"porthole" poems
Stick a lolipop
into the mouth of moments
your life is a child
and somewhere in there
you give a flying ****
about the moon
and no it's not cheese.
That mouth knows what dirt tastes like
but that wont stop me from pouring caramel
and cigarettes over it.
I need a fix
of candied dirt
and addiction.
I'm not afraid of the eclipse
because I'm already hooked on the dark.
So lock the door
&
draw the curtains
&
be content.
The tide wont be knocking
no matter how much you
want it to fill the room
or how big is your sweet tooth
because
hunger
is BIGGER
and eventually
anything will do.
So thank the moon we were wearing seat belts.
Otherwise we might be vegetables
eating only exhaust
like Hiroshima
force fed the sun
because
you only make war on an empty stomach
or with an insatiable hunger.
Be content
for the civilians and their children
who only know the taste of war.
Idiot flavored idiots with a hint of
dead mothers
that will bore a cavity so big
it'll put holes in the head
of kindergardens everywhere.
Who write their valentines on bombs.
Who's love murders buildings,
topples families,
plowing through bodies on city streets all to reach
nobody.
Be content
for the people
who aren't
you because when parents ******* in a box
you call a country means
you don't care
you put genocide on the menu
and there are some things that just wont do.
As I grow weary of rivaling chefs pointing fingers
in circles forever
becoming a porthole to the ****** business
becoming the unsuspecting manhole for
the human animal's existence
in crossing.
Mothers may find safe shelter in the sewers
but it reeks of prepackaged liberty
express delivery
to
every where.
Be content.
Because to start a revolution means living it
and what better way,
to ******* a reckless pace
that finishes first in hunger,
starting fist fights with other people's lives
and forgets even sooner,
than
to
be
content.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
……Now
With springing force
I was shot out into the future
And with needle to the suture
Sewed together what I could
Lo, the spring sprung back into
The autumn
Found my porthole at the bottom
Into all I understood
Yet,
An equal opposite reaction
Fueled combustibly by action
From believing things that I was told to read
Found
Me far beyond what I
had seen
Cross dystopian ravine
Though in spite of any betterment, still brought to you by greed
Now from safely at the station
In the cold and condensation
I can see with clearest vision
The successes of my mission
Here, within, the multitudinous expanse of tears and laughs
Will be difficult to honor with a proper epitaph
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 7:53 PM UTC
I'm poring over your words...
Sophistication beyond compare
I can only savour in gulps
Such fantastic fare
•••••
Your stars are sculpted out of porcelain
Whilst mine, white washed vinyl
Your haloed moon, commands immediate attention
Mine only hovers...
As elliptical paint over stencil
Oceans of yours brim full
Catching the shards from the noon day sun
When mine suffer from receding tides
Turning into stagnant estuaries
where water hardly runs
Myriad views from snow swept mountains
You paint perfect with delicate pairings
Stuck with a view from a porthole
Sometimes all I see,
are the vast expanses of tumultuous endings
•••••
Still poring over all of your words
They all weigh much
but soar like feathers on birds
Artform fit for gods beyond compare
Drowning in the magic...
Of your incredible fare
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
The view through the pink window
Blushes pink to satisfy
Employs soft focus the eye cares for
The pink forest aglow
Finds success, the sun shafting through
A vibrant shocking pink porthole
Shoots sharply to the forest floor
On closer inspection it is solid in form
Seemingly impenetrable
I put on my pink lenses
Pressing the pink circle that appears
It is nothing to the touch
Even so, it exists - pure pink
A fascination enclosing
I feel pink warmth
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 3:20 PM UTC
I'm a captured tooth nerve
amalgam appeased
restrained in containment
by my keeper
then I can be a prisoner
escaping the jail
my warder has lost
the keys of control
on dark days
my fathoms swirl
in murky mass
infused with blinding kelp
on good days
my porthole shows
clearness of eye
the glass reflects well
just to confuse
my ores composition
is misunderstood
the translation
metamorphic
changing
minute by minute
hour by hour
these ones are buggers
my microscope
isn't good with definition
will I or wont I
who knows
my borders are contested
being diplomatic
I make pacts and treaties
no monicker is required
the tried and tested
gentleman's agreement
that will do
my margins
can be thick or thin
comments fit in
usually they range
between
insult and praise
depending on the mood
I oft go to open cut mines
to find common minerals
which are useful on a daily basis
real effort is called for
when I delve into deep shafts
sometimes gems are quarried
precious ones to behold
well enough said
a letter is to be written
dear meditative home
we're returning soon
if we're delayed
after hours
p.s. leave the porch light on
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:52 AM UTC
The whirlpool, it spins,
while the mountain, it twists.
As two serpents entwined,
are surrounding this.
Some had once claimed,
that it started as a bear,
others claimed it began at Canopus,
way over, down there.
Multi-headed or spring of rocks,
cavern, mountain or egg,
a great wheel forever-turning,
with a circus and a one leg!
Pushed along by two giants,
grinding up salt with its gear,
thus responsible for the seasons,
floods and movements and the year.
Two horns of the monster,
but not found on its head,
the Earthen plane a giant treasure,
where Drakon made his bed,
with two stars on his brow,
like the two in his eyes,
the porthole of the ship,
a flying horse in disguise.
Scylla, Charybdis,
Jason, Argos, Deucalion,
Ziusdra, Manu, Noah,
-and the two birds who carry on,
and the mountain from below,
which they all rested upon.
Ameleth or Kullervo,
…and brother Utamo’s great wrong,
…and the whirlpool from above that created this song!
And the evil found inside us, the Id and its kin, will nurture the abused child and continue the sin. The great black wheel of madness, as always, will spin, churning out more abusers to fill the Hell that we’re in. When, where or how did the wheel of blackness start? Corrupting the love and joy into the evil in man’s heart and turning family into tragedy and tearing them apart? Next time you feel weak and let the succubus inside, just remember all those in Hell and the reasons they died.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Sea of azure waves descend
Golden streams flood through porthole
Black birds breech panorama
Tanners soak up residue
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 11:32 AM UTC
The simple life
It is cold;
sea spray paint the ship white,
light green
is the Nordic water,
a mighty cocktail
of clinking ice cubes.
I scratch a happy face
on the thick glass of
the porthole.
We will dock in a town
that have warm rooms
people sit around a fire
give a **** about sailor’s
miserable life.
Seascape paintings hangs
on gilded walls;
look at that sea,
so verdant,
delicate brush strokes;
the artist died at a mad house.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
When I peer into the mirror
(Clean clear glass on silver
A porthole into backwards-land)
I see a certain spice in our swirling eyes
Absent in those of the lonely
Cloves and cinnamon and vanilla
It shrouds us in its heavy fog
(We don't mind, we see not much
Past each others' eyes)
In the mirror, our arms are tangled
In a comforting, swaddling mess
Our heads are leaned together (a teepee)
And our smiles stretch around the world
But the mirror shows us backwards.
(Reverse, opposite, inside out, and outside in)
And I know that really, you lean away from me and frown.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
the light is infected
its disease casts a haze on my weather beaten
its denial of warmth radiates down to my very soul
razor thoughts are the bitter seed in the fertile soil of her filthty mind
vertical sunlight uneven on your confused thoughts
at least illuminate the way
as you forge the path to certain shade
benith palm trees etched out against the tropical horizon
she braids her hair
as she steps slowly among the rose petals
deep eyes entice
as her loose garment falls away
barefoot she weaves her way
from distant vision
to standing before you in deliberate slow motion
letting you drink in her natural and sleek form
before it is joined with yours in hot embrace
seas of sand
and the taste of ocean on the air
salty and swift to the senses
deep with the memory
of a thousand times
on the rolling waves deep in the atlantic's nights
only dreaming of her smoky form leaning into you
as she whispers your name
the light in the porthole
is infected with the muttering of the skippers madness
as he swears to take us deep and far
to a no-mans land of uncharted sea
leave us scattered like dry bones
on the wet soils of nameless atols
with the bitter breads to be our banquet
and the dog that chewed off his finger as our ale
i climb the wave
to spill us off the crest
abreast the next
just to tempt his ire
but he rights us without a word
sailing in a wide circle
we are round here on the charts
but squared away and shipshape by
the hairy old seaman's eye
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
[I’m not sure if you can]
call them “fantasies.”
I prefer “scatological reveries.”
Usually,
that small porthole of time
just before sleep comes—
that’s where I oversee my
little light bulb factory.
It churns out countless
watts of bright notions—
whose warm light
paints descriptions on still walls
& outlines what exactly it is
that I intend to do to you.
These temporary art forms
are incredibly specific—
down to the slightest detail.
**[For example:
the amount of pressure I’d apply
as I sink my fingernails
into the bare skin
of your back.]**
Some nights I go to bed
with my windows open
& I imagine so loudly—
I’m sure the neighbors can hear.
I hope [they have popcorn on hand.]
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
hair tied with
a nitrile glove cuff
carved a sacred space adorned with muffled tile
porcelain throne pod amongst the ruckus
hohumdrum gods stampeding towards
a visionary empty meeting with screens
greeted with massed bodies, butter, and dust
the divine light behind the porthole still shines
even as crowds continually shuffle forwards
backwards and past, that bouquet of projection rays
remains sheening with eye to light machè heaven
until thunderous overstrokes over indulge and begin
to over and undertone every feather upon ears
resignation of a certain kingship upon standing
and yet wealth of ethic remains demanding
so, stand.
Jul 1, 2022
Jul 1, 2022 at 5:17 AM UTC
Lead through the hospital house,
where residual ashes of Zeus
lay in heaps at broken corners,
coating derelict floorboards.
GO! The purple ball of light
is waiting.
Enter the hall of purity,
filled with macaroon sorrow
and empty thoughts.
Athena stands on the right,
her head upon a serving dish.
Listen closely ...
A distant phone
in the darkened cove
is ringing.
DON'T ANSWER IT!
Beware a nurse on the left.
Recognition of her temporal existence
permeates through mucous membranes.
Notice the stillness of air.
Breathe it in, it does not flow.
Follow through a doorway
to the kitchen.
Silver pans (or chimes?) (or bells?)
hang above a perfect sink
while droplets of blood
incessantly drip, drip, drip,
falling from a crying wrist,
gently striking the sink bottom.
Plead to not be forced
into the room of mistaken hospitality,
where beds of white cotton
invite with chanted whispers
the compliant to lay exposed.
View the ceiling from this
submissive position.
It yields confusing colors of light:
- Red wine
- Blue water
swirling together
and forming indistinct patterns.
Fearfully watch as a waxing
flying caterpillar
emerges from the purple swirling porthole
and craving intense gratification.
It will consume the laying prey
through frantic silent screams.
Feel the edges of a harsh cocoon
woven around the bed.
It traps with silky wings
and trembling agitation.
Do not scream
Do not cry
Do not try to fight.
Allow icy numbness to spread
and entertain immortal abandonment,
for who would understand?
- Kerry Ann Herrmann
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
i was sitting drunk alone in a yellow flannel on a dirt
and patch grass hill beside an empty picnic table when
you sat down said hi my name is sam and i'm tripping face
that was no secret judging by the size of your pupils and smile
i asked to borrow a layer from your lip-gloss and
you happily obliged after verifying i had my circle-circle-dot-dot
you laughed hard and said you'd never been this high before
when you let me finger you on the ferris wheel with
the scene from the hill a distant seven minutes in our past
you watched with tears in your eyes
and smiled as i pulled my body
away from your candy thighs when the ride stopped
and stuck my sticky fingers back in my mouth
you said you listened to music better with your shirt off
and sure enough your ******* perked up like antennae
when my fingers slipped under
your half-shirt like an innocuous splinter
in the great pink epidermal amphitheater
you proved to be a nudist burlesque queen wearing
a hailstone necklace and a gold coin skirt that jingled
when you walked or skipped or rubbed your *** on me
i felt so immediately attracted to you
and i still do i can see you when i close my eyes
dancing free in a delicate psychotropic mushroom haze
whispering slap me silly as we walked hand in hand down the hill
you kept talking about your girlfriend being jealous
of my fatal blue eyes as the music drifted like breath
between us your hair was heavy with the smell
of mushrooms beer sage and rain
we took several overpriced shots of tequila and i lost
another six dollars in drink tickets when
we spent a whole dj set lying in the grass in the dark
with the lights from the stage spraying over
our heaving naked sweaty chests with my
hand in your gold net skirt and your tongue in my ear
the clouds were knotted ropes of wet white cotton
the sky became the sea and your fingers found my
feverish lips like a cool prayer
i looked up through the oak tree porthole
to find the strangulated sky
whirling in on itself like water
in a washing machine and i
let a dolphin carry me away out to where
the waves were boiling and wild
the stars salty and deep
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
Everything I can't show is what's going to put me right back in the hospital
This blatant cycle of denial is far beyond getting out of control
The pileup looks physically and mentally insurmountable
How can one person run into so much trouble?
It's unmeasurable
Eyes forced shut, but it's not always safer in there, alone and vulnerable
Behind a pane of pain, only view is through this soulless porthole window
Find it hard to dream when life itself seems just about impossible
I've lost control of this roadside attraction freak show carnival
It's too much to juggle,
And that's why I struggle
©2024
Jan 26, 2024
Jan 26, 2024 at 3:21 PM UTC
I peer out the porthole into the chaos of the storm,
Disorder, my sole companion
Blue waves crash along the jagged rocks
sprays of melancholic gloom
the wind howls
sounding like the ghosts of past memories
decayed wooden decks rotting from
the salty air
a wailing gust originates from the rusting iron of the ships hull
a hex is placed on it’s journey as the shadowy vessel tears through
the gloomy waters of its past
The past is only a memory,
as I find myself once again in the company of madness
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
Talk to me, can you hear me O’ Lord?
Send me something that I can not ignore,
Staring at seas from the cold lonely shore,
What of future?
Can the angels be calling?
I was young when you embraced me,
When you opened my mind to the world’s mystery,
I came home and started a family,
Three bundles of joy near a bountiful sea,
…and this life?
Has the Age begun falling?
Cattle left unattended and the goats without shepherd?
Were sacrifices left for the goat, bull, crab or leopard?
Battened down hatches as rains poured in the cube,
The square in the circle that Saturn had drew,
Eerie creaks, minor leaks, anxiety and the fear,
Prophesied, built as planned, as the waters drew near,
Talk to me, I am struggling O’ Lord,
Is this it? The message that cannot be ignored,
I was young when you embraced me,
When you showed me the wonders of the land and the sea,
I built you this house and filled it with Thee,
Will we make it?
The waves are appalling...
One Man knew where his place was with god, inundation, extirpation, traded hammer for rod.
A Great Bird of Paradise, was beckoning her call, swarms of bats and songbirds ahead of the squall.
Open the porthole; we are saving them all, as the ship sets loose as the giants did fall.
Drop the rope, do it now, so we can, plumb the depth,
She cried out;
“Where to live, who will rule and what shall be left?”
“O’ Noah!”
I’m now old, but will you embrace me?
I now know you’ve been there since the dawning of history,
We’re adrift, all is lost and their drowning in sea,
Nothing’s left, but the gig-an-to-machy,
The reigns of your horse are now pulling us free,
“Release all the doves for I know now that he is with me!”
“O’ Noah!”
They were young, when you embraced us,
You gave us your love and did what you must,
I have given my life, for all that was needed,
Serpent’s mount, where we stood, as the waters receded,
“O’ Lord! Oh…”
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
I angle my upper body forward from my reclined seat back,
To gaze through three panes of a frosty porthole,
To view a blanket of lights on darkened earth.
But they're below me, I'm distanced.
I'm thirty thousand feet in the air.
Incandescent highways splinter and mend like aimless root networks,
Funneling wingless fireflies like worker ants. And I, here,
Hoping your luminescence is, too, wandering to your hive or elsewhere,
Hoping against hope that you notice me in transit.
Though I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.
At least, but likely closer to the distance between our moon and sun,
Hurdling through galaxies at the speed of super-sound,
Sure that even at the end of space, past comets and nebulase,
That even if I get turned around,
I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.
As the lights ebb and dim from outside my window panes,
Gradually giving way to blackened earthly landmass,
I will recline my seat slightly and rest my eyes,
Hoping the steady burn of the plane's fog lights guides you,
Thirty thousand feet closer to where you need to be.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
POSTICTAL PORTHOLE-(TIME BLOWN BACKWARDS)
Frozen breath holding back weight, against the chest seems great stacked like stones
Starting softly to see from the third door down the row,reclusive, damage is waiting to show
Others in red alert our mind coming on slow, their fear no reflection on our unknowns
Peace while in waiting,thoughts flow slow into a reflecting pool,echos beginning to grow
Time blown backwards when clocks stopped ticking , simple assessments our only goals
Mental evaporation senses left wide open,trying to find the song but only get static from the radio
Held back by grogginess looking out from fogginess ,bits of life as viewed through those holes
Oh MY I made it,escaped , BUT when will blackness call again,laying low not quite thinking of that other plateau
Bolted ,jolted rousing frequently followed by drowsing,hearing as a low hum ,sounds soon forming new tones
Nonexistentance now part of the ritual ,for the witness memories are visual,slowly waiting to say hello
Perspective has changed, await for thoughts to be rearranged ,senses in collusion with massive confusion,new beginning like waiting for future episodes . R.C.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
From the calm to the rough, the going was tough
you wondered if you were made of the right stuff
there was a foot on the porthole so it stayed
the sea pulsed by, the colour of frothy jade
'Don't you drop ash on the sail,' the captain said
it will shred in the wind and we'll all be dead'
no sooner that we were out, we had returned
extinguished the *** before the sail burned
My world had been fourteen feet, I'm now discrete:
about how bad things can be to everyone I meet
about the images that came before me
my lone battle with the tempestuos sea
It was nothing but to me everything
amazing the peace calm water could bring
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
There are no bad people and there
Are no bad things and the
Music's always playing, always ringing, always singing
Cos the music that surrounds you, penetrates you, lacerates you
Is no different from the substance of your being,
All vibrations merely differentiated unities
You are gliding through that energy field
And consciously! How strange indeed
You're a kaleidoscopic porthole into
All that can ever be
You keep moving through time,
Accidentally rhyming, caught up in the games of the intellect
And introspectively, you can't believe what your
Mind tells you you are
Because you are and you aren't
There's not one true way to know it
If a word could capture what you are,
Then it wouldn't be true
Because the thought and spoken word
Is skewed so distant from the root
But the word is just a path to understanding what the source could be
A way to help the others see
What's going on at the edges of the galaxy
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 9:31 PM UTC
When we hug, hold each other tight,
Breast in breast, beating heart against beating heart.
Bound willingly and out of love.
In that smile... That little twitch that betrays your
innermost thoughts. That curvaceous flowing of flesh
that speaks your joy to the world.
Through tears, of happiness, of sorrow, of hopes and
dreams. Shed from the windows of my eyes... Belying
the rising tumult of emotions-raw-within my chest.
Surging at your sight, igniting at your touch, singing
with your joys and drowning with your sorrows.
I see the life, the wonder, the desire, the drive and the
struggle to be you...
I find forever when I look into your eyes, the proverbial
porthole to your soul. Not because I'm punch-drunk on
your essence. Ha! That would be far to easy to admit.
I find forever because I find love. I find it in the depth
of my being, so passionate, wanting to reach out and
cradle, protect and embrace you, as you are.
I found my forever, and it scares me. Why? Why? Why?
Because... In these small moments... In this forever...
I want to lose myself.
To lose myself in you.
That's love right??? A gamble? Place your bets, jump in
head first... Is it a gamble I am willing to take? My heart says
JUMP!!!
My mind says be patient...
I love you. :) And sometimes it makes me want to cry. :(
If I give you all I am... Will you find forever in me?
I hope so... So here's to jumping. To losing myself, but not becoming lost.
I think it's worth it.
Cheers, to finding forever.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 9:21 PM UTC
Relaxed in a state of absolute calm,
The air of serenity a soothing balm
To ease the imminent struggle ahead
As I sit on my throne of porcelain and shed
The anticipation tugging at my bowels
And out come the mud dogs wearing brown cowls.
Out they come and my tension is released,
In a violent cacophony the silence has ceased!
It has been replaced by a beautiful sound
Like the music of nymphs, with voices all crowned.
The release is a final stinky-sweet ender,
As the *** paper flows my world lights up with splendor!
The sunlight filters through my one bathroom porthole
And the warm rays splay playfully across the hairs of my ********
This is the moment, ***** all the rest.
Nothing else can compare...a good **** is best.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
#D Zwieble
*Remember the story,
about the beautiful-hearted girl,
trapped in the ship, sinking..
and how he saw her--
through the porthole,
made his way through it,
and saved her--
by pressing his mouth to hers
so that she could become able to breathe,
as she finally exited the ship
and made her way back up
to the surface..
He loved her enough
to be her very air at the time she
needed it most.
He still loves her.
I always will.*
#
Jan 6, 2021
Jan 6, 2021 at 9:04 PM UTC
Do you like flying?
I like flying.
I like the angle
of wings,
how they shiver
on the runway
as an artery of redemption.
The murmur of the engines
and the wheels
hopping like babies,
that is freedom.
The sifting through clouds
by the wings,
like dragging a stick
through a puddle of oil,
that is like love.
The belly of the plane
skimming over the clouds,
basking naked in the sun,
that is like life.
Descending through the fog
bumping in your seat,
watching the porthole
for the brown grasses of geese
and jewelry of the sun on other jets
that is like the birth
of the world.
Taxiing to a stop
and unconsciously
taking the sweet, lovely woman's hand,
in whichever way she is beautiful,
the one who snored through the descent
and it sounded like the piano play
of rain and concrete,
that is like grace
in innumerable measures.
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 11:37 PM UTC