"projections" poems
As the glorious LION
Stands strong in stature
Radiating with a presence
Of Absolute rule
The air washed with
A bristly respect
A natural pride
Beams with beauty
He guards the gateway to truth
and only the brave may enter
He is the king that needs no crown
as he holds a royal presence as he
sits in his golden coat and main
Lies spark combust just bounce off
dissolve in all his shine.
As broken men become renewed
Their fractured parts
Collect in the melting ***
Of the Lion's stare
As they are engulfed and swallowed
In the reservoirs of his strength
As the many wounded souls
Find themselves restored
In his majestic presence
As he rattles the very fabric
Of this world
There is no procrastinating belly
Exposed by a lackluster display
No one insults his strength
By creating a make believe world
Or covers him with scaffolding so
That they may alter him
For he is the finished article
And he is never held up or supported
With anyone's emotional ropes or strings
For he no ones puppet
He is never silenced
By the Strangle hold of this world
Tightened with a multitude of gestures
For I hear his ROAR!!!!!!!!
His explosive self expression
As his throat bursts and beams like the sun
Breaking all collars, and his tongue is freed
As a thousand trap doors Open up in him
And boulders are lifted and rocks are shattered
within the sound of his voice.
His Soft pads of silent stealth
Gather for all his wealth
As the power of his pounce
Is governed by both his strength
Of spirit and the honesty
With which he meets the earth
For he owns all of his own pain
And paces and growls to warn
Away any who seek to steal his fresh ****
And diminish him with pretty lies
For he owns all his space
As it feeds his strength
As somewhere in the fury of feasting
Lionesses and Lions
We find our freedom
For his power explodes like a volcano
When his soul meets the earth
As he shakes off all avoidance
To seek only truth
As streaks of white light
And pure Gold glisten in the SUN
As the world's projections
Reflect and bounce off him
There is so much to learn
From a beautiful LION
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
I hesitate to show him the truth.
The words I write may never reach his eyes
I am afraid of the torture after rejection.
These feelings cannot be denied,
my poems will never cease to exist
even if i erased these heavy thoughts I typed
burned them alive
the memories of us will float around endlessly
somewhere, out of my reach.
If he sees himself in mirrors
in a monotone and meaningless way
he will not anymore
because reflections of him
lie not only visually in images,
such as projections on clear glass
but in others who admire him too.
We become who we love eventually
Admiration for someone else
makes us melt
covering past pages of who were before.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.
Mindless,
In the soup of silicone,
all
Myth-makers,
Pouring over electro-spawned
networks,
fall
Workers,
In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
megabytes and terabytes,
down
Everyone
Far from the wood, the brine, the
mud that caked us,
In tighter and tighter
digitised projections,
click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’
Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,
enter:
Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,
Now a waking voice,
Hardened, digitised, recorded in
bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
mirror.
A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
To record the echo in the hollow
of our Being.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
extensions to an emotion
grown like branches on a tree,
blooming towards beauty,
further reaching the sky,
touching the blue
with the tip of the flowers.
life, bursting out,
in one way or another.
endurance, the key
a way of living, so to speak
surviving the storm, or adapting to it.
giving the branches strength,
strength to withstand the worst,
only to be given another day
another day to bloom,
another day to grow,
to branch out, thicken and, burst out
into something unexplainable,
rather observable,
reaching out to hights
and depths, simultaneously.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 6:05 PM UTC
The great dialectic remains between fate and free will.
I'm prepared to defend the notion that fate has a bigger hand
Without seeing into the future we are unable to change it
The forms textures chiaroscuros and chromes are painted into each of us as we descend into the world soul
and discover we are not merely posing cameos
directed by each other's projections
All souls are evocations,
layer upon layer of archetypes
each of them
prayers and yogas
all irreducible fluctious desires
voluptuous nymph or curmudgeon
hero or *****
As depth accumulates
we give each thing a name
we live and unfurl destiny
both good and evil
This fate already forged into our souls.
Only in destinies weaving finality,
even beyond the grave
are we melted down like snow in divine rays
of effulgent light, and pure spirit
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
What flows through me,
flows through you...
They all call it
some ancient kind of voodoo.
When the cash is not enough,
you have to open new doors,
sit back with the dancing shadows,
as the feeling leaves your pores.
There is some news coming,
and it is not on CNN.
It is the new-coming,
with proper particles of zen.
Beginnings with no ends;
an apocalyptic change...
phenomenon to transcend;
we will never be the same.
The world is awake,
doing all that it can.
Do not make the mistake
of sleeping on the plan.
Different perspectives
under one light;
Different projections
of all that is right.
Walk with the wind,
and feel the depth of the river.
Also feel the cold --
There is no heat without the shiver.
Be calm like a giver.
Plant a vine and let it grow.
Persevere and do not whither...
There is more for you to know.
Take a path and sing a song;
run, walk, and fly.
This is your marathon.
Now, ask yourself why...
You have a purpose,
whether sun or fog,
it will be worth it,
for what you will fight along
the way. Which way?
If you do not know where to go,
hear what they say,
listen and then glow.
Evolution is occurring,
and anxious souls await,
but do not be in a hurry;
it is a door, not an escape.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Part of me doesn’t want to write anymore (or is it anything?).
Am I just afraid to drag my emotions across this page?
My words tend to come back black and blue,
misunderstood from the most ridiculous points of view.
Should I end communications?
Though the shadows in my closet offer no verbal retaliations.
For better or worse, at least my ego’s not hurt
from a mad world’s projections.
But I don’t want to be the lonely one
hiding along the edge of the room,
surely looking broken to some,
while others wait for me to come undone.
Give me a minute and I’ll return to center ring.
Maybe it’s just the thought of a crowd that I find overwhelming.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
Motion, 'side-by-side,' -taste.
Tiny ridges, odd projections, scales
over a hunken-frame, -slide.
*Two Dead Bears; Red Eyes!
Two Dead Bears; Red Eyes!
Betwixt two bears; it lies.*
Cranial portholes, back out, newt,
shimmery black tongues array, -kiss.
Tail around the head; constrict.
*Two Dead Bears; Red Eyes!
Two Dead Bears; Red Eyes!
Betwixt two bears; it lies.*
Celestial space, taste the air,
Now slither wrap the eyelashes...
twist, pull apart, open, -see!
*Two Dead Bears; Red Eyes!
Two Did Bare; Red Eyes!
Betwixt two bears; they lied.*
Three rows of teeth exposed,
to **** out the eye!
A Dragon consumes a Hero.
It is not a myth.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 12:22 AM UTC
dear . . . sweetie,
the projections of your essence is the type
to cook up a future of you;
of the home you call your heart,
or how you let it spill across the metal table,
just to knead it back together to construct wholesome smiles.
yours is the form of communication i've never known,
a presence that haunts me -
as the scent of your perfume lingers at the back of my tongue
as i taste a sweet fruit,
or how your stories speak to me
as my eyes trickle such mundane appliances around me.
you have taken not my heart, nor my soul.
you have extracted from me fragments of my time;
where i find myself caught in the air, mystically
hearing the songs that were stuck in my head when i first met you.
you are the soundtrack to my little death.
you are always right in the corner of my mind, just as i want to see you:
half-baked, smirking, and vulnerable.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
Russia, Racism, similar crazed projections
are yours for the next several elections.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Twice the fool is the runaway
Who hides his trail, as he hides his ache
All bottle and pills, temporary sleep
Insomniac daze and cheap dinner meals
Static lies on a stationary screen
Radio chatter can’t feed the famine in me
The world is aflame
With no one awake
Sunrise slumber
I fall unconscious to the restless on midnight pavement
Breaking bones or breaking bottles
Selling skin or dealing dust to lost souls
Hearts tucked and folded from the cold
Future oblique
I dare you, predict my dreams
Late riser / never bloomer
Packs a bag, a change of clothes
To deadbeat joints, and dead end posts
Been as many years gone as daily cigarettes smoked
Bloodshot symmetry eyes
I see in every passerby
Like the whole city gone up and left their troubles behind,
You and I
We’re cerebral projections
Locked into motor whirs, recursive disintegration
Status acknowledged, clean cut
Black and white since day one
Mould breaker, you’re told you’re out of line
Gutter graves or veins, stay your place or fall behind
The only constant is the throne
You sit upon or come to view as your body’s own
The red light stare, blue flicker flares
Blare on your skin, like prisms, colour wear
Better to fade to grey than know yourself
For what you truly are, just a shade of catch and tell
Dire straits
No deviation
Full advance
Or desolation
Empty eyes
Golden restraints
I don’t want wealth
I just want change
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 8:51 PM UTC
I am the Lorax, who once spoke for the trees
In the hope of bringing progress to its knees
But now I have grown somewhat older and tired,
My outlook and thought process being rewired
(Sometimes to see forest, you must clear the trees.)
Examine the case of the Brown Bar-ba-loots
Whose interests for so long I worked in cahoots.
Could such timid beasts truly thrive in the wild
So innocent, trusting, submissive, and mild?
(My former assertions I strongly refute.)
Why, see how they frolic and scamper in zoos;
How can one watch them and steadfastly refuse
To see how much better their lot is today
As joy for our children as opposed to prey
(A happy condition where no one can lose.)
Ah, scoff the nihilists, *but Truffula Trees,
Those havens for birds and those homes for the bees.
Why, what do you say now that they are all gone,
Removed to make way for some suburban lawn?*
(These angry young men—O Lord, take them all please!)
I gently remind them it’s just nature’s way,
That some species go while other ones stay,
The carrier pigeon’s no longer alive
Yet somehow we manage to live—indeed, thrive!
(In the face of brute logic, they’ve little to say.)
So don’t be dismayed or frightened or leery
Of doomsday projections outlined by theory
Suggesting that our time on this earth may be done;
Consider the caged Bar-ba-loot having fun
(And we hear fish do quite well in Lake Erie.)
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
Out seaward to the horizon I see Forgiving hills where lessons fade,
Projections of my desirous plea
Patiently await their farewell to bade,
Look now for at their peak the sun is setting,
With an orange hue caressed blue sky,
And white clouded streaks like thought forgetting,
Senses renewed—our demons die.
Can you see that place where intrigue resides,
Beyond those hills ‘neath the sky turned red?
For there the heaven and earth collides,
Pervading all hope in our angels stead.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC
I am not the black sheep
I am not the odd duck
I am not the rebel child
I am not the prodigal daughter
Who am I then?
Well...that's a complicated question
I am not your archetypes or storylines
I am not your bad decisions or projections, your should-s
I am
I am what I will be
I am the technicolor, intergalactic unicorn
I am the pearlescent being of divine light
I am the Angel of Death of Dead Tradition
I am the she-Moses getting out of a desert of lies
I am
I am what I will be
Today, I am choosing
today, I am choosing to create me in lieu of inheriting "me"
Choosing well
choosing better
Choosing wiser
choosing more joyfully
Today, I am the randy interstellar unicorn
blazing a neon rainbow trail forward
Dec 28, 2020
Dec 28, 2020 at 4:22 AM UTC
The glass of wine spins on sins
Encircling the royal roulette
All rotating on a hamster wheel
Pinned on canvas and illusional walls
So tiny in errors and unbalanced books
Unaccounted annotated distributions
Twisting hands on colluded coils
Deeper projections from the heart
An eruption of the social notions
Extracted on the paradise of life
For no truth echoes authenticity
Eccentrically finding a lived reality
Plato symposiums and simulacrums
Pavlov trails of social conditioning
Sampled in tented objectifications
Functioning within the invisible rules
We sniffle as we expose the false actuality
Reactive explosions from robust heat
Unloaded rods dancing under the moon
In our tenderness rejecting the paradigm
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
Black and white
projections fill
the room with gallentry,
a worded battle
against hypocrisy
and cold, hearted machines.
But the picture fades,
like its impact, over the seventy
odd years since it once blared.
People have forgotten
or maybe they forgot
how to care.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
Encased, as an oil painting,
behind a plane of glass.
Years of exposure dulling the canvas,
no funding to restore the brightness
of the subject's lifeless eyes.
They lay dormant, cloudy,
From a lifetime of accumulative debris.
Transferred between people, buildings, countries;
Memories on display for brief intervals,
Then packaged and returned to storage,
As if they were never your own.
People shift, distorted, beyond the coffin of glass.
Their movements hazy,
The shutter speed slow.
Colours muted,
Sounds muffled,
Melting into each other.
An abstract watercolour, waxing and waning.
Low resolution projections on a dimly lit screen -
A theatre seating but one.
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 4:36 PM UTC
Algorithms
Troll farms
Paroxysms
False alarms
Projections
Smokescreens
Elections
Behind the scenes
End of all discussions:
Blame it on the Russians.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except for seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
*stepping back into the west
chills reverberate up and down my spine
chiseling open obsolescent padlocks
dangling with dust
on ancient treasure chests
pallid colors in the attic release
a blossoming familiarity
faint hints of retrospections float on faded paper
granting me access to roads
where no map is needed
as i peruse the streets
my heart flows coalescing with the vicinity
caressing each detail i transform to fluid
and fuse with the past
through fresh strokes of watercolored memories
recollections flash before my eyes
revealing antiquated stories
though thought forgotten
an etched history endeavors to define me
renewing itself as i turn each corner
i shudder at some remembrances while encompassing others
through synchronicity realization hits
that I am all of it
yet none of it
at the same time
familiar faces paint meaning onto me
no longer do they know me
yet they airbrush vestiges of yesteryear
and coat me with connotations
i allow them to think i am whatever they imagine
i morph into their canvas temporarily
then break free in multi-dimensionality
they don't hear me with a new listening
no longer invested in their projections
once sharp triggers now appear in soft focus
an auspicious mist lies around the edges
of my former life
it is as if i never left
yet traces of the east lie sandpapered in me
a maturation commingles with my former self
flushing out on my skin
tethering newfound emotions
a gentle gratitude for home territory
nestles softly
inward
i listen to the clicks
of my scuffed cowboy boots
on acquainted yet somehow distant sidewalks
the echoes layering multiple impressions
glimmering with the utter beauty of this terrain
as I wander through the majestic rocky mountains
drinking in the quaking aspen's crimson edges
interfacing the evergreens
hushed whispers of autumn loftily rest
juxtaposed neatly against futures waiting to unfurl in the wind
an amalgamation of intimate sights and scents
dance in open wounds
dazzling
homesickness cured
a wholeness returned
as winter's crystal dawn blooms
i realize the depth of my growth
for in leaving here and returning
i cherish the west
my home
©2016 janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
I have heard the haunted whispers of screaming and necrophliac anguish from the depths of the eerie crypts of ancient mausoleums.
There is a damp smell in disused railway tunnels which generates a fearful sense of grateful awareness.
Flying down the streets in astral projections of nocturnal liberation reminds me of the warmth of hateful urinary incontinences.
Does a Gold Star adequately represent a brand of brown sauce, or does it represent something else? Please enlighten me, as the guise of Rabatak inscriptions unravel ******* dismay.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
being gorgeous
is all a game of
projections and
precision, with a
drop or two of
luck in the gene pool
do you know
how many times
i have stood, ****
in front of a man
and heard
those words
drip, slippery with
*** and saliva,
through foaming lips?
big headed beasts
who still haven't
figured out where
to find my ****
oh, but desire me, they do
and i'm always the best
****
they've ever known
'oh baby, how DO you DO
that thing with your hips?'
i lay around wondering
why these men
subject themselves
to *******
dead fish
when it's over they
can't keep fingers
from lingering on my
skin, tattooed ribs
draw out long sighs
and desperate whispers,
followed by lingering
on my
'perfect tits'
then it comes, oh,
how god ****
gorgeous i am,
with my eyes that
just can't decide
if they want to be
the bark or the leaves
intrigued by my
beguiling mystique
and desire to be free,
but the sad truth is,
fools or not,
each and every one
does the same thing,
they leave
should've listened
when dad said,
'get compliments
for being smart,
not pretty'
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Chords of expression fray into the misty atmosphere of a nocturnal energy field, where hermits display magical arts on the cliff-tops of allegiance.
The application of force is intensified with heightened awareness, as it will produce the desired effect.
Are you willing or able to acknowledge that there is a resonating vibration which surpasses timeless universal parameters?
My cat is watching me.
Therefore, the question arises around whether the concept of perception is defined by conservative projections or unbridled liberty?
So, if we meander down those narrow and solitary roads of Andalucia to the small village of Pastelero, where snakes discreetly writhe into the fields of golden grain, we will find that an exploding teardrop is more powerful than a sonic boom.
The sickle is an astrological formation which compels me to ask: Where have all the flowers gone?
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC