At some point in history
a rodent belonging to a group of large ground squirrels
known as marmots
peaked it’s head through the ground
and fell headfirst into the all of mankind.
Observant as we are
we watched said rodent,
presumably for decades,
we named that rodent marmota monax
we named that rodent woodchuck
we named that rodent groundhog
and then
be it because we were drunk
or tired
or deliriously confused by our purpose in this life,
we decided that the entire pendulum of winter
swung on one insignificantly particular day of the year
when a groundhog with a proper name
emerges from his burrow
and either does or does not see his shadow
because the sky either is or is not overcast.
It’s that kind of thinking that brought us here
into the swell of feeling like we are designed to repeat ourselves
same way train tracks prove that most circles are not perfect,
a freight train and a record player tell similar stories.
It’s that kind of thinking that brought us here
into the shape of a species who even on our best day
is literally not satisfied with the everything that has ever existed
same way our taking of selfies is a detriment to releasing ourselves
from the all that we ever were
when all we have are these constant reminders.
I never asked you to be pretty or handsome or perfect
just ready and honest
and willing to take nothing to bed with you
just knowing how to emerge from your slumber
with the entire pendulum of a season
pivoted on your correlation with a specific source of light.
Look at me
my eyes are trying to tell you a story in real time
about how I’d give up the sunburn to live in your shadow
so long as I was never a cloud in your sky.
You are a needle
touching the spiraling grooves
in every square inch of this earth
picking up the vibrations
which you then translate into the sound
of your existence
I’m all ears.
I don’t know how this happened
but one morning I woke up
at the exact
same time
as I woke up the day before
with a song
stuck in my head—
it was you
it was you with a harmony
it was you with a record scratch
it was you with a slow fade
it was you
and you kept telling me,
you said, “Frankie,
if you keep waiting for Bill Murray to show up
you're never gonna make sense of anything."
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
And she lost her appetite
For books,
They failed her the world they had
Promised in their
Nonfictional narratives: the theory Of Politics, the magnanimity of History, the golden outlines of Economics she felt so proud to
Have touched on her fingertips;
In times gone by,
She could see they pivoted.
She had no use for
Empty things anymore;
Casual walks, casual reading Casual coffee, casual ***
That the world glorified and lied;
Her rigid mind used profanity
Against whatever was termed
Casual!
Casual was disturbing, blinding, addicting,
Accountable for everything that
Became usual, by the book!
She used to devour books once--
Word by word, space by space, Page after page,
Chewing softly on the paper
Breaking down to its last molecule,
Until she could taste the wood pulp
In her mouth;
She savoured the taste of the dead
Trees on her tongue
And it edged sharper, her mind
Wiser, she bustier!
But the butchers caught her
Poetry in their poultry of unreal
Policies in no time, they farmed
Her brains and she bled profusely!
And the world watched and shrugged
Casually!
She sold her soul that smelled like Papier-mâché and the butchers Could see its potential in the gleam Of their Knives of the dark;
She burnt her books to make some
Light and saw
Through her burning flesh,
Other meats appeared to take her place..
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 6:05 AM UTC
Choosing to die rather than watch.
Matthew rose to feet unsupported by vigor.
Wielding a simple woodcutter's axe.
Turned butcher's cleaver.
His foe turned, pivoted and let go of lever.
That wood exploded.
Its head fell into the marsh.
He fished for it but found instead.
A blade by his head.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC
You are
What you are
Even while carried
To the left, or to the right
Up and down
Even if pivoted
Through each and every angle
Even when you were
And when you will
Forever still
Except
When you reflect
Through right to left
In your perception of the self
You are
Mistaken
So why rely on chiral lie
Deny your mirror form
And celebrate you
That is true
Through other eyes
You are reborn
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
Copyrights and patents
"What up reality?"
"Whatch you got for me today?"
The Marksman ****** on his cigarillo
His voice was distinct
A whirring voice
Vocable word choices
A man of great aptitude
Never blinked, never winced
With acute paranoia
And a metallic nucleus
Daft
He heard voices
Egging him on
Baiting him
Taking ****
Nuisances
"How's the ulcer oh glorious gunman?"
They said
"Hurts doesn't it?"
"Ready to give out?"
"Put that plastic bag on your head and end it"
The Marksman pivoted and headed toward the kitchen
And made a stew of whatever he could find under the sink
And ate it
"Hail to the chief and send my complements to the chef!"
He put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger
He was buried and had the most dignifying funeral I ever had the privilege of attending
-Tommy Johnson
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
When I was a teen,
I went to school like any other kid,
Struggling over acne I can't rid,
Lifting weights so my weight was hid,
Pivoted on a group of friends,
Who never knew what words end,
So when they ripped on a kid whose sister died of sids,
I stood back and watch this kid's world end.
I tried to help, confiding with him,
Taking the time to let him know I was with him,
Giving him the heads up of what the others were going to do,
And made sure his hellish world a little less blue.
But I was afraid thanks to this hollywood lies of popularity,
As though being hated was so frowned upon,
When being hated meant bearing a heart.
Don't get me wrong,
I never really did ever grow strong,
But I was mixed in with the wrong crowd,
As though insults to injury made people proud,
And a cigarette in your fingers meant you're well endowed.
I didn't really fit in myself,
They would say things like,
No one would put you on a pedestal cause you'll break the shelf,
But the only thing that ever broke was my self esteem.
Broken bones and bruises came and go,
But the words that they preached to me is all I know,
So when I was sober at a show,
They fed me with alcohol and told me to party more,
Looking around surrounded by guys treating girls like ******
And people who saw hearts and souls as toys and objects.
But I had a brittle voice never able to speak clear enough to object,
And when the school found out my father had died,
The jokes never ended at body image jokes, and all I did was sigh.
They shunned down on intellect,
Like if you were smart "go eat an insect".
They wore it on their shoulder with pride,
Of how they never once ever did hide,
And they were cool because they made a person,
feel "rekt".
So the words they tried to preach,
And the lessons they tried to teach,
Was you aren't cool enough if you aren't perfect,
But the real lesson instilled in me, was that I was perfect.
They hid behind hidden cameras,
Taking photos of torture and suffering,
Like they were engaged to it.
They were no better than me,
They had their own burdens but mine they couldn't carry,
So as tales are told, I learnt....
The weaker you are, the more strength you have got to show.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
by Arcassin Burnham
The flowers and the trees,
from the ground to a branch as it swings with a beautiful gust
of wind,
And as it blows,
The feels come rushing through like the hypothesis of everything
created when it comes to an beginning era..
it nearly is when diamond valley makes you see the light,
too bright for the likes of your eyes like goodbyes of friends you knew before,
brain cells carry memories of lust and death like flies carry diseases,
remembering the last time you pivoted into oblivion with materialistic things
in life,
uploading a post on your samsung,
pacing back and forth with the same song,
and this song is so beautiful and lucid like ambiance
that it would be impossible to stop singing in an awe moment,
your brain caught it.
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
I stared at the lucent beam of the stars,
time seeped of all value, frozen like-
a deer caught in the headlights of cars,
though eternity passed, my eyes affixed-
on those specks of limitless lights afar.
O' Stars, your name escaped with empty air,
each breath an assault by those who see-
but could never look to understand the lure,
like the heavenly aroma of honey to a bee-
that nestles in the comfort of a hidden hive
under the bumbled branches of a tree.
I fumbled a glance to the celestial bodies-
discovered the smile you left me last night
debossed across my memory of warmth-
escaped from the only visible light
that shared the same blackened canvas
between all that settled as wrong and right.
I closed my eyelids, reopened them like-
A glass window slid to remove the fog
that overlaid the transparent crystal
and with first sight my eyes as cogs
projected enchantment geared into orbs
accompanied by crickets and howling dogs.
Craters, comets, cosmic creations cast-
a vivid image of an established universe
coated in beauty with ink that's colourfast,
and as eternity drone on, the light emitted-
forever remains seen pivoted within the past.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 7:07 AM UTC
Illusion persuades by coy mimesis
So I never dared to host the thesis
That our love was never real
My world gets filtered through a warp
It bears no semblance, the truth distorts
Where the spectres of madness play their deal
Now then you might think it's odd
That I could entertain the fraud
Of a lie that's whispered in my head
But there's a multitude of phoney speakers
As they grow stronger, I grow weaker
And the resistance to them in my mind drops dead
So I ask: are we kin, darling, you and I?
Or do you refuse to be an alibi
In this cruel and cosmic delusion
Nothing changes for all the desire
You're still not here, I'm still the liar
Suffering a truth contusion
Yet we often cross our paths like two wee duck
And when we do I thank the gods and luck
Praying that we will cross again
But I've learned our paths are a parallax
Like the horizon, or train tracks
Love is lax; we end up cleft in twain
Now you, I made "you" up inside my head
So now I want you somewhere else instead
Put you where you can't torment
My porcelain psyche is fragile, cracked
and broken. All the odds were stacked
Against us anyway: Call this love's lament.
The sky leans down to laugh, the trees uproar
It's impossible to tell who's laughing more
Or if the laughter's even true
Yet in unison the world mocks me
For the frivolous, foolish flight of fancy
That pivoted footloose between me and you
Now exit love this prodigious charade
My best laid plans have been waylaid
It's time to call the curtain
But if there's one thing that I've learned:
To stop my heart from getting burned
I should be more cynical, uncertain
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 7:12 AM UTC
She could have sworn Charlie Chaplin was French.
She had thought so since childhood -
there was something about his movies being sub-titled,
his ****** hair and (she lowered her voice with some shame)
his trouser.
She had loved his films since watching them with her dad
and he never had mentioned the silent star's heritage.
I mean, why would he?
She looked again. And again there was something
'continental' in his eye liner, in his gait
and in the way he gracefully pivoted
that still fitted her misconception.
But now that she thought more about it,
it made perfect sense,
of course he was not French.
He must have been German.
Jun 19, 2022
Jun 19, 2022 at 2:40 PM UTC
hinges creaked as the door pivoted from its frame
i can still hear the soft caressing of his cotton socks against the canvas of his sneakers
he trekked deeper into uninvited territory
the ice rattled as i poured his drink
the way he smirked at me over the glass brim is unwavering in my mind
he forced himself into my bedroom
my sanctuary
my safety
his hands groped the **** searching for a lock
the carpet rustled with every step he took toward me
the screech of a lose baseboard echoed through the thick silence
i reached out for hope
confidence that my purity will be faultless when he leaves
each time i undress myself
my conscious races back to the unwanted nakedness of that night
i lay exposed to more than just the sticky air between us
every revolution of the fan was a dagger in my vulnerable skin
goose bumps scampered across my body
his hands moved toward my ******* despite my contest
the violation began
my head fell to the side
with every blink i see the clock hands ticking
i can smell his breath in my face
my dreams are invaded by the wickedness deep in his eyes
my life has been torn apart by his vicious hands
i flinch at the sight of a friendly hand approaching my body
at the presence of an embrace, i am tense
the torture replays every time i close my eyes
the broken record never stops turning
seventeen minutes
now i am on my hands and knees picking up my broken pieces from the floor
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
I do not hold an astrolabe
nor a compass,
yet the magnetic force
calculated the latitude
that pivoted my ship
around the axis
of your destination.
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
My Dear Counselor
With such care
you mend hearts,
that might be broken
and come in several parts.
Seeds in confidence
you plant every day,
showing patients
there will be a better day.
This is not a repetitive motion,
that happens without care.
This is a counselor’s gentle heart,
shinning down at times of despair.
Such qualities can’t be taught
from a book or a slide,
but can find a person
from where they like to hide.
Comfort comes from within,
when your words are spoken.
Helping us find that inner child,
and show him he’s not broken.
During our sessions
the time seems so limited,
but even after only sixty minutes
my issues have already pivoted.
Over a year ago
I didn’t know your name,
but now I’m a better person
and I will never be the same.
My dear counselor
one day I hope you understand,
how your dedication and effort
helped me hand in hand.
Just like a star in the sky
your brilliance will always shine,
bringing light to people’s lives
just like you did to mine.
Maya Angelou once wrote about
a bird with rage, that sat in a cage,
but I think it just needed an appointment with you,
to help it turn the page.
Thank You,
My Counselor...
Oct 25, 2022
Oct 25, 2022 at 12:24 PM UTC
I held the first few wisps
of you from weeks ago at
the bottom of shallow lungs,
now breathing daylong,
fugitive and furtive.
You pivoted reflexively,
found all faults through
water-sapped air, lucid
but flecked with dust in
spindles of limpid light.
I feel the wind thin and thicken
as it wavers, confused
from south to west, again,
again, cold then fresh.
I close the windows.
You're bottled now and warm
still, the longer I hold you
in my chest. I practiced
this as a child, when
I first dreamt about you.
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 8:57 AM UTC