"pokes" poems
With those acid wash jeans
With that full sleeve of twirling black ink
With the drapes of long hair
I thought that we could leave the xplosion-club
After the confection of colognes
After the South African red wine
After the pounding music all night
Something **** about
A statue that can move
It's eyes
Something **** about
A man that thinks
Openly
We took the subway back to my apartment
You picked up a pebble and tossed it
I was quieter now
Would I let him inside? I have to at this point it seems
A charming prince
is a charming prince
I open the door.
Nothing bad happens, as I expect
I am a little paranoid I don't know why
(The club flashes back)
The door closes without its usual creek,
And we're inside.
Me and the charmer; I wonder, was he once a frog?
I have a funny feeling that I think came from the wine
Am I trashed or
Does he have horns?
Slimy toadskin, red eyes, 1000 inches of claws
Suddenly
Are upon me, Oh my God!
I tell it to leave mE ALONE,
It doesn't listen to me.
Every time I try to slip out of it's grip
I slide into a claw
Gushing this stuff from the movies,
It covered the bed and then the floor,
It probably leaked out from under the apartment door.
My cellphone rings in my pants pocket
I can't reach it because by then this grendel thing had broken me
Into two legs, a torso, two arms
And a decapitated head
While it eats my right lung, my left hand tries to desperately crawl away
He pokes it with a great fork; no escaping crums
The awful amphibian finishes and leaves forever.
He's never coming back
A winner-and-loser kind of *** I guess.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
Paints of dark twilight hues,
Slathered across in blunt strokes.
Blend with deft hands,
Cajole gently with jabs and pokes.
Backdrop begging for a few others.
Longing to hold in infinite embrace.
Friends of earth and midnight sky.
Worthy of a doe-eyed lovers' gaze.
Cascading moonbeam...
Drenching all in silvery white.
Restless twinkling stars...
Singing their mismatched might.
Silhouetted landscape as horizon,
Darkened oils of plateaued ridges.
Finest brush could only manage,
To close the gap, I build bridges.
Nearing completion, this stint on canvas.
Nuances of dawn for what I've begun,
Usher the arrival of a brand new day.
All I need now is a few drops of sun.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
She was the one who made me belive in happiness.
She was the one who was there two years ago,
With me.
And now,
I think she dosen't need me anymore.
Well, yes.
She comes back when she's crying,
And I'm the one who conforts her,
But after this,
She just runs away.
But, what about me?
What if I'M sad?
What if I'M crying.
Nothing.
I call this a game.
She's playing with me.
And I let her.
Cause I know Karma will take care of her.
Hanna says it: Sometimes you poke the bear. Other times, the bear pokes you."
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 4:15 PM UTC
In as much as I tamed the Infidel
Baptism pokes her Holistic White Tongue
Such that if you try to flip the Role-Model
For which Hypocrisy had said and done
You do not know me. If Duty must care
And stand accused tackling my Man to like
Your Mass does not shrink me; And if you dare
Take a Pied Contest and taste the First Strike
Yet in fairness your Swan-Form does exist
As billed by Tom's Twin circled in craft
Now may I come in? Or should I resist
And Boot my *** on the Beach by the Draft?
Those Stripes were hostile from a Few Years Past
Enjoy Iberia Minor; Healing can last.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
We are all equal
Our bodies may differ
As may our minds
And some may be more complicated
Than the creation of the universe alone
But let me say this
You too are different
So is the next man or woman
All with individual faults
All with secrets as big as yours
And all following their own path
For difference unites us
Difference move us on
And though it may be hard to accept
The next annoying being who crosses your path
Just think
Who do you annoy?
For that makes you equal
To that person who pokes you
To the person who is immature
To the person who you think the worst
We are all equal...
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 5:10 AM UTC
#
*Upon a nice mid-spring day,
I take a look at Nature's way.
And breathe the scent of nice fresh air,
Feeling the breeze within my hair.
The grass pokes between my toes,
As I smell the flowers with my nose.
Clouds form shapes within the skies,
As light glistens from my eyes.
I hear the buzzing of the bees,
That climb the tallest willow trees.
I look across the meadow way,
And see a young deer at its play.
I pick the daisies as they grow,
And watch a gentle cold stream flow.
I hear the sounds of water splash,
And catch its glimmer in a flash.
When altogether it all seems sound,
I lay myself upon the ground.
To take a moment to inhale,
And listen to Nature tell her tale...*
#
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
Too much rain for a good day
She dreams the door won't open
There's the scrape of metal again
And the face of a stranger pokes at happiness
Enough to evoke a bright smile from the dead
She's a ***** just as all of us
Her familiar gesture calling in
Sober drones who use her and run
Sarah's familiar gesture calling
Friendly, friendly, always
Dreaming of closings
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
I hear the vacant screams within my mind, I wait for the day to melt into the sublime.
How did I get so sick? The devil Parades my existence and pokes my sensitive skin with a stick.
I value solitude, just enough to devour my loneliness, this wretched illness I suffer alone, I pray to my soul to take me home.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
Being attacked En masse by zubat
Oh excuse me I meant Woobat
Send out my Rapidash
Its a pity it knows flash
I leave a trail of Pokes behind
This is what happens when you grind
Saving up for an expert belt with a buckle
So i can give it to my shuckle
I run into a snorlax
Its ok i relax
I have 99 ultra *****
And one good Stalls
Catch him in no time
Ran into a female Mister Mime
Freaked out i back up into little caterpie
But I already have a butterfree
Spray some repel
Avoid the weepingbell
Make it back to pallet town
Gary and i ready to throw down
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 1:12 PM UTC
dipped in fires of revenge
black as night and hung on edge
she calls out unto me
a wisp of smoke
and the fire pokes
now I see my soon to be
stars shine up from water, clear
silent noise is all we hear
she reaches for me desperately
over edge and pressed against
imaginary chain-link fence
but together we live separately
harrow here, yes, hurry here
be my darling kitsune, dear
we'll be alone eventually
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
are feelings of love felt alone, feelings of love at all?
or selfish yelps for attention borne
of boredom & a sense we only hold on our own
of childish
- - - - idleness.
singularity less; more independence from a whole
the only company he keeps is furniture
together with the furniture of the house he sits,
with seven seats left empty,
the curtains tales appear to grin
without validation from another he feels
like a child standing
the school's final bells rung
the bustle of the day has droned
now dissipated
the bustle of the day irritated
when it droned, he longed for home
for the bus
as he waits for the bus the quiet surrounds hold tight
but hold cold
like a fridge door keeps, it clutches, encloses
the school yard empty
he stands; singular; out of place in the surrounds
the school bleeds terror when empty
The laughs & shouts & jeers & footsteps
keep the wholesomeness whole
empty of shouts
a graveyard now
the ghosts of the day linger
& they finger
your buttons they push
your tenderness they kneed out
they **** (with their cold digits they ****
just like the furniture does.
just like the furniture in the house laughs
when uninhabited
it silently jeers
'Why so many seats mate?' it pokes with its linen digit; fuzzy but cold
as it continues
'you're alone
waiting for someone
to come by and pick u up
& take u back to home
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
in the clay *** by the window
the arthritic orchid
unsticks its tongue
and with fat-knuckled roots
pokes the dust for water
the crayon sun emerges from the clouds
and draws the water from the garden
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
September speaks in dull sand flecks
and billowing my stiffened skirt to kneecaps
rested on for prayer, grinded on for ***
It pokes and I’ll awake –
I am just like a ***** in the autumn morn
first torn, the first born of a hundred
encounters of which I would not believe
it could be the opus of.
Ladies lose physical barriers, but they
do not evade a September when orchards are
trimmed and all that’s beneath is unveiled:
see it with my glass eye. No dust inside.
See it with your honey bulbs –
the foothills, the knees married to the floor
where stars first aligned, so I ****** you off.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
"What's funny is" is a ****** statement to be on the receiving end of, it nearly ever ends well.
What's funny is... Often times, most of the time, it's not funny at all. Curious, that we take humorous language and make it into lighter fluid to burn bridges.
What's funny is... The fire is usually a case of arson brought about by projection of in-the-moment feelings, that are fleeting. ******** that we allow ourselves to make them permanent; just mindless masochistic beasts wallowing in the ashes.
What's funny is... The echo chambers we've created for ourselves are actually prisons. Ironic, that we make up walls made out of bricks of unreachable goals, and feel disappointment when we don't achieve them.
What's funny is... Is that the more I interact with people the more I understand why we let ourselves indulge, and indulge, and indulge, to numb the monotony for just one ******* second. Nerve wracking, that every person is just a liability I cannot trust to not become the shackles attaching the weights that drown me.
What's funny is... As hard as I try to remain invisible, I'm forever tracked by a spotlight that blinds me. Insane, to think for one second we are anything but dirt on the ground; let me be dirt.
What's funny is... The numbness, and the pain, are like logs on the fire. Enduring, daily, the pokes and prods to keep the embers going when all they wanna do is die.
What's funny is... I like to dance in the flames but hate being on fire. Truthfully, I aim for embers.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
Live by the sun; feel by the moon.
The sun has set; a rainy night in early June.
Numb as novocain,
Emotions pouring out like rain.
I can dream of spreading my wings, just flying away.
But I have to get behind the wheel, take on life’s highway.
Even with roads so dark and dreary, wet and slick…
There’s something calling me into the night, calling me quick.
The promise of feeling again lingers at the end of the road.
After all this time an answer, solution…a crack to the code.
But life never projects a straight shooting path…
Sometimes we are meant to slip, or maybe even crash.
Even so, the road splits…to burn out or start walking?
I take a breath, remember the moon…remember who’s talking.
One foot in front of the other… no sense in hesitation.
The sun will bring about another day, re-genesis of my own imagination.
Misty rain kisses my face as a struggle to walk tenaciously.
Feigning for the strength to accept these obstacles graciously.
One step, two steps; pro, cons:
One foot, two miles; pro, cons…and so on.
Just when my heart couldn't feel much colder,
A warm ray pokes at my shoulder.
Tapping back into reality at hand,
I kick off my shoes and let my toes twinkle in the sand.
The moon is low, now behind me, yet always hanging around.
& Before me the sun making an entrance, glistening against the dancing ocean sound.
An epiphany swims ashore.
Another day: to live, to reflect, & to unveil the reason we do it all for.
Embrace life; stay in tune.
Live by the sun; feel by the moon.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
Aroma
A scent that always piques my interest
Stronger the closer to it I become
Steam rises to show potential danger
Softly blowing it away
I take my first drink
My lips sear
It pokes fun at me
For not regarding the warning signs
I will wait patiently
For she is my morning coffee
Something I refuse to begin my day without
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 1:29 PM UTC
how does one manipulate others how does one manipulate each other i dont get it.
this world was at peace then random one pokes at them until a ****** war starts.
you may be the biggest ****** for it but you can cry and moan and ***** because you recieved a beating that you started i say your manipulation will be your down fall you can tell your mom your dad hell call the cops because theres one option in mind shut the hell up and fight what you started jesus these people are the biggest hypocrites i ever seen because this one person has ruined my life ever since he was born so when your falling off a cliff you can fall to the rocks like a the little coward you are your pestilence smells like a rotten apple core
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
Powdered skin,
Brush strokes,
Go coat
those desperate pokes
The shakey nature
Of made up favors
So playful
And able
We are
To Make the devil
Weak in the knees
As he does me,
So what if you suffer
You are but a drop
In an endless sea
No one will notice
When you drop
And you bleed
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Born in the wild
Raised around apes
As they congregate behind the leaves amongst the trees
Sometimes I feel like I don't belong
But there's no way to escape
I'm just another ball
Tethered to this world to be played with
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Who's been lost for awhile
No home to be far from
Traveled a road paved with un proportional tiles
Conceived from of the cracks I slipped through
No concept of the word love
Baptized In the faith of hate
Loneliness a stain on my jeans
Bitterness pokes me when I'm awake
motherless child
Who wasn't pulled out the womb
Unearthed from a tomb
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
Oh, My Muse,
Staring at me through distant stars
Through laughter and tears
Through the hallways of my mind.
Oh, how you pierce me
A cactus in my desert,
How you sting me
A jellyfish in my unstill waters.
How you tickle me
As my pen tickles the sky,
Endless inspirations
Stanzas forever flowing free.
How you grab me
From away and afar
Confuse me
With the thunderstorms in your eyes.
If only it tickled forever
Didn’t hurt as you bring me to my knees,
If only I could fly to you like a bird
Land safely in your arms.
But no, it is not to be so!
You are words on my page, Sweet fire,
Caressing the armpits of my unwritten phrases,
The constant party going on inside me.
I must go to the party
Even when I am frozen, Afraid,
Exhausted from endless pokes of inspiration
Tickles that I wish would never stop.
I must fall free my sweet Muse,
Into the abyss of whispering pages
Where my darkness meets the light
Where you wait for me always.
Copyright 2018 Stacey Handler
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 1:57 AM UTC
I wish, most of all, to have had a tangibly physical notebook to write all this in. instead I use the 'note' function of my smartphone, smoke a cigarette. busy on forward, it's Pandora.
one of those acid-high coffee overbouts, feeling the brain compress inside the skull. for an hour. for a few.
some man in tattered-all's gets angry when I state I have no quarter. like I'm lying when I say it, and must be lying because my pants aren't worn like his. bus and car alike ghost past, the monastic rise of the local music conservatory pokes at the skyline, straight at the overcast.
I toss "If on a winter's night" by Italo Calvino atop the third step of the church stairs leading to the church doors, the Seventh Day Adventist Church, Where we meet Jesus. I begin to write this poem, huddled atop my cellphone as if I were in silent debate with a lover, only sitting to make a point.
to the left is a McDonald's flying a McDonald's flag. A man with a thoughtless white ball-cap and a thoughtful tattoo walks past with a McDonald's dollar drink in his right hand, pointing his arms in opposite directions to illustrate the dimensions of something he wants. "See?" he says to the woman he walks with, her face scabbed over with acne scars.
my eyes are tunnel-visioned to the screen every time I follow a thought, or the glancing past of a passer-by like the woman with the black scarf, black hair, black sweater, grey pants, black shoes.
the orange 'don't walk' sign pulses 7 times, and then sticks, as if waiting for a high-five.
I reach into my backpack for a cigarette.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
Sweet talks,
Late night walks,
Childish pokes,
and my heart got broke.
He destroyed my zone,
And now I'm all alone.
I know it was just a game,
but I played so lame.
He's a pro gamer,
and I, I'm just a beginner.
We played feelings for fun,
but I end up thinking how to run.
I thought I can win this time,
but my heart refuses to rhyme.
I'm aware about the ending,
and fear is a word to describe my feelings.
The game lasted for three days,
the ending didn't change.
He won, I lost.
I'm sure for him I never had any cost.
He kissed my forehead down to my chicks,
but I stopped him before he touch my lips.
I can't give up my first kiss,
for someone that I'm going to miss.
This is not a story of a Princess,
it's not appropriate to seal it up with an ending kiss.
For he was never mine,
because we just played for fun.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC
she opens a pack of
sheffield english type number five cigarettes
i rest my head in her lap
as she reads a french newspaper
its raining in paris and theres a girl there who is unhappy
dreams of romantic places never have sad girls in them
she must be a tourist
she sips some strange brew of teas
that has a heavy bouquet
loam and flowers..like a sweet wine
she suddenly laughs and translates a piece of the
french news for me
but i dont hear what she says
i only hear the rich beauty of her voice
i only hear the captivating beauties of her
i lean up and kiss her
she tastes of the sea and english cigarettes
i am lost in her essence and her her girlish delights
she pokes me and makes me look at a photograph in
the paris newspaper...its the sad girl
she looks english
that graceful beautiful elegant sadness
that only english girls can speak without ever saying a word
jezebel sips her tea and smokes her english sheffield cigarette
holding it like girls hold cigarettes in that dainty way
i forget the english girl and her sadness
as i lay looking into the eyes of this dreadlock hippie queen
janis joplin plays softly from her mp3
shes tapping her bejewelled toes to the ancient music
bachelors in literature she loves the written word
she has read everything ever written by anyone
she has read her way through forty years worth of poetry by me
and corrected my atrocious spelling along the way
this is morning in her arms
now you know why i am so in love with her
now you see why she is everything to me
she leans down and lays a single tender kiss on my cheek
and tells me she loves me
this is heaven
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
Lying under trees, we breath.
As the wind dances in the leaves,
The blue sky pokes through the forest green.
Birds sing.
We enter sleep under the brown-gray bark
And we dream.
You dream of life,
And I of death.
We are connected.
As this tree's roots are to the very soil it's rooted in,
You're rooted in my heart.
I still lie here on top of the emerald grass,
And you have become one with this tree,
the roots embracing you in an everlasting slumber.
When the fall comes and the leaves fade to their reds and oranges
And finally plunge to the emerald sea below, I will be covered with you.
As winter stalks its way past fall, the first blankets lay atop,
And I lie there still covered in the remnants of you.
The roots of my heart shiver
And I leave to find warmth with the evergreen.
As spring enters, the weather surpasses,
Leaves return to your barren form.
I however shall not return for the thought
That I may not become part of the soil you remain rooted to,
Fear that we will not remain acquainted in the next life.
but I still live and breath.
And the conquest of this life will be over soon enough
And Then I might return to this spot----
Lying under trees.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 7:15 AM UTC
Where did you go?
My hands shake again.
The walls fade and try to imitate
the pale green of your eyes.
But they fail.
These walls envelop me.
Closing in. Crushing. Suffocating.
Blood spills over, but from where?
I am nobody.
My chest heaves as pain consumes me.
Pull me up from below;
Liquid life gushing out hurt...
And love for you.
The needle in your hand
pokes. prods. stings.
Stitch after stitch;
sewing me up,
making me sane.
And the healing process begins.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 11:40 PM UTC