"pts" poems
Tinderbox pt.1—Magic
At first,
I caught its eye
In the rolling smoke of fire
I ****** my hands
To pull it out
And speak with lighted words,
In light of brilliance,
A vital warmth,
But in the end just ashes.
And then,
The curve of silk waters
Which rushed upon and through the rocks
Wrote to me
A rich and liquid poetry
Not in bursts but subtle waves
I cupped my hands to catch its words,
But even then,
I could only hold so much
And only for so long.
Tinderbox pt. 2—the Artist
Entranced in the world
Here and beneath the moment,
In the spaces and each letter
I saw the fire, the waves of silk
Each play in their environs,
I’d grieve
At their perfection,
Running my eyes over their hilly peaks
And dreaming mine had been there.
My worlds were ugly, incomplete
Extinguished at very moment
That the two would meet
The tinderbox was fire to my hands,
My cup was rife with holes
And there, I’d thought the artist dead
Or never even alive.
In my sleep I’d hear a voice
Like Milton, Coleridge, or Shelley
A babble arresting and forcing pity
From its infantile lucidity...
I knew this thing, but killed it.
Perhaps even now, I believe in magic
Though, to pluck rain from a furied storm
Or converse with tiny sparks
That become
Something of brilliance and solemn silk
That groves were wrought from tiny seeds
Long after mere chaos
That, from it, comes a universe
and white paper is all it needs.
What awoke me was not
That there was art
But that the words had tried to say something,
Something the heart could not speak
Nor the mind would dare to reason;
It was not as much the words that made it up
But the worlds in between them.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
You are my coral sky
and all that lies beneath it
Roughness, softness,
pain and ease
I hear the bitter winds
and the birdsongs both
Rain on me
or bathe me in sun
You are my coral sky
bright or diffuse
you light me
I don't want
to rescue you
I just want to be
the cleft, the cut
in the rocky slope
ready for your hand
or a foothold
simply there
at the moment
when you need
to centre
You are my earth
how could I be less
Rest on me while
you catch your breath
when you look up
and out
to that coral sky
I just want to be
there with you
to share the view
copyright © 2016 Ken Rush
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 9:26 AM UTC
~dedicated to the heart fixers~
sometimes I smack my head,
when a poem commission is lying on
the ground before me, and I just don’t
hear it, believe it, in order to retrieve it…
many months of physical rehabilitation,
sessions always ended with a certain cutesy
Gen Z~Millenial crossover phraseology:
“remember to tell someone you love them”
the instructors mostly youngish,
so we senior~smile
a tad dismissively, give them a reward~grin, and
head for the locker room,
where we gossip and compare notes,
on the Part II of our in-process-future-realization,
living a grueling new life of self-preservation, 24/7
the PTs & EPs pound you on the machina, go faster, work harder,
eat better, sleep more, take those meds, motion is lotion,
walk the talk, never be still, but race to live longer and
prosper, this hard work is your new job, and resignation
is non~optional
now, it hits me, via a figurative sharp slap on the side of the head,
triggering an actual physical manifestation that reverbs to the toes,
that the most important lesson went under the radar,
evading the former trader’s dimming vision,
flunking himself on the rehab test paper,
a purple F for fool,
a grade, earned and deserved, and herein poetically preserved
the hardest heart work, begins only after you co-
commence the longest road back to where you once
belonged, but where you can’t walk alone, for therein
a recipe for failure; and the work that needs doing,
is on you; take that tear-repaired heart, and give it away, it,
one can be healed, but not if sealed, for the hard-hearted
walls thicken, and “*over time, the thickened heart muscle
can become too stiff to fill the heart with blood; the heart
can't pump enough blood to meet the body's needs.*”
so break off pieces of your heart, give them away with
relentless abandon, for this is the heart that self-repairs,
new tissue, new fiber, and most important, regeneration,
the one single reparation that can successfully
accomplish the true miracle of getting by giving,
no forgiving, if you don’t exercise the heart by
“remembering to tell someone you love them”
dedicated to the hard working staff of the
Cardio Rehabilitation Unit
of Nyulangonge, Rusk Institute of Rehabilitation
who started me
with a mighty push on the long road to utilizing my heart properly
<•>
Apr 26, 2024
Apr 26, 2024 at 8:13 AM UTC
Please hold for an obligatory moment of silence, mute in its act, wordless in its perpetration.
Place artificial flowers on outer lapels, held in place with no concentration.
Feudal rivalries resurrected for resources and land…to be ripped from the native source’s hand.
Pitiful glances at battle worn soldiers, still praising ideology projecting them as a supported saviour.
Unregretful acts lead one to question their behaviour.
Service dogs doled out in bulk, preventing an army of PTS Banners from turning Hulk.
These discretionary acts of ill will mutilate the concept of freedom, and men who fought to uphold its worth.
These incendiary pacts on parliament hill, fumigating for roaches of aspersion, are bastardizing a new world’s birth.
Carriers’ return home, housing the long departed, not to be thanked, not to be appreciated, but to be ****** for unholy, sanctified acts.
Permitted parade zone, rousing the socially guarded, to be spanked, depreciated, and deemed unworthy to stand, before coyly rectified rats
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
You taught me the absolution,
You, woman of exquisite dreams!
Oh, daughter of Apollo, you,
who sings, kicks and screams.
The noises you create
Will be of utmost importance
While you rattle and shake
and tear off your wings.
Salvation! Flows, oh, within
the lake of rich blood,
the wine of gorgeous Bacchus,
stronger than the womb.
You swim, as though it is sport,
creating shores of ****** concrete.
You will never get out and dry...
you might then stop drowning.
Your lyre will be unique,
for it will always wear red.
The color of blood: not enemies'
but of your own flesh.
You brought me my wings,
You, woman of accomplished dreams!
I tore them off time and time again,
but you just made them anew.
The cradle you represent...
That is my resting place,
a face of pure emotion,
of love, obsession, romance.
As though I'm a songbird,
and you're the tiger thrush,
you show power and the truth
with a warm smile.
Carry me and I'll carry you,
With pleasures of the flesh,
Feathers in the way, but no care
And crooked beacons of light.
You made me my lyre,
You, woman of broken dreams!
You heard me sing in my sleep
while you cried tears of joy.
You taught me about your father,
and your mother, Hera,
and I listened with intent,
knowing I might meet her one day.
You made me want what I
Could never have. I won't
ever forgive you, because
You once made me smile.
You made me a failure,
You, man of broken bottles.
You raged and fumed about
Whatever you cared about, not me.
You taught me shame,
but no ways to ever avoid it.
You taught me how to be pathetic.
You taught me to love the women of the world.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 9:08 AM UTC