"probes" poems
There is an image
Working to free my mind
From violent dawns
It probes at the backs of my eyes
It tells me I am prostituting myself
Here in my bedroom
In incestuous union with myself
I hallucinate and fantasise about
Doctors sons, butchers boys
Teenage thieves, deserters
Drug pushers, scandalous rent boys
Vagrants, pimps, prostitutes
And silk lingerie and don't care.
I sit destitute of thought
An insonce dissonance of macabre music
Playing out melodies of an image in my mind
Apr 12, 2012
Apr 12, 2012 at 4:42 PM UTC
Sunlight makes its move beyond the safe Clouds.
Clouds finally let the Sunlight go free.
Sunlight reaches toward the awaiting greenery.
Clouds hesitate to question its judgment.
Sunlight grasps the hands of Earth.
Clouds spy on Sunlight's careful movements.
Sunlight heats the world in a clear embrace.
Clouds meander further away in hiding.
Sunlight ignites passion within the plants.
Clouds rely on an evaporation vice.
Sunlight relaxes in the west, pleased.
Clouds find solace in the salty air.
Sunlight wakes up to the smiling blossoms.
Clouds glare from a distance.
Sunlight gazes at its new abundance of fruit.
Clouds long for a sweet release.
Sunlight notices its once dear lover.
Clouds acknowledge Sunlight's attention.
Sunlight begins to scorch the ground.
Clouds play upon the mountains.
Sunlight angers at the coyness.
Clouds laugh at the needy air.
Sunlight intensifies to torch the trees.
Clouds begin to realize the desire.
Sunlight glances in the direction of its hope.
Clouds gather up courage to make its move.
Sunlight begs for saturated fulfillment.
Clouds glide toward Sunlight in sweet surrender.
Sunlight kisses its precious love.
Clouds cherish its tender caress.
Sunlight probes its worth by revealing true emotion.
Clouds relinquish control and release the passion.
Sunlight holds the clouds so dearly.
Clouds feel peace letting loose all emotion.
Sunlight stares amazed at the Clouds.
Clouds feel the warmth of Sunlight.
Sunlight makes its move beyond the safe Clouds.
Clouds yet again let the Sunlight go free.
Earth can't survive without this temperamental love affair.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
They called me Pluto from afar, and I,
Nameless and void, embraced the title
With the force of a thousand burning suns,
Each one like the star I loved ever so dearly,
An immense sphere of fire which had me
Helplessly, hopelessly bound by its gravity,
Caught in its orbit from the beginning of time.
They called me Pluto still from further still,
Speaking my name as the orbit of myself
And their water world drove us apart,
And I gladly, worshipfully rejoiced –
I had a name; I was no longer void.
I was distant still, but they called me Pluto,
And I wore my name like regalia,
A crown upon my lifeless skin.
They called me Pluto still as they
Waded further from the cosmic shore
That was their home, sending probes
That touched the regolith of Mars –
There was life, and light, spreading out from Planet Earth,
So I waited, hoping they’d come for me
Sooner rather than later, tomorrow and not two centuries from now.
They called me Pluto even as they stripped me of my name –
I was ‘planet’ no longer,
And I grew colder and bitterer as I spun,
Because I knew things they did not,
Things about the rise and fall of civilizations.
They did not see what I had seen,
They had not been watching
Since the dawn-time.
They called me Pluto,
And they cried my name
As I watched them burn,
The light of the flickering candle in the dark
That had once been humankind
Flaring, more luminous than the sun for one bright, shining moment,
Then fading.
They called me Pluto in the aftermath,
As if I were the God of the underworld,
Guarding their lost souls from my far-off perch,
Shepherding that which could not be led,
But I was not their God, even if I’d once fathomed them as mine.
So here I wait, patient, eternal, void and barren,
For them to leave me lonely when they no longer
Dare to speak my name from the realm
I am the supposed guardian of;
They called me Pluto.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
In the dark of night, in the middle of a storm
A dish falls, shatters
A shriek tears the relative silence
Pale pink blood blossoms in the water
While rich red blood wells up in the hand
Tears falling like a blinding waterfall
Stabs and throbs of aching stinging searing pain
Blood and pain and tears fill the mind
A flash of white tissue beneath the torrents of red
Panting sobs and hyperventilation
Panicking as victim is rushed to the ER
Mother tries to comfort daughter with story of healed,
Previously lacerated toes
Two words blurted between gasps of pain: NOT HELPING
Arrive to an empty lobby, excepting a nurse and receptionist
Focus on nothing, only the hand
The possible tendon torn, the skin shredded, the blood spilt
Dishtowel now soaking red irony fluid instead of clear soapy
The story repeated 6, 7, 8 times
A nurse asks if I smoke or drink
A radiologist asks if there is any chance for pregnancy
And for a moment I am shocked out of my pain into pondering
The corruption of the modern generations,
Such that I am asked these questions
Any friend of mine would quickly tell that
No, I'm not that kind of teenager... but how many are?
Then I am whisked from the x-ray room
Off for stitches, they say my tendon is cut
That I need stitches
The fingers no longer gush, but that triviality is soon remedied
A doctor probes the wound for shards
Nurse flushes it clean with chlorohexadine
Both renew the flow
Doctor returns, stitches both fingers and chats away
Grand tally of five stitches, a splint, blankets of guaze,
And a roll of medical tape
Prescriptions for pain meds and antibiotics, both given
A scoffing glance, but instructions are followed
Forbidden from any activity with the right hand by my mother
I struggle even to write, simple chores soon a nuisance
First time the splint and stitches are gone,
Doctor number two declares my hand usable
First time the little finger bends, the half healed skin splits
So all for a plate, a hand was rendered more useless
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
We were on a 2nd floor garden terrace. The three-quarter moon was doing its best to set a romantic, gin-mood, pouring a soft pastel-blue on the world, that softened hard edges.
A cool breeze wafted jasmine scents from a nearby tea-olive tree. We were alone, the only sounds were far off footsteps and my pounding heart. Wasn’t this romantic?
Fueled twice by desire I had dressed carefully and modestly, with just a subtle, but fancy, hint of sluttiness. My costume, carefully vetted by a company of five, calculating, non-virgins, was designed to be both alluring and as abstruse as Kleenex. I was a doll dressed, painted and scented to ****** Wasn’t I romantic?
We’d never kissed before, and I wanted him to kiss me with an almost moaning force of will. I brushed my skirt down and checked that my hair was in place with quick, fleeting hand motions that could have been butterflies in the reflected light.
We were sitting close together, I could feel his warmth, but nothing was happening and then, as nothing continued to happen, I began to fret, to sag, what was the glitch? Maybe..
I felt a warmth, his breath, I looked up and he kissed me, gently, then moved back a little. I smiled. I wanted to laugh, to shout, to jump around like my team had won the Superbowl, but I was very still, lest I scare him off. Oh, there were butterflies somewhere.
He’s smart. His mind probes the infinite but sometimes neglects the immediate. I wasn’t expecting a smooth move from someone who’s all knees, thumbs and elbows but, hey, I’m capable, and willing, to learn.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 2:15 PM UTC
Manipulating information
To craftily plot your lore
Is necessary if you want
To continue an information war.
Specific example: Deny Russian
Collusion and interference in
U.S. elections, and do not stop
Seeking info that you can spin.
After months of denying Russian
Cyber attacks and election meddling,
Then admit the possibility
Through a little backpedaling.
Say that well…maybe they meddled,
But hastily add: so did others.
Say you'd still end all queries
And probes if you had your druthers.
It's vital, of course, that you keep
Bashing the press. Be sure to accuse
Investigative journalists
Of making up tons of fake news.
Finally, say the Russians will
Interfere in the U.S., and that's
How in elections this November
They plan to help the DEMOCRATS!
Why? Because you're so hard
(Wink!) on Russia. You'll be winning.
Your fawning fans will eat it up,
And you will have all heads spinning.
Your friends on your favorite TV station
Will help you criticize and demean
Those who don't agree with you.
Praise to your propaganda machine!
Who cares what the world thinks?
You've got your fans; you've got your base.
There's no match for a stable genius
Who says to the world, "In your face!"
-by Bob B (7-25-18)
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
~for Steve R. & Stephen Y.~
*"two regrets are mine -
not finding you earlier in life when...words would have carved for me a better road, and...not hand-ing you a touch, the perfect tightness-shake of one's hand reserved for fondest friends and the light press on one's back deserved for dearest brothers!"
~~~*
the light press surety of five fingers on one,
oh, what messages it composes, oh, what duty weighty it transmits
dear brothers:
tho this hands-on handoff, this fly-over, is still a
mission unaccomplished,
yet no regrets, please!
men don't overuse superlatives,
what you lovingly uncover in my rocket-verbal Mars probes,
is more telling, more revealing of who you are,
than any hand-tightness shake,
any touching grasp, could e'er convey
yet I promise, forsworn upon the cross
of the north west Pacifico latitude and longitude
a latitude that just happens to intersect
my olden, new english state,
knowing that Interstate 90
a straight transcontinental shot,
and the car keys just an impulse grab away
to tell your arms, your face, your back, our hands,
that when you love my poetry,
you love me,
you friends,
are an affirmation of Pablo Neruda's words:
***"whoever discovers who I am
discovers who you are"***
fondness is not distance constrained,
touching grasps pay no obeisance to time,
the honor of your affection permanent
affirmed and enflamed,
all mine, sublime, to lead my heart,
where to lay hands upon your back,
to realize even more
our single united rhyme
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
I want to write
And I want to write far
Farther than distance and
Farther than a mile feels when you're
Expected
To run in gym class.
I want to
Inspire.
And the word seems
Thick
Like elephant skin
Or those
Cracked leather jackets that bikers wear.
It seems 'out there'
Like a planet
Somewhere that we
Haven't sent probes to.
In the middle of swallowed up
Space.
But I want to
Inspire
Like
J.K. Rowling
Or
E.B. White
Or
J.R.R. Tolkein
And all of those other
Blocked up
Official sounding
Initials.
I could have initials.
Be E.M. Tyler or just
E. Tyler.
And people would
Wonder what the E. stood for
And one day I would
Sign an autograph
"Emily"
And they would call
The New York Times
And the search would be over
And ambitious fans
Would exclaim in exhuberance.
And they wouldn't have even read my book yet.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
We are a people living in shells and moving
Crablike; reticent, awkward, deeply suspicious;
Watching the world from a corner of half-closed eyelids,
Afraid lest someone show that he hates or loves us,
Afraid lest someone weep in the railway train.
We are coiled and clenched like a foetus clad in armour.
We hold our hearts for fear they fly like eagles.
We grasp our tongues for fear they cry like trumpets.
We listen to our own footsteps. We look both ways
Before we cross the silent empty road.
We are a people easily made uneasy,
Especially wary of praise, of passion, of scarlet
Cloaks, of gesturing hands, of the smiling stranger
In the alien hat who talks to all or the other
In the unfamiliar coat who talks to none.
We are afraid of too-cold thought or too-hot
Blood, of the opening of long-shut shafts or cupboards,
Of light in caves, of X-rays, probes, unclothing
Of emotion, intolerable revelation
Of lust in the light, of love in the palm of the hand.
We are afraid of, one day on a sunny morning,
Meeting ourselves or another without the usual
Outer sheath, the comfortable conversation,
And saying all, all, all we did not mean to,
All, all, all we did not know we meant.
2.2k
Lend me your ears
that I
may whisper
such sweet nothings
with little more
than
a hushered breath
it's touch
lingering but a moment
to long
upon your lobe
naked now
of all pretense and flattery
my lips graze
spreading ripples
of pleasure
my tongue
probes teasing
as my kiss or' whelms you
open mouth ... closers
nibbling lightly
upon the phallas
of your *****
my breath heated now
my lips wet
and in my mind I wonder
are yours?
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
To the planet called Earth
And its so called overseers:
We are your distant neighbor
From a far-flung star
A thousand times greater than yours.
We don't come in peace.
Certainly, you may think
That your intergalactic
Space bound expeditions
Got us all figured out.
Your futile exploits
Gave you but an idea
That might turn out to be
A million light years away
From such a prized truth.
But we know everything
About your infant planet.
Your warm-blooded race
The silly thing you call Science
And your many weakness.
We have been here all along
Since the ancient times.
Your ancestors offered megaliths
And long tried to build relations.
But we were never pleased.
Your intelligence, though much inferior
Made us believe you are prepared enough
To decode encrypted messages on crop circles.
But even so with your best technology
You have failed us once again.
Humans! Take heed to the signs
And the warnings of our coming.
We have waited long enough
And gave you time to hone your potential
Only to find you stuck in your own maze.
You call us aliens, those big headed monsters
That you amuse yourself in your movies.
But you are the strangest kind of life
That our probes have ever studied.
Your saga shall be recorded well.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 4:36 AM UTC
Man from the couch
Looking for me
Shrinking my presence
Wishing I could flee
No place to hide
Hearing his footsteps
Looking for pleasure
In the form of ***
There’s a horrible monster
Outside my door
Always circling
Coming back for more
A haunting game
Of procrastination
Every slight noise probes
My ears with vibration
Peeking out the
Side of my eye
As the doorknob turns slowly
Inching open - I die
His mouth opens wider
Releasing shadows of fear
Dripping his venom
Whispers I barely hear
My littlest brother asleep
On the top bunk.
This man has no shame
As he shows me his junk.
I inquire after my mother
He's roaming towards me.
He murmurs his shhh!
"We can not wake her."
My head is spinning
As he denies my plea
He's just come to expect
He can steal this from me
The smell of burnt plastic
Wanders around him
I'm feeling cryptic
As my light starts to dim
He lies heavy on top
Of my tiny frame
It's become automatic
Like writing my name
Clumps in my throat
Prevent me from gulping
I can’t seem to inhale
His body hammering
I close my eyes so I can sail
Back to my unconscious
Disconnecting this moment
In my black empty space
© Jl 2016
© Pixievic 2016
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
connected with love
there lais the ****
and itchi
as a dard , a poisonous
and **** pain
love is a heartbreak,
pain is refreshing,
as an addicted to feel,
don't specting but pain
and spittings, then the suffering,
after all happens, they love me, back
after the hurt, i don't look back,
used to , feeling their
love,
after i'm trew
like an insomniac,
feeling the love
after the hurt
like a heartless man,
specting some brave femme,
that holds mi hand,
DURING,
not after is over,
AFTER THE SPITS
AND THE HATE,
y never look back.
c'est tout c'est tout.
but love is all over
after i clean my face
i can't feel it no more,
pride or wise,
who knows , who .
no regrets, im lucky ,
for trie to love,
maybe is not love , is
only passion, and pain,
like a ****** or a fool
who knows, could i love her
yes
should i love her
NO
respect and
compassion,
are essential,
should i no, could i,
maybe i can't, not being
is a curse, in some way
not being was my cruce,
and can't use it as a crutch
and my curse sting like the bugs
for the creeps system,
like a cyborg, with a camera, in my eye,
and a phone, in my ear and my ***
maybe cyborgs,
can't be loved , in
the right time, or
cowardness winns,and
is a rule, in the circles of
hate, some wankers are.
some peace and
privacy, would be cool
my life is like nutshell
the only one of y kind
no common points, all alone
nothing cost, all is easy,
love, even hate, physics,
and humanity, more human
than humans.
in the end, love
probes he's there,
watching, threw his strings,
should i could i
who knows, who knows
connected, and painful
is the road,
LOOKING SOMETHING
SWEET, AS STRAWBERRY
MARMALADE,
ON HER **** BODY
but is only pain
what's left, and the spits
on my face. should i
maybe, but i can't.
after all the pain,
and the smile, on
the creeps faces,
but connected is the pain,
with the trie to love,
but i can't love the spits
on my face.
could i, who knows who knows.
pride or wise, love o hate,
respect is essential,
in everything, love or hate.
respect is what's left, should
y love the one who help that ****
pride or wise, who knows
respect is all is left.
respect is love,
pain is not, and know
is all what's left.
sweet and itchi
**** *** hell,
like the venom,
of the snake ,
is that old,
**** heart pain.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
The Process
There is the notion, the urging.
The first spilling, the self-congratulatory
Commencement ceremony for
The process.
Then there is the first short-pause,
a quick-freeze hibernation. Then,
The bubbling,
The querying, the special fear,
What have I started?
Where is it taking me,
Am I properly undressed for doing
T he process?
A new vocabulary,
an arm extended, but distended,
Words are all angled puzzled,
Capable of unity, but first,
Unshaped but swollen,
By the process.
Hatching, head-aching,
words arrive rushed, but disordered,
Confused by the process.
*{The exception has it own character.
One kingly, run-on sentence birthed,
After silent labor, a full poem, fully dilated,
A shocking head of hair, full developed,
So fast does "it" fall onto the paper
The obstetrician arrives too late
To process.}*
The exception, exceptional.
The normal, normative.
Twenty four hours of labor,
False starts, much screaming,
Painful joys, hardly seamless,
This process.
Distractions the enemy,
Compulsion the master,
As you choreograph the work,
In loving servitude to
The process.
You the doctor, insert probes,
Looking for the tumors, the out of ordinary,
For normal flesh is not of interest as part of
The process.
Finally, you do exhale,
With unique the pleasure, of the longest sweetest
Female ******
The breathing less labored,
Tho whole, sensing a diminish-meant to convey
That completion is the end of part of you,
The near-end of the continuum, lessened but continuing
The process.
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
7 billion super ****
i wonder too about all this
my idle mind goes into overdrive
i think of the 7 billion humans
the ruling elite may or may not **** off
leaving just 500 million left alive
they don’t need our taxes
i was thinking 'sensibly' how they would do this?
a virus is too iffy
nukes too destructive/radioactive
how about sending unmanned space probes
to asteroids with spare engines
put the engines on the rocks and fly them to earth
all gps guided
either say the rocks are for mining for recourses
or just use them as a weapon to **** 7 billion
my idle mind lol...
May 17, 2021
May 17, 2021 at 9:28 PM UTC
D
r
i
p
D
r
i
p
D
r
o
p
This safe little bubble
is about to
P O P!
You better watch out,
or the beasties will get you
They’ll dig in their teeth and you’ll
S C R E A M
No one, no one, no one can hear you SCREAM!!!!
Isn’t it so sad?
You cry, but no one sees the saltwater sorrow streaking your face
and they just can’t hear the sound of your heart
thudding to a sudden stop
as your body goes numb
Blissful numb, can you stay in the dark?
“No, no, no!”
The voice attacks and digs electric probes into your chest
ZAP!
“Wake up!”
ZAP!!
“Wake up!”
ZAP!!!
“Please, please, please, wake up!”
But I’m in so much pain,
you try to say
Can’t you see this is easier than trying to stay?
Oh, no, I didn’t want to hurt you this way!
Fresh tears f
a
l
l
d r i p p i n g on the floor like the blood just did
Your blood, keeping you warm and alive and feeling and hurting
and you didn’t want to feel anymore
So you forgot that you had a heart and soul
You forgot that you hold so many hearts in your hands
You forgot that someone still cares
You forgot that someone still needs you there
You forgot
how to
breathe.
The machine breathes for you as you open your eyes
The golden sunlight pokes through the blinds
Highlighting the face of the one who holds you dear
Fast asleep, but face still screaming fear
And you realize why you still live:
You still hold someone’s heart in your hands,
and you must never, ever let it fall
and shatter against the cold concrete
Where chalk lines told you where to jump
Where the neighbor’s dog died after you pulled his crushed body out of the road
Where a fresh first kiss shocked your heart, and more followed after
And where you tried not to cry as you said one more goodbye
How long ago was that, that last goodbye?
Hello and goodbye,
you suddenly start to cry
The sunlight lights up the opening eyes
Of the one you hold dear
The one whose heart you still hold
Oh, you’re so glad
to say hello.
“I’m here.”
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 7:23 AM UTC
Within the intense buzzing of this draft city
I see nothing written on the faces of children, men, and women. In books,
on the television,
and in every conversation
It's an endless black hole leading to God knows where-
and it's calling my name.
He jams to rock n roll and probes technology with his long fingers.
His eyes tell a story
as his words paint him sunglasses.
Hope's his worst enemy and
longing's his middle name but he'll have you believe it's all guns
and sly comments.
God loves him and so do I
but he's not ones for happy endings.
From the cracks of the sidewalk, I see the world
in snippets and clips,
my reality pieced together.
God shouted from the heavens once
"You are what you are and I am what I am
Nothing else matters, Feeler."
I don't much talk to God these days
when he's in his office. I saw Him at the hospital the other day
and walked the other direction.
Too late to right the wrongs,
close the gaps and heal the wounds. For every occasion
I'll be ready for a disaster.
Bury the past if it does no good
and ignore the self-righteous.
The after life is no place for dead trees.
In a suit of grace and sweet memories, my angle of death says hello
at the end of my bed every night.
Within my heart are answers
to his ancient questions
and within my eyes are
his fears. Back and forth he strides,
staring relentlessly
searching his conscience for answers. Chasing the cool.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
In a scribble
grammar-sphere
Covid-spastic-wormholes
from a new world intelligence.
Come on dudes this is a personal invite
who-ever own the guru-rules out there
come clear make contact
let's boogie on Bach
eat together with Spock,
vegans are welcome too
no disecting
no probes
no props
only sunlight strobes
just the few of us
a humpback tv
Danny Glover, Aeon flux
and Spielberg,
indulged in mars bars and smoked-yeast,
if the kitchen heats up I'll offer you
oil Sheik in galaxian crude dip with
elongated Musk on fire and ice.
May 16, 2023
May 16, 2023 at 2:15 PM UTC
The undertaker’s blues
have nothing to do with a proximity
to death. An occupation is just that.
Unwavering with his
probes and mysterious poisons,
He may even be mystified by the lilac flesh,
so whispery-cold and delicate now.
And yet depression
burrows into his psyche,
searches for the richest soil in which to plant itself.
Its roots spread
like sharp serpentine veins growing
from an evil heart.
Maybe,
New and severely altered thoughts
make a man stop
and think. Maybe he will worry
as to how our bodies become
so soulless
immediately following death.
Solitudinous man,
questioning…
The true definition of death?
Does it really require wrenching that final,
most prized,
breath from men that still
have noble things to lie for?
I’ve seen my own father
ask these same questions
Of colleagues—
the living cadavers.
Those so void of concern,
that which departs a soul upon
our otherwise useless caverns.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
My shadow says his heart sounds different
Words to assuage whatever pain this causes evade me
However I am somewhat loathe to enter
Into a Socratic dialogue with my shadow
Only to be aware if imperceptibly
That his knowledge of such far outweighs mine in the balance
So I say nothing change the subject
My shadow raises a question
Interrogating me on my pursuance of its form
It probes me as to why a fifteen-year-old boy peruses him
Forever questioning about his purpose and mine
These questions I cannot answer, now look bewildered
Blushing even in the presence of my shadow
But he smiles for he knows my thoughts and my actions
After all he is me
But I know his contagious affirmation of myself
Feel his warm glow his imperious perfection
His desire the need to accommodate his want
I reduce myself to his wondrous allure
Feel the ripples of a soft capricious breeze enticing me
I succumb gladly to its seductive enchantments it seduces me
I allow it to overcome my being
Then as so many times before we become one
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
The chief
at the top of the test pattern,
always black 'n white,
facing left to right,
encircled
then squared
and circled again
at each corner quadrant,
with radiating strobe lines
for adjusting
vertical then horizontal,
our fledgling video message
that now nascently probes
the Universe for intelligent life!
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
Awareness becomes acute,
shadows fall into darkness,
eyes transition, dilating to scoop up day's
fading light, a tingling of verboden awareness.
Heart rate increases...
The hearing filters the white silent noise
probes record temperatures change
while a moon's waning prepares our body
defenses for the new evening waiting.
Adjusting to the black and white...
The shift when smells registering locations
as we walk along levies and back streets.
A chill of anticipation prevails in the darkness
uneasiness with a sudden changing wind.
A tactile sensitivity slams our senses...
Withdrawing into our second nature as
night falls upon the day. Animal instinct
replace our norm to guide the human animal
safely on it's way.
Ajerry
Oct 29 2013
http://a.allpoetry.com/poem/11078316-Enhancing_Changes-by-Ajerry-noguest
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
Can it be just love that tears our paper thin heart apart?
Can’t it be sorrow, or despair of mistreatment too that shreads the delicate *****
Can’t you see that demeaning probes and hineous accusations
are like fatal scabs that slowly halt the battered heart?
Must we be so inconsiderate with words and actions
thinking that the heart is only for romance
when Love encompasses a tantamount of relations of all spectrums.
Nay, this heart of ours
be it of gold if it were of a loving disposition,
be it of paper of the ones disappointment by Life,
be it of stone of those embittered by the harshness of Reality,
it beats and feels the emotions thrown upon it.
Intolerance kills the weak minded and destroys the barely stable;
it agonises the strong willed and is pitiful of those who display it.
Profanity and abuse are signs of the ones not wanting to give strength
rather to ****** the flickering flame of hope that had been stubbed within them.
Patience and compassion
are the signs of strength my dear
do not weep upon thy transgressor
but weep for your wounded heart
and when you’re done
seek strength by giving some in those equally damaged
and you’ll see the once dimmed light of your Life shine bright once more
don’t give way to hate
but love unconditionally
whether its a lover or a brother
love heals
violence does not.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 4:40 AM UTC