"printing" poems
When you plunged
The light of Tuscany wavered
And swung through the pool
From top to bottom.
I loved your wet head and smashing crawl,
Your fine swimmer's back and shoulders
Surfacing and surfacing again
This year and every year since.
I sat dry-throated on the warm stones.
You were beyond me.
The mellowed clarities, the grape-deep air
Thinned and disappointed.
Thank God for the slow loadening,
When I hold you now
We are close and deep
As the atmosphere on water.
My two hands are plumbed water.
You are my palpable, lithe
Otter of memory
In the pool of the moment,
Turning to swim on your back,
Each silent, thigh-shaking kick
Re-tilting the light,
Heaving the cool at your neck.
And suddenly you're out,
Back again, intent as ever,
Heavy and frisky in your freshened pelt,
Printing the stones.
25.6k
I’ll split the hairs, I’ll split an atom
And never leave the bedroom.
I most identify with December,
Not because of the crushing temperature
But the lack of cosmic dawdling
Is no more mesmerizing than a frozen phoenix.
And as she arrives by train from Phoenix,
I study who she appears to be, the atoms
Composing her auburn hair with dawdling
Authenticity shout “Take me to the bedroom!”
While the wedge of geese in this temperature
Head to the Southern Hemisphere’s December.
The common chill of this morning in December
Prevents us from rising from out the covers like a phoenix,
And our blankets like ash defend us from the temperature
That stills the vibrations of the atmosphere’s atoms.
I curse the insulated walls of the bedroom,
Trapping in heat and discouraging our dawdling.
A rafter of turkeys outside my window are dawdling,
Printing their runes on the documents of December
Between the thickets surrounding the bedroom
While the sun, golden like the plumage of a phoenix,
Awakens in my bones every dormant atom,
Instilling in me courage to brave the temperature.
I follow her, dressed, from the bedroom
And her footsteps serve to punctuate the temperature
Like the smoldering beak of a phoenix
Too busy being risen for dawdling.
She leaves, by train through the chill of December,
Me daydreaming of fission. The splitting of an atom.
I’ll split an atom daily, safely within the bedroom
And sleep through December’s pitiless, hollow temperature,
Waking only for dawdling until Spring is a phoenix.
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 10:16 PM UTC
We can remember it for you wholesale
once we clear the stage of initial erase
Sure I might lisp on a drunk night,
exasperated and claiming in collapse,
I'd rather pack rat the memories in one place
and consign my pain away to tall tales.
I'm drowned, running down wi-fi 6th street.
Printing my soles to follow my heels
as inescapably I lose track of me.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC
a grandchild
for her 9th birthday
very happy
to be away from her older
as well as her younger sister
for a while
spent a long weekend
with her grands
they picked her up
schoolbag and bathing suit
and guitar & everything else
she had already mentioned
that French Toast for breakfast
would be REALLY nice
and that’s what she got
together with chocolate milk
1 minute in the microwave,
according to her wish
patiently reading her book
while the oldies got their act together
in their slow morning routine
they all went birthday shopping
& out for lunch
she read her book again while the oldies
were snoring their nap
& then they all had great fun
swimming and horsing around in the public pool
watching some TV
& improving her ping-pong game
happy & tired
after dinner some goodnight reading
doughnuts and hot chocolate for breakfast
next morning
and then
with grandma’s help
printing out a card for Mom on Mother’s day
AND baking real brownies as a gift….
a happy & proud 9-year old
was delivered to her parents
& presented her mother with the card
& the brownies & the new dress
& the homework all done
somehow
the guitar practice had gotten lost
yet she was the envy of her siblings
for the day
* * *
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
When backpacking, there are certain
rules that everyone knows like
take less than you can carry;
you’ll pick up things as you go.
Be careful when hitchhiking;
follow your gut instinct. Always.
Stick to your budget;
you don’t wanna run dry in Kansas.
What no one actually tells you is:
Don’t fall in love
with a town or
with a boy in a town.
Oops.
A boy who is settled and nestled in a town is dangerous.
The other roaming, free-loving boys are fine, because
they understand and you understand
that, like a Lynyrd Skynyrd song, your
both freebirds who must be traveling on.
These boys are easy to love and set free.
Townies, on the other hand, are like rose-colored poison
which seeps into your every thought,
but then you don’t really mind.
They show you that their quaint little town
doesn’t just look like magic.
It is magic.
They show you that there’s something beautiful in
greeting the mailman with
“how’s the wife?”
the charming town diner
where the pie is county-famous
the declaration of love on the water tower
written in red spray paint.
The boy shows you how to fall in love with a town,
and in the town you fall in love with the boy.
They should start printing warning labels on backpacks:
WARNING: don’t fall in love with a boy
who is settled and nestled in a pint-sized town
because he will clip you wings.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
This is one of those serious poems
And yet it has nothing new to say
But the poet needs to keep himself busy
And writing seems to be the easiest way
The poet rises up on his soapbox
Because he works better from an elevated height
He screams about organized religion, politics
And stripping away of our basic human rights
Like a magician with a classic misdirection
The poet wraps his moralizing in purple prose
He hits you over the head with one simple point
That he’s forgotten more than you’ll ever know
Around the time of the nineteenth obscure reference
The reader is in awe of his far-reaching knowledge
Then the poet overuses polysyllabic words
Just to prove he went to a good college
And the poet keeps filling up the notebooks
Even though he should have stopped long ago
But the publisher agreed to pay by the word
So unfortunately, there’s four more stanzas to go
Quickly, the release date approaches
There’s one printing, then two, then three
And the poem becomes a hit in coffee shops
Recited by grad students in between bites of biscotti
His face now graces the cover of every magazine
In an explosion of exuberant media admiration
Dozens of talk show appearances are scheduled
For the newly crowned “voice of our generation”
The publisher decorates the dust jacket with blurbs
Complimenting the book’s “dangerously original rhymes”
But it’s nothing more than passing hyperbole
Gathered from a glowing review in The New York Times
Now thousands grasp the paperback edition
And eagerly await the feature film adaptation
Meanwhile, the poet hunches over his typewriter
And commits more sententious literary ************
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
You're sixty years too late
to feel that rumble glorify
your feet & drum a rhythm
into your sole.
Even the printing press is a ghost
& Waterloo Station
-abandoned clockwork-
awaits its next passenger.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC
We blame society for everything.
We fault magazines for turning innocent teenage girls
Into anorexic beauty queens.
We point fingers at the paper thin actresses on TV screens
For bringing bulimia victims to their knees,
Two fingers down their throat as they cough up that last bit dinner,
Along with the guilt and shame that comes with it.
We blame society, but we are society.
Who wrote those magazines?
Who created the ridiculous standard that you can only fit in
If your bones are showing through your skin?
Hunger is just a feeling; thin is a skill.
Your stomach isn’t growling because you’re starving.
No! It’s applauding you on a job well done,
On another day of nothing but celery sticks and diet coke.
Who cares if all of your hair falls out?
Who cares if you get dizzy every time you stand?
Who cares if the desire to be thin and meet this sick standard of beauty
Is slowly killing you, taking another piece of that innocent teenage girl
And turning her into a skeleton?
We, as a society, don’t care.
The magazines won’t stop printing
Because another high school kid got carried away.
Extreme, even deadly diets are a thing of today,
And yes, yes, they’re here to stay.
Sometimes eating healthy and exercising just aren’t enough.
Desperate times call for desperate measures,
And under this kind of pressure,
It’s hard not to give in.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
The silence now pierces my soul
Grieve is a grey mist in the air
Like a funeral with four people
Burying their respective
Broken promises
The way you conquer me
In a bottle of wine
Like I was an object
Made out of clay
So easy to form
Into a doll
Or a ball
You taught me people make mistakes
In the name of love
And how pain feels
When you refuse to kiss the scars
You have made
The way my voice shivers
When I say no
The way my hands shake
Like a paper not finding its way
Back to the novel it belongs to
I keep having dreams
Of finding wounds on my hands
And glass shards
I realize
I do not miss your touch
Printing me to be yours
A property of glass
Everything that you have
Put together in me
Is shattered now
My glass hands
My glass heart
Your voice makes me weep
Because what once was magic to me
Now makes me bleed in despair
Breathing you is poison
Distance was never a hinder
Although now I wish it was
Everyone can see it in my eyes
The crack, the glass
Everyone can see the broken in me
A woman so broken
I bleed shattered glass
And ink
Somehow, you will always smell like home
And I will always lose myself in you
With you, I wrote love poems
And now, sad poems too.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
Winter.
New York.
North Pole.
Antarctica.
It's like entering a Winter Wonderland!
Building a snowman is as fun as shoveling with dad.
Sledding downhill is as exciting as going down a roller coaster.
Printing snow angels is as gorgeous as the white snow falling down.
Drinking hot chocolate gives my heart a hug.
It's the season I love the best which is Winter.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC
What's in a name?
Let me tell you a story,
Of how my life changed,
And how my name changed,
Every time it appeared on the newspaper.
Replaced by a pseudonym,
Something to do with courage,
I was namelessly admired, slandered, and debated over,
Media’s Exclusive Coverage!
The newspaper headline read in big block letters:
“14 YEAR OLD GIRL SAVES SIX KINDERGARTNERS”,
That made me smile.
Just maybe I thought we had come that extra mile.
But no for I noticed,
My name was changed,
And the Printing Department was not at fault.
That’s just how my country dealt with ****** assault.
I never asked them to hide my name,
They had presumed, of course, that I was ashamed,
Of saving lives. It took me a minute to remember,
I had called Jyoti Nirbhaya for years.
I wanted them to know who I was,
Hiding I thought was for criminals,
Until I realized that I WAS one when,
On returning from the hospital I saw,
Pain in my mother’s,
Anger in my father’s,
And disgust in my relatives’ eyes.
No idea why a part of me had come expecting pride.
In school my “friends” guiltily refrained from talking to me,
Neither were my teachers too happy to see,
That I had returned to the same school,
Bringing with me my painful story,
Which I had mistaken as one of glory.
And when I went to receive the “Bravery Award”,
Only the trophy didn’t read compensation award.
They looked at me with too kind eyes calling me a “hero”
Their smiles told me they meant violated.
As I received the award,
I saw they were trying really hard,
To not let it show,
That they wanted me to know,
The difference between:
Bullet marks on the chest to bite marks on the breast,
Blue around the eyes to blue around the thighs,
Scratches on the fists to cuts on the wrists,
Loud screams in the cold to muffled screams against the cold,
The red of the torn ligament to the red of the torn *****
The difference between a soldier’s and a victim’s blood.
And suddenly I felt as if I was,
The rescued,
Not the rescuer,
The maimed,
Not the fighter,
The oppressed,
Not the rebel,
The hostage,
Not the warrior,
I thought myself to be.
What’s in a name?
Apparently, a lot.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
The door closed. I left.
A few meaningless words,
At the best of times.
Usually, a stranger.
The movie ended.
The hall cleared.
The credits rolled on.
The next movie starts.
Education's a farce.
Money making, paper printing.
The educated worst off,
deluded that they are.
A little goes a long way.
A little nudge is the difference:
from a catastrophic impact,
to a heavenly fiery show.
But it takes time.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, exposure is not vulnerability---it's power:]
a choice made once upon a dusk
the crack of dawn made no return a back it rust
deniable liquor down the throat a burn
upon the disgust my stomach ached a churn
hideous is it you stupid arrogant selfish pry
or was it way too much of a pure ecstasy upon their eyes???
things the raven will never feel warmth existing
jealousy always a hunter in the thick air printing
violins or that of cellos or the whatever veins named
pianos that ought to break regret down my spine lonely hailed
-----ravenfeels
Jun 10, 2021
Jun 10, 2021 at 4:28 PM UTC
When crypto fans approach us
And say “We’re on the same team”
Invite them to grasp our vision
And see if they share our dream
Say, “Great, now you’re joining us to…
Adopt seizure resistant money?
Boost personal power and accountability?
Separate money from state control and abuse?
Restore proper capital allocation through hard money?
Forsake the fiat fraud and cancel the Cantillon privilege?
Allow people to simply save and store value through time?
Cultivate new freedom for billions of people under tyranny?
Abolish the theft of our time and wealth through debasement?
Increase long-term work and vision in all areas due to stable money?
Abandon foolish agendas and wars made possible only by printing money for free?”
Then they can humbly join us
Bitcoin’s purpose in their mind
Or see they are “not on our team”
And sadly - get left behind
Jun 24, 2023
Jun 24, 2023 at 11:29 AM UTC
3D Printing
Proud owners of 3D Printers !
Makers of 3D Printers !
Designers of 3D Printers !
What you are creating
Does't hold a candle
To Designer-maker-owner
All-in-one models
Created eons ago !!
It is the female of
Every species of mammals !
Bones, flesh, blood
Nerves, memory cells
Power plants to convert
Food to energy !
Control systems to regulate
Regeneration of fresh cells
Filter system to provide
Clean oxygen to
Fuel the Power Plants
With Powerful binoculars
Audio production mechanics
Audio receptors to pass on
Grey cells enclosed in
Secure and hard shell
Strands of fine hairs
To cushion impact and
As thermal insulation
Protection shields for
All sensory units
Efficient drainage system
Propulsion facilities
Guidance and command
Center for all activities!!
Processors working 24/7
Processing gene information
Tweaking and fine tuning
Some info and trashing a few
Data storage many TB more
Than many data centers could
Offer with minimum
Upkeep and maintenance
Self-Encryption capabilities
And above all the ability
To produce both male and
Female of their species
All from getting just
One ***** and
ultimately infusion
of LIFE
Into the product as casual
As our breathing.
Do we know the creator?
Different Religions have
Different Names for it
But all the same it is
THE ONLY ONE
That counts :-)
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
Tell the moon not to complain,
go to the sun and leave a note,
We are not a broken piece of poetry
campaigning for love and affections,
we are crystals, lest you forget!
clear rays penetrating into hearts and souls of humans that seek to make themselves gods into godhood.
we are not grasshoppers to be chopped by a lazy legs printing a falseful legacy.
We are the elephants of the forest of wealth.
Never slaughter the thought of our lives
We are the breath of humans & fire searching for what brewed within men.
We are poems inked with tears and sweat
But those tears are of our bravery, &sweat, a joyful noise made by the skin for celebration of our kind.
We ****** hope in the palms of children,
yet filled with love and its synonyms.
Our lives are the poets who rhymed & colour the sweet lyric they were made to be.
We are the boy children, the hope; least you forget.
The moon of tomorrow,
The sun on faces of a beaming girl
The stars carved on the smile of the sky,
We are boys whose shadows recreate
We are boys whose palms are route of greatness & roadtrip of principles.
praise singers in the slippery wet floor,
nightingales singing lullabies,
bread feeding all mouth to satisfaction
When heronic names are carved look and see ours rightly placed.
we are braver than earth
we can pull it up and down like a tree.
we are the reptiles that wriggle down the hill of success and roar like a beast in a beautiful pail palm of dreams.
our fathers' tattered sins could not hold us down,
our mother's splitted fire guides our course of life!
We are the boys of tomorrow , the warriors of words hyping the hashtag of praises.
who has seen us has seen light,
He who behold us has nothing to fear.
We are mountains in praise of hope
we are oceans of mysteries and hidden treasures.
Have our words and actions in your words for we are time bomb against failure.
BOYCHILD, the sun that glows on every face that needs help.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_ A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
I bet it's easy
to impress someone,
but I can't seem to do it.
Think of history,
A simple overwhelming fact
that everything that was
is "was."
And everything that "will be"
may be,
could be.
We are provided a context
that could have been a completely,
completely different
context...
thing.
And sometimes, it's easy to forget
that everything is forgotten,
which makes it hard
to impress people.
At least for me.
I heard it was easy
to impress people,
but I just can't seem to do it.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 12:46 AM UTC
drying my eyes with the crumpled plane tickets
that brought me here
as the new ones slowly print, inch by inch
and the ink dries upon my cheeks
and the time has been tattooed into my eyelids
ticking away, ticking closer and closer
to the end
closing my ears to the sound of cars
passing by on an open road
as the sound of wheels on concrete presses
into my memory and suddenly
i am in a taxi, speeding towards the last drop
of this city, and part of me is left behind
among the crashing water of spring
and the wood chips of an abandoned playground
and the puddles that we avoided as we ran
uncontrollably down the street
laughing
i am not laughing now, except to appear
alive as the boy who makes my coffee
makes me a joke too, free of charge
and i don’t want him or anyone to worry about me
so my mouth opens a crack, and my eyes fold inwards
and he smiles, placing my drink on the counter
and i burn my tongue trying to drown
that fake laugh
the tickets are done printing
the zipper has been forced
over the gaps between my fingers
where your hand should be
and the puzzle wavers as i pack it, but
the pieces stay together, at least until
i close the suitcase
and somehow, i am confident
that it will remain intact
i crumple the tickets in my hand
in an effort to make them look old
as if the summer had already passed
and i was on my way back to fill my empty palm
with warm skin, soft words and a hard press
of my mouth to the sound of something akin to home
i can feel the push and pull of two places
that have shaped me and are shaping me still
as my body curves around the ribs
and hips of a new kind of comfort
and the stiff seat in this airplane
reminds me that i am never as comfortable
as when i am with you
and i resign myself to sunny months
and warm music
and the discomfort of a puzzle
that is trying its hardest
to stay together
and i resign myself to dipping my toes in the water each night
pulling out the glue from between them
and keeping the pieces together
pressing my hand into the soft wood of the dock
in an effort to shut out the cold air
and i resign myself to the confidence i feel
knowing time will be on my side
when i need it to be
i throw the old tickets in the trash
and slip the new ones inside my passport
ready
to keep myself together
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
A knife that you can sing into
A prison cell with a pretty view
A circus show that makes you cry
Looking up to a hot pink sky
Mr. Officer is rolling a blunt
A bunny rabbit that kills and hunts
A talk show host with nothing to say
100 degrees on a rainy day
A corner baby that pays to ****
A step mother that loves you a lot
A man in an alley that just says hello
Printing directions with nowhere to go
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:11 PM UTC
Running here running there
doing this doing that.
calling him calling her.
fixing this fixing that.
Im just tidying up the window dressing .
Fixing the facade.
Going here going there
smiling nicely putting on spin
trying to win the face contest.
Just tidying up the window dressing.
The store is out of stock.
The Tax man is a vamp.
Printing money like stamps.
Busting up my camp.
Time is spinning faster. Playing out the string.
The treadmill tilts a steeper angle.
Winners never quit and quitters never win.
Reaching for the next rung. Just like the one before.
Just tidying up the window dressing.
I got stamina to burn.
Tax man. Gas man. Card man
Med. man. Food man. Clothes man
Mortgage man.Rent man. Car man.
Light man. Water man Boss man.
Tidying up the window dressing
Stressing hard about my stressing.
Too jammed up to count my blessing.
Tell the truth without confessing.
Politicians full of ****
Slippery as quicksilver.
Who the hell they playing with.
Left or right I'm done with it.
AGAIN.
Media. what media. Tell it to
Goebbels.
Just pulling down the window dressing
Tired of playing Bo Peep. Big boy time.
Wakie Wakie.
The old shell game.
Never give a sucker an even break
Or.
Smarten up a chump said W.C
Fields. He was serious. I'm serious.
Who's serious about 1929.
Tearing down the window dressing
Dont believe the hype.
Nero fiddled while Rome burned. He was not mad
He had a plan?
Tearing up the window dressing.
Life is much too short for mucking
about with pit vipers bugged on ecstasy.
I'm serious.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
It is so much fun making things.
Cutting construction paper,
and printing pictures from the computer,
and making solar system posters,
with colorful comets, and nebulas.
But without my good friend Elmers glue
I don't know what I would do.
Just a dot, and spread it around,
and you can stick Ganymede next to Jupiter,
and make all kinds of cool collages.
You can make little game pieces,
and play galaxy battles with grandpa,
but without Elmers glue
everything would fall apart,
and all the papers would seperate,
and nothing would work!
That's why I love Elmers glue.
Its like love,
because it fixes little broken plastic hearts,
and keeps beautiful pictures, and strong paper together,
so that you can make beautiful and strong things,
which is what love is.
So you can sort of say
that Elmers glue, kind of
is love.
Which is why I love it!
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 7:20 AM UTC
They ask, "What's the sweetest thing that's happened to you"?
I would have to reply, "It started when I was two".
That is when I, Mother, sister and brother,
went to live with our Grandpa and Grandmother.
They both sacrificed, from that day forward,
working long, hard hours, always undeterred.
To give us a home and happy memories.
It couldn't have been better, for Mom and us three.
Mom worked evenings at the Sears and RoeBuck store.
Grandpa at the publishers, working on the printing floor.
Grandma changed jobs to the school cafeterias,
so when we were home from school, she could be near us.
Grandpa was our dad, in our hearts and minds.
Growing up with two Moms was a terrific time.
Yes, living with our Grandparents was a special world.
I grew up to be a very thankful girl.
What's the sweetest thing that has ever happened?
It started when I was two, and has never slackened.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 3:56 PM UTC
Splash out a moist printing impression,
Chiseling an angry replica god of clay.
Electric rhythm masticates waste in two.
Captured decay inspired death of poison desire.
Feel morass young essence that makes a masterpiece.
Dazzling black illusions above nefarious comedy,
Evoke dead wood to open an abstract symbol.
Those surreal senses draw a brazen icon to life.
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 10:13 PM UTC