"playthings" poems
in complete melodies
the frequencies i hear
can not be contained by anything
love is drifting through the hills
and you are home to its trills
she dreams of light, the fire bright
and full of crystal skulls and eyeballs
dozens of monuments are built
just to mark the moments
when we could have said i'm sorry
merge with the mountains
find the source of fountains
shine the diamond compass
if that's what you are really here for
broken dams are our business
feed the swans their luminescent lunch-boxes
duck for cover, its a wonder that we are all together here
that's clearly redundant
the tendency to dream
is the most important human faculty
its a tragedy that the lack of nuclear power
showers the atomic world in rainbows
as forlorn teenagers in the ice-age of America
govern our equipment from their parent's basements
and carouse with comfort upon chairs, cushions and couches
a million times the victory
a million miles of rope to weave
a million are the paths to god
and a million more are the souls
who've learned to cope with tragedy
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
i am furniture remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your television set
i am electromagnetic static
within the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she wrote
i am a silent p
i am a violet apogee
i am a cosmic minority
i am a message in your tea leaves
but if you stand too long in my shoes
you’ll likely drown in solitude
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide.
Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April and before the May time
Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies
12.9k
732
She rose to His Requirement—dropt
The Playthings of Her Life
To take the honorable Work
Of Woman, and of Wife—
If ought She missed in Her new Day,
Of Amplitude, or Awe—
Or first Prospective—Or the Gold
In using, wear away,
It lay unmentioned—as the Sea
Develop Pearl, and ****
But only to Himself—be known
The Fathoms they abide—
8.7k
This is the key to it.
This is the key to everything.
Preciously.
I am worse than the gamekeeper's children
picking for dust and bread.
Here I am drumming up perfume.
Let me go down on your carpet,
your straw mattress -- whatever's at hand
because the child in me is dying, dying.
It is not that I am cattle to be eaten.
It is not that I am some sort of street.
But your hands found me like an architect.
Jugful of milk! It was yours years ago
when I lived in the valley of my bones,
bones dumb in the swamp. Little playthings.
A xylophone maybe with skin
stretched over it awkwardly.
Only later did it become something real.
Later I measured my size against movie stars.
I didn't measure up. Something between
my shoulders was there. But never enough.
Sure, there was a meadow,
but no young men singing the truth.
Nothing to tell truth by.
Ignorant of men I lay next to my sisters
and rising out of the ashes I cried
my *** will be transfixed!
Now I am your mother, your daughter, your brand new thing -- a snail, a nest.
I am alive when your fingers are.
I wear silk -- the cover to uncover --
because silk is what I want you to think of.
But I dislike the cloth. It is too stern.
So tell me anything but track me like a climber
for here is the eye, here is the jewel,
here is the excitement the ****** learns.
I am unbalanced -- but I am not mad with snow.
I am mad the way young girls are mad,
with an offering, an offering...
I burn the way money burns.
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I found three heads
Rock toils from the earth
Their eyes expressive with sculptor’s mistakes
It seemed as if the forest had let slip
Its fantasy into mine
Why heads? Why just three?
I don’t think they were meant to be there
As the trees hear you coming they hide their playthings
Perhaps I was too quiet.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 12:43 PM UTC
consume us,
oh, pools of darkness around.
your bottomless ponds
look back at us,
don't they?
let us climb up your nest,
and sew your threads.
your golden crown
will never waver,
your highness.
use us,
destroy us,
make us your puppets, materials, playthings,
anything.
we are yours.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
like furniture i am remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your TV screen
i am electromagnetic static
that illuminates your blankets
and i am the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she ever wrote
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
ONE by one lights of a skyscraper fling their checkering cross work on the velvet gown of night.
I believe the skyscraper loves night as a woman and brings her playthings she asks for, brings her a velvet gown,
And loves the white of her shoulders hidden under the dark feel of it all.
The masonry of steel looks to the night for somebody it loves,
He is a little dizzy and almost dances ... waiting ... dark ...
3.6k
She leaves a trail of broken heart
in her wake.
Like the River Styx, but
very much alive.
On the outside,
one would look at her and say
she's a faerie nymph
flighty, giddy and naive.
She treats boys like playthings-
they would say,
draw them to her and spit them out
her pixie pranks bereft of benevolence.
They are Theseus and Leucippus
heroes victimized by false love
they say,
the underdogs.
She is to blame.
On the inside, however,
it's a different story.
They fixate on her,
fall in love without consulting her first.
To them,
consent is an idea
and an abstract any-thing.
Something to be taken lightly or disregarded
You see,
consent is more than a verbal yes
and consent is more than ****** thing.
Consent is communicating your intent
before acting on it
and getting permission.
So it should be the same with falling in love.
No one owes anyone anything.
Best friend, dark loner type, new boy/girl in your life,
consider this before you vilify someone
for what they don't feel.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 10:54 PM UTC
Dear sweet filthy world,
Photographs can lie,
so put away forbidden playthings,
that's how you got killed before.
Why, oh why,
can't an ordinary stand up
with the nefarious gods
on the second floor?
For the other end of the telescope
is leaning toward science fiction,
and this love from a cold land,
this sad burlesque,
is a bottle of smoke
on the deep dead blue,
one watt above darkness.
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 10:49 AM UTC
we were driving home
taking side roads in a roundabout way.
and you spotted something on the side of the road.
bloodied, broken and (i assumed to be) dead.
you pulled over and we inspected it.
i was rather disgusted, but you picked it up and coddled it 'cause it had fur.
you kept coo'ing at it and asked it what it's name was (expecting no answer)
but it struggled to utter "Love".
we begrudgingly decided to take it home
and made a bed for it and nourished it back to health.
a week later we were drinking Earl Grey by the fireplace,
heard a rumbling
and looked around to see it standing there looking at us.
it was 7' tall and had an expression of awe, wonder, and terror
as if it thought we would ****** it at any second.
each night it had a different face, resembling one of your former playthings.
you never called it the same name twice.
a week later, it couldn't fit through any of the doorways.
we always came home to plaster, paint and drywall scattered everywhere.
i complained.
"Love has broad shoulders", you quipped.
it had grown too much for us.
a week later, i spent the afternoon at the bar and you were shopping.
we rendezvoused back home at 3PM.
only to find a gaping hole where the front door used to be.
everything inside totaled.
precious collections, expensive technology, jewelry...
all gone (or destroyed beyond recognition).
i railed, "Love ruined EVERYTHING!!!"
you seemed to take no note, kept your composure and muttered, "It always does" and just began sweeping.
the next day we got a kitten from the animal shelter,
and were laying in bed with it at night.
i asked, "Do you think Love will ever come back?"
you answered coldly, "It never does".
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 1:17 AM UTC
The solitary reminder,
a sole survivor,
hopeful-placed,
forgivingly encased
in little boxes decorative
hidden in plain sight
throughout our home.
Single and incomplete,
the lonesome leftovers,
openly hid upon bookshelf,
desk corners, fireplace mantels,
storage units of the
I am unlost,
I am unfound,
Raise your hand,
stand up and say
that is me,
that is me.
Minor treasure chests,
of carved wood, seashell real,
acquisitions of trips
to faraway places,
these boxes, they themselves,
visible but unremembered,
just there, no cares,
no one knows,
when or why.
that is me,
is that me?
Space fillers, memory taunts,
grandchildren's playthings, delight,
when they someday come visit,
weather and parents permitting,
finding keys for locks, doors,
from three homes ago.
Can they unlock me too?
Boxes hoard the things
we have lost, but cannot discard,
can't sacrifice, gotta keep,
an admixture of buttons,
dried flowers, faded notes that
once upon a time mattered,
shook someone's world...
Some kept in hope,
others, sequestered, lock-up,
jails that we are both
jailor and jailed,
the joke being on me.
Should we, you and I,
exchange these
cases histories of lost hopes, memories,
it would not be surprising,
if when opened,
the contents identical,
even if you are in Manila,
Leeds, places of need,
and yet,
we would be shocked,
asking,
*that is me,
is that me?*
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
Freewill
Rush
There are those who think that life
Has nothing left to chance
A host of holy horrors
To direct our aimless dance
A planet of playthings
We dance on the strings
Of powers we cannot perceive
The stars aren't aligned
Or the gods are malign
Blame is better to give than receive
You can choose a ready guide
In some celestial voice
If you choose not to decide
You still have made a choice
You can choose from phantom fears
And kindness that can ****
I will choose a path that's clear
I will choose free will
There are those who think that
They've been dealt a losing hand
The cards were stacked against them
They weren't born in Lotus-Land
All preordained
A prisoner in chains
A victim of venomous fate
Kicked in the face
You can't pray for a place
In heaven's unearthly estate
You can choose a ready guide
In some celestial voice
If you choose not to decide
You still have made a choice
You can choose from phantom fears
And kindness that can ****
I will choose a path that's clear
I will choose free will
Each of us
A cell of awareness
Imperfect and incomplete
Genetic blends
With uncertain ends
On a fortune hunt
That's far too fleet
You can choose a ready guide
In some celestial voice
If you choose not to decide
You still have made a choice
You can choose from phantom fears
And kindness that can ****
I will choose a path that's clear
I will choose free will
Songwriters: GEDDY LEE, ALEX LIFESON, NEIL PEART
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
In haste...
Behind
Our footprints
Were the scattered emptiness
Of the memories
Of them
On the shores
She left the three parties of us
Me, Samantha
And our traveler friend
They were play things for sunset fares,
She said.
Just yesterday
They were happy to be here
The young flowers now scattered about
This beach shore
Too young to be plucked
Happy to grow up into one party of laughter!
That's how we remember they were here
That's how to plant graveside flowers
For the dead
They were play things for sunset fares
They were not soldiers
They were unprotected, unfed, afraid children and women.
They were not warriors
That's how to plant graveside flowers
That's how we have kept them forever
In our hearts..
You are not forgotten
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC
Shuffled deck; fetch me three of Seventy-Eight cards.
First:
Queen of Swords
"This fine Sword of honest metal
is a more true an Ally
than many of Flesh indeed prove to be."
*Much like Athena,
The Queen of Swords
is symbolic of progress;
always keen on new ideas;
though she is not One to leave herself defenseless,
her faithful Sword stands
always by her side.*
Second of the three,
of the still Seventy-Seven:
Two of Swords
"Distracted by conflict
'twixt Heart and Mind,
I hold two Swords and bide my Time."
*Two of Swords
stands between Moon and Water;
the Shadow and the Subconscious
the darkness and the unknown.
The Two of Swords
is blindfolded
and in her blissful ignorance
maintains her precarious balance,
for now.*
The third of three random cards;
leaving Seventy-Five unturned:
Knight of Swords
"Feast your eyes upon this, my plan;
I wager thou hath, in all thy wretched days,
ne'er so beauteous a thing beheld!"
*The Knight of Swords
is a keen poet and a fine musician;
though perhaps not romantically.
She dabbles for the sake of the intellect,
and seeks that those things be playthings thereof.
She is symbolic of progress through new ideas
and of the eloquence of a well-laid plan.
Being of the House of Swords,
she revels in the stimulation of intellect
and the effective use of wisdom.
She usually yields only to herself
and marches to the beat of her own convictions,
all the while
keeping her eyes
on the prize.*
-
All of these Cards
are of the House of Swords.
There's about a 1 in 166 chance
of getting 3 of the 14 Swords
out of a random deck of 78 cards.
I got the Queen of Swords as my third card last time
and the first card this time;
There's 1 in approximately 676 chance
of getting the same card
in two consecutive sets of three cards
from a random 78 card deck.
(im)Probabilities aside:
The Suit of Swords is generally associated with:
one's ways of thinking, systems, ideas, and communication.
It has much to do with
what we chose to do with our Minds
and it also is symbolic of the power of
the stories we tell ourselves and each other.
The Swords are indeed double-edged in Tarot.
It has to do with the power of information
and with that comes delusion,
and, inexorably,
paradox.
Patterns do exist, however.
Upon these patterns
foundations may be built,
the same is true within myself;
I can choose to use all these Swords
to cut through this cage of Shadow
and set free the Light once more
rather than allowing myself
to myself fall victim to the Swords
through inaction or misuse
though only if I tread lightly
and thoughtfully
and proceed with tact;
that much is clear.
Sword is the sign of Air;
perhaps the message here is simply
"Remember to breathe."
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 5:00 AM UTC
"The past is a bucket of ashes."
1
THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.
2
The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
3
It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
to warble: We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation,
nothing like us ever was.
And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
there were rats and lizards who listened
... and the only listeners left now
... are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
We are the greatest city,
the greatest nation:
nothing like us ever was.
The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
4
The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.
And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.
2.4k
she only ever wants to play
she pushes them all away
she sets the stage
and pulls the puppet strings
but no one can touch hers
and when she gets bored
she packs up her playthings and goes home
selfish she
is plastic
without a heart
selfish she
is toxic
leaving her mark
a levy of limbs
a boudoir of bones
selfish she
plays her game
never lonely
but always alone
she only ever wants to play
she pushes them all away
selfish she
laughs as she breaks her dolls
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
*i had a broken toy box full of broken toys
flotsam and jetsam of a childhood
filled with playthings shattered and forgotten
in later years I would open that dusty
chest filled with dusty remnants of happier times and weep
for the friends I had left behind
shattered chunks of preformed plastic that
kept me safe when
barely out of diapers my Nuclear Family went
nuclear
lead paint and lawn darts
loose pieces and lost innocence
i learned the value of love through
spending time with cast off friends
i learned the value of respect through
seeing the pieces of the stickers that I
tore off my spider-man helicopter immediately
after
my mother and father in their last
act of love as a couple spent hours
placing them exactly as
instructed
i did not learn that one day i would
be a dusty old cast off toy in someone elses
box of broken pieces
in that world
toys are replaced before their
time
broken not by love and use but by throwing
them against the wall in a tantrum looking for
the next
shiny
new
thing*
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:31 AM UTC
Built a cage in a cage
as an olive branch for
those who wouldn't call her an animal,
but won't call her a person.
Built a metaphor to slay her sister,
like trying to walk while hammering
your own toes;
hobbled herself to the master's home,
and played with the master's playthings,
and ate the master's food,
and received the hard end
of the master's humor
with a smile.
We are misinformed creatures-
A bird with wings to fly, but no destination.
A wildcat that hunts only to ****
A serpent poisoned by it's own venom.
She traded hands to beat herself to death;
died with wrists broken,
lacy finger bones strewn across her throat.
No melody on her tongue.
Nobody dying to meet her.
Nobody is dying to meet us.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC
Pan
by Michael R. Burch
... Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves ...
... Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles ...
... where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss ...
... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs ...
... that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees ...
... we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers ...
... of voices of the wolves’ tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels ...
Published by The Chariton Review
Keywords/Tags: Childhood, dreams, enchanted, stairs, fortress, trees, damsels, maidens, towers, wolves, howls, oaks, elms, paths, pebbles, playthings, toys, moss
Mar 19, 2020
Mar 19, 2020 at 1:47 AM UTC
[They picked him up in the grass where he had lain two
days in the rain with a piece of shrapnel in his lungs.]
Come to me only with playthings now...
A picture of a singing woman with blue eyes
Standing at a fence of hollyhocks, poppies and sunflowers...
Or an old man I remember sitting with children telling stories
Of days that never happened anywhere in the world...
No more iron cold and real to handle,
Shaped for a drive straight ahead.
Bring me only beautiful useless things.
Only old home things touched at sunset in the quiet...
And at the window one day in summer
Yellow of the new crock of butter
Stood against the red of new climbing roses...
And the world was all playthings.
1.7k
We, the single women of this town,
dress beautifully for ourselves, first.
Because it is a celebration to do so.
If you are a gentleman about it,
we appreciate your praise.
If what you feel, if what you have to say,
is steeped in the ignorance of the ages,
in the presumption that we are here
as your playthings, as your entertainment,
then please, pretty please, just keep it to yourself.
And stay way the hell away from us.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC