"puppeteered" poems
Trees hold the deep earth together way below with crooked fingers of the underworld and catches foul above
Upward to the heavens on finger towers,
clapping on winds they shake their dander
And the makers of green bras on mountain tops
They are the landlords of ground,and air beasts, and
incumbent giants of the ages
They whisper being puppeteered by winds of old
They are the alchemists of oxygen
They are dangling playgrounds
They are the Autumn crunches beneath our feet
Trunk etchings by bards, trees reflecting
cultures' dissemination
We walk under penumbras that deny the scorch of summer
as cool water douses fire, so too, shade douses heat
Watching trees in my pleasant reverie I observe how they
help break the carpeted land, bringing about a certain diversity in moving tranquility and rustling of their songs
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 7:20 AM UTC
"A holstered product secretly hunts after its own end product-"
"-not metal targets nor flying geese, but mortality."
A man, with graying hair and pursed lips, told me this. A well-trained and prayered piety had crept along, pounced, and overcome him. Like Edison, a creative obsession gripped his spine and puppeteered the entire body. It was a plague, he called it, or something like that. Even at a young age, gaurdian 1 & 2 lulled him to the steeple's hiding. He noted how the steeple was always at mast. His children would observe the same detail, live the same routine. I studied the curious character for weeks. A facsimile of the Word seemed permanently pressed on his brain, trapped behind devout eyes- For weeks I studied him, give me more time! Each biblical page was scribbled and creased, share and reused. -no longer. "My holster found its mortal tonight, friend. I'll raise the barrel and create a grand scene."
Slight pause, heavy breathe, slow speak. "Colossal at best."
by Kendra Cook
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
on the phone
you talk and talk until suddenly
you say you're going to let me go.
i stare out empty, filling in images
over the blank wall, it's became a sort of ritual as of late;
the vague daydreams are bound to crumble back to memory
some way or another
if not wear it's bite marks like tiny wounded flags
i let grow swollen. i only wish you never changed me like you did. i remember gathering rugburnt rashes
on our underthighs, making each other's jaws twitch
with the electric heater as our modern day campfire.
it's a good day for a warm shower, to burn my skin red and peel an unrecognisable face out of the mirror, a clense, a diy baptism;in the aftermath: i showered as many times as i had to,
i saw the outcome miles away (it was a certainty any time i dared to speculate on the possibility)
O why am i so sickened ?
i had to figure out if i had any right to be
and the days dragged on so long.
your eyes glowed like chasms once,
they've grown oxidated and cold since.
i hope i've done my part to change you too.
Sometimes I've felt like a pawn being puppeteered to trapeze a thin string,
Knowing for sure that I'm drawing a noose but waiting to know who it's for.
Feb 29, 2024
Feb 29, 2024 at 3:54 PM UTC
2, 12, 4, 5
spending your life perched on your plush throne
as the forest creeps upon your every move, every thought, every blink of an eye
never even turning to look back, only straight ahead, 60 miles an hour
but is that even a choice?
2 granddaughters
whom for every risk is taken
every turn
every go
every stop
12, 4, 5, now you're quite a distance ahead
living your life knowing exactly what's in front of you
that speckled path contains no surprises, only expectation
you know what you live to do
but do you even know what you are living for?
12 hours with a hand on the wheel
a toe on the gas
a spine slowly curling upon itself,
that which afterwards, you stay up a little
do some work
go to bed
i never get a good night's sleep anymore,
im too busy waiting for my funeral reception
4, 5
flaking first at your delicate edges, then straight to your core
trapped between point a and point b
puppeteered by the ******** who tell you what to do and put it on a sign
moving solely to move others to their futures
their 60,000 dollar futures
4 years until i finally get to retire
though, does retire even mean escape?
5
5 slips of paper at the end
5 faces, 10 pairs of eyes to bless you
i have never seen a happier man in my life.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC
The meek are in the pocket,
of the powerful,
The artist is in the pocket,
of the authority.
The authority; cops,
are in the pocket of the law,
The law is made up,
by politicians,
Their deceptive truths,
puppeteered by criminals; gangsters.
The ruthless tyrants are,
in the pocket of the
malnourished, emaciated, gaunt,
faceless demon,
Shriveled and terrifying,
pock marked arms outstretched,
Slithering up the back,
Recanted by the one,
Absolute wisdom,
Of the meek,
The beggars are in the pocket,
The vagabond fools and jesters,
The guru shaman mystic ascetics,
That journey,
Yet never set foot,
Whom hermitage,
Is a pilgrimage,
To where the Absence of mind,
Isn't Mindful,
It is just simplicity,
Sacrilegious ease,
The safety of the Pocket.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
The leaves scrape mid dance
Encased into a joy none know
Puppeteered by gusts
A mouth of our own couldn’t exhale
Six moths linger soft
Wing dust fallen and lost
Luminescence calls
Even our smallest
We are all just scraping
Against the harsh urban concrete
Pulled by the wind of our own breath
Which will one day pause
And the leaves will settle
To prepare for the sun to beam once more
For the moths who are left.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Time and necessity
puppeteered its temperature to better suit
our appetite,
left it to linger in our peripheral vision
as if it was no longer a true masterpiece of
the wild.
It blazed through forests,
pioneered and conquered,
destroyed.
Then, no longer mighty
and no longer feared,
was put into a box
to be mastered by a mother
lighting the neon colored wax candles
on a child’s blue birthday cake
or a woman
adorned with stockings slightly torn
and makeup slightly smudged
lighting a cigarette on a street corner
while waiting for the 8 o’clock bus.
Instead of burning,
it melted.
Instead of demolishing,
it decorated.
Instead of blazing,
it burnt out.
October 10, 2013
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
Just as there's light, there's darkness in everyone's life.
It's stark, shadowing sunlight, and doesn't yield.
Just how is anyone meant to jauntily thrive
in an ostentatious world meant to shield
Beading, beating eyes from those that suffer
from vicious, bleeding lies?
A pawn cannot decide where it lies
in the everchanging game of fate that is its life
being puppeteered by monsters who make their pieces suffer
from their callous thrones that do not yield.
For they always use an invisible shield
to ensure that they always thrive.
In such a world, how is it we are meant to thrive?
Sinking deeper and deeper in blatant lies
of the quixotic dreams of old to shield
the simple fact that we are taught to live a life
where we stand subservient and yield
the abuses of those in power who make us suffer.
For such a long time we were taught to suffer
through storming skies. Beaten, impossible to thrive.
Time can wither our ability to yield
the pain inflicted by those who tell noxious lies.
A sunken arrow into our psyche to devastate life
worth living and love that cannot hide though any shield.
What else other than our love do they want to shield?
Without, there is no cure for those who suffer
and carry on with the hardships of life.
We live in those pockets of light and thrive
in a different world where we banish the lies
that our worth is measured in what we yield.
Despite my pride, there are the times where I yield
to those shadows in the sky. Yet you shield
the rain and I can see where that crescent lies
above our heads. Cease what we suffer,
the moonlight sonata within tries to reach out and I thrive
from your touch of endless life.
I know it seems we're predetermined to suffer
But take my hand and we'll thrive
as I try to hold onto the fragments of this life.
Oct 18, 2019
Oct 18, 2019 at 10:35 AM UTC
Of mankind, and marvels, and evil, and sin,
shall I to you tell, and conspiracies grand,
how evil did root and was routed again,
again did take hold, then assumed its command --
Humanity, meager, and ignorant, true,
prescribed, in its innocence, something unsafe;
"all actions observed, when repeated, are due
to occur in an otherwise similar way."
From hence did presumptions material grow,
as Earth seemed unbridled with secrets unveiled,
yet blind to the cosmic, which scholars can't know,
and quickly our spiritual growth was derailed.
Then renaissance brought forth a light in the dark,
and drove out the devils which long had made rest!
In warmth, mankind flourished, but death made its mark,
electing to put human wit to the test.
The satans, most clever, made icons of gods,
and puppeteered cruelly malicious didacts,
deceiving the world with a meager façade,
and in goodness' name did commit vile acts.
Thus evil, to men, seemed to make itself God,
and cleverly let itself fall 'gainst our blades,
from shadows announcing the death of the Lord,
and slyly implying all mortal debts paid.
But be not deceived! For this battle yet rages,
and now more than ever we stand to defend
from treacherous devils, and satanist mages,
so bear true your blade 'til this battle shall end.
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 4:33 AM UTC