"predates" poems
The Unfocused luminosity within my mind
is so bright that it often times blinds my eyes from the inside,
Desperate to concentrate and focus it into two beams
that shine on a fate that’s known but unseen,
at least outside of my dreams,
It backfires and converts into an inaudible scream that in turn internally deafens me.
Nevertheless in your company, it seems that you can feel this shriek’s muffled vibrations
and despite the two dulled senses you the give remaining four the most overwhelming awakening sensation.
Your exquisite essence immediately arouses my olfactory causing my heart to beat rapidly, communicating with yours through its protective cage,
in a Morse code like language that predates drawings in caves,
our bodies ripple in synchronous waves,
the taste of your lips and sweetness of your skin can sustain me for days.
My third eye attempts to analyze your magnificence but it’s almost impossible to gauge,
I mumble **** baby, thinking about how I want to get engaged and..
you whisper in my ear telling me I feel “amazing”
and I think to myself” **** right I do”,
forgetting that you’re describing how I feel to you,
Then It hits me, that now I can hear, as you whisper in my other ear so soft and clear
“baby look at me”
then I open my “real eyes”
and your beauty hits me like sunrise,
The internal light that clouded my view,
from my eyes, reflects off of you and illuminates the room,
My mental muse,
You can clear my view when I focus on you
which is the cause and cure for my blues.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC
Punching mirrors
to breach the barrier
between you and me
Show me that
black hole heart, friend
let it consume us
Chew through
the lines you've drawn
with my hand
This predates catastrophe
our faceless meditation
taste like apple seeds
I'm losing touch,
but I like the rush
we should ****
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
bland streets
give birth to austere
children playing with chalk
hopscotch horde
SAMO dropped the bomb
no place to sleep
cheese to eat
find the avant garde spirit
moving with fleas
friends are dogs
the genius notes
worlds explode from Manhattan to Midrand
the child casts spells with calloused hands
a nervous man
with his Bohemian fabric
emerges from the brothel of thought
no Warhol
just unpublished papers
in black banks
influence predates intelligence
when things fall apart
perish in art
juntas and intellectuals will critique
your gore will speak.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 5:43 AM UTC
Thursday night is game night but Hasbro
has never had this one right. Operation is not
a game for ages four and up–maybe four,
multiplied by four, add four, and up.
Surgical mask on, Cavity Sam prepped,
and tweezers waiting to the right of the operating table:
I like to start with the Adam's apple–
carve away any trace of my origins
and they will never figure out who I am
because, like my mother used to say to me,
who is Eve without a blameless man.
Then I move on to the butterflies in the stomach
flittering and fluttering for a home that feels far more familiar
but they cannot be caught, only drowned.
Naturally, the broken heart follows
but the problem with pulling that out is
the never-ending-silence,
white-noise-science, black-hole-giant,
You know, the absence that predates writer's block–
writer's cramp, sliding a pencil up your wrist like it's the
(best kept) secret IV of an author.
Is that the price of filling up your bread basket,
going to bed full on recognition and reward
and maybe even a Pulitzer Prize?
Be careful not to trip up on your own ego
or you just might end up with a wrenched ankle
and water on the knee.
I still have to deal with the wishbone,
the split-in-two-gravestone,
the only-one-of-us-is-leaving-here-happy zone.
And finally, I have the spare ribs
but I just might leave those there
because we see what happened when God
bothered to remove those the last time.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
black is my mind my body and soul
white the light but it still looks yellow
past the point were turning back is not an option
revenge is only folly if success is valid conquest
belittling immigrants
who settled for scraps off our battlements
preposterous pledges by parliament
only campaigning for the next election
correction only acting for praises by thespians
who digress me again its a mess, sin.
what I'm saying is puppeteers puppet them
and they speak in voice roll
440 A is what rock sold
watch the room get cold
but even if I said it you still likely wouldn't know
its old
giving rhythm to a message, that predates me
but the soul
pours forth, so as for digging my feet
I may as well be digging a hole
like a mold compulsion
perpetual veritable intervals
in a vexing verbose
burying any chance for understanding
overwhelming cowardice
forces most to just live with it
a mask makes a brave man
so one day well rise again
hiding in sub-text
my plain sight re-utterance
if you do nothing you change nothing
now shut up and forget I said anything
gooble gobble
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC
you cannot equate my fate
with the likes of yours,
you cannot narrate
what i might endure,
you cannot gestate
the weight, nor labor,
because it predates
the state of our nature
but moving forward is
predicated on behavior
so i'll be a good neighbor
and do you the favor.
© Matthew Harlovic
Oct 7, 2016
Oct 7, 2016 at 5:38 PM UTC
It Is Not the Sword!
by Michael R. Burch
This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur’s fame (and hyperbole) grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants.
“It is not the sword,
but the man,”
said Merlyn.
But the people demanded a sign—
the sword of Macsen Wledig,
Caladbolg, the “lightning-shard.”
“It is not the sword,
but the words men follow.”
Still, he set it in the stone
—Caladvwlch, the sword of kings—
and many a man did strive, and swore,
and many a man did moan.
But none could budge it from the stone.
“It is not the sword
or the strength,”
said Merlyn,
“that makes a man a king,
but the truth and the conviction
that ring in his iron word.”
“It is NOT the sword!”
cried Merlyn,
crowd-jostled, marveling
as Arthur drew forth Caliburn
with never a gasp,
with never a word,
and so became their king.
Published by Songs of Innocence, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Romantics Quarterly and Celtic Twilight. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, stone, sword, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, England
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
period is a certain time
period is a passage
period predates silence
period is a statement
period ends words
.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 8:46 PM UTC
As the hour predates on the minute
I know
I just know
That I just can’t turn back
The things that I have done
But I got no regrets
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
That love we had which predates June
Kept us in fits all afternoon.
Her sky-stained eyes sang ***** tunes.
Bluer being than bluest moons.
All around her fresh lagoon
I swam and sank and spoke too soon.
A brighter night from this was hewn
And on a page the tale was strewn.
A voice that rang inopportune
And ears to its hum immune.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
the two play tic-tac-toe by prison correspondence. the mutual doctor they once met through is now famous for being there when god was in labor. I love my research when it brings me to my mother’s stone because my mother’s stone is without epitaph and because beside my mother’s stone is one engraved with a phone number which predates what everyone is doing. I call the number and nothing. the two unfold a couch into a bed and go their separate ways to check email. their little devil details the car that didn’t get away. I want this little devil so badly it murders the actor I look like. the two stand in front of a movie poster and stand there just as they’ve planned. a beauty shop closes its doors sending beauticians into a street crowded with beauticians for open carry. I send Emily to search for Emily when Emily was pretty.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
The air is cool for a summer day.
Kittens play with fallen leaves
As the breeze does the same with my hair.
Everything around me familiar
Burned into my memory.
Small changes have happened over the years
But some things remain forever the same.
The big ant hill at the end of the road
It predates us.
Will probably out live us all.
The atmosphere feels different
As though autumn decided to debute
Before pumpkin spice is released in stores
For once.
I'm not complaining.
I take no pictures.
Instead I open my eyes wide
In effort to take in ever detail in front of me
As the moment that came is leaving
Even as I live and breathe.
Making shapes of clouds that tease the rain.
And to think, I really liked that day.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 6:37 PM UTC
Some, ode-to-be,
Never let my get so close
That I should turn to graphite
That which set notes
To a discordant symphony,
Lyrics to that beautiful muteness.
Never—I promise—will you be my poem
You’ve mastered an art
Only dreams could capture
Half as well.
You make me seek and chase
A fantasy
And long to capture what, before
I never thought.
I am left in division:
Do I love what I can’t have?
If so, how?
Do I release what eschews chains,
Arrests me having done the better?
O, then this I hear a locket
Whole, in faith, on my breast
And lest I’m to sail
Towards an in an eastern destiny
The key will blow in warm
From the west
Strangely, a pattern unlike my own
On wings that flutter
Free
And I will, somehow, hold the key
That, somehow, predates
Her western destiny.
Two lockets broken
And chains entwined
Shall render useless an eager hand
But still the palsy that urges it
Amidst the ailing hate of it:
Love in its purest.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:28 AM UTC
It's you.
I think you said those words first,
And instantly I understood.
It's you.
Unexpectedly.
It's you.
It's us
This We, we feel,
Predates this life.
Survives this life.
It's you.
For eternity.
Forever.
It's you.
Nov 19, 2023
Nov 19, 2023 at 11:29 AM UTC
Heavily debated deleting my account,
Even though it predates you,
It is forever tainted
with confessions of
love
for
you
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 8:20 PM UTC
Oh, treacherous pull of endless floor
under our light inconsequential trample,
in equal measure, the feather is won
cursed by thee, to its inevitable fall.
Thy naked invisible attraction
sways the seas in moonlight dates,
holds north and south feet kissin',
and has us visiting the sun from west!
Force that collects from all distance
a grip the scale takes the measure,
I miss ye largely drifting in space.
Ye are a tango between bodies,
from a bang that predates time,
sculpting atomic dust into planets.
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 10:57 AM UTC