"railing" poems - Hello Poetry

"railing" poems

Glide your fingers down the railing As you make your grand ingression Meeting the faces you are destined to meet As they fasten their first impressions You are one to worry what they think And wonder how or why But, know that they have trained themselves To create facades and alibis They would be just as scared as you If they were the ones walking down that stair So hold your head up high, my dear As if you did not care

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Mar 31, 2014

Mar 31, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC

Self-Confidence

Glide your fingers down the railing As you make your grand ingression Meeting the faces you are destined to meet As they fasten their first impressions You are one to worry what they think And wonder how or why But, know that they have trained themselves To create facades and alibis They would be just as scared as you If they were the ones walking down that stair So hold your head up high, my dear As if you did not care

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*You told me to hold onto a feeling and I couldn't even do that, What makes you think I can hold onto the railing ?*

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Feb 8, 2016

Feb 8, 2016 at 8:10 AM UTC

Not Quite Strong Enough

*You told me to hold onto a feeling and I couldn't even do that, What makes you think I can hold onto the railing ?*

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(i want love in these woods) while walking in the quiet woods humidity causing blonde hair to stick to my neck on wooden path my footsteps move and on highest railing a squirrel beckons i smile /a real smile/ she stops as if listening for my footsteps then scampers forward a few more feet stops...tilts her head eyes gleaming listening for me again i think she is the squirrel queen bidding me to follow her to my lover waiting in the woods i want love in these quiet woods in the quiet night under the moon *oh what a night that would be with you* the smell of the leaves the sound of the crickets eyes twinkling soft blankets this night you should whisk me away to a place in the woods but, alas the squirrel queen scampered into the woods and i'm sitting at a picnic table in filtering sunlight sticky transfixed heart pounding dreaming of love in the woods with you.

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Aug 27, 2013

Aug 27, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC

the squirrel queen

(i want love in these woods) while walking in the quiet woods humidity causing blonde hair to stick to my neck on wooden path my footsteps move and on highest railing a squirrel beckons i smile /a real smile/ she stops as if listening for my footsteps then scampers forward a few more feet stops...tilts her head eyes gleaming listening for me again i think she is the squirrel queen bidding me to follow her to my lover waiting in the woods i want love in these quiet woods in the quiet night under the moon *oh what a night that would be with you* the smell of the leaves the sound of the crickets eyes twinkling soft blankets this night you should whisk me away to a place in the woods but, alas the squirrel queen scampered into the woods and i'm sitting at a picnic table in filtering sunlight sticky transfixed heart pounding dreaming of love in the woods with you.

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Your stars glimmers Belching, wrenching Exposing my ethnic aura A tape of heavenly bliss The acoustic rhythm Essentially subliminal Satiably insatiable Tracked traces covered Your tree branching out Railing through my bark My bosoms blossoming Tip-toe to my bareness Your entirely arousing A summation of beauty A firefly to enlighten Encased within to liven A body I hold twinkles Whistle magnetic presence Sprinkle my mind to entwine Assign your soul peacefully A might, a light at sight A whole in me,a one in you Pluck, nip,smash,trap,stash In dreamscapes and reality

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Mar 4, 2016

Mar 4, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC

Spanking Melancholy

Your stars glimmers Belching, wrenching Exposing my ethnic aura A tape of heavenly bliss The acoustic rhythm Essentially subliminal Satiably insatiable Tracked traces covered Your tree branching out Railing through my bark My bosoms blossoming Tip-toe to my bareness Your entirely arousing A summation of beauty A firefly to enlighten Encased within to liven A body I hold twinkles Whistle magnetic presence Sprinkle my mind to entwine Assign your soul peacefully A might, a light at sight A whole in me,a one in you Pluck, nip,smash,trap,stash In dreamscapes and reality

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Some - thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority. Not counting schools, where one has to, and the poets themselves, there might be two people per thousand. Like - but one also likes chicken soup with noodles, one likes compliments and the color blue, one likes an old scarf, one likes having the upper hand, one likes stroking a dog. Poetry - but what is poetry. Many shaky answers have been given to this question. But I don't know and don't know and hold on to it like to a sustaining railing. Translated by Regina Grol Wislawa Szymborska

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Mar 27, 2017

Mar 27, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC

Some Like Poetry - Poem by Wislawa Szymborska

Some - thus not all. Not even the majority of all but the minority. Not counting schools, where one has to, and the poets themselves, there might be two people per thousand. Like - but one also likes chicken soup with noodles, one likes compliments and the color blue, one likes an old scarf, one likes having the upper hand, one likes stroking a dog. Poetry - but what is poetry. Many shaky answers have been given to this question. But I don't know and don't know and hold on to it like to a sustaining railing. Translated by Regina Grol Wislawa Szymborska

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Im Sitting Here Thinking about life. As The Homies Are Taking Turns Passing, Shot Gun Sniffing, Racking, hot railing Twisting The Pookie Pipe 666 The Devils Clear **** There Getting lost in that **** Addicts since they were all youngin Kicking it with 19, 25 30 40 year olds Im Looking, Then Im looking down. see the pipe passed on to me Where ibegan to think and Look Down On my Life. Reality hits me. Im following the same line, chasing the same thang

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Sep 22, 2014

Sep 22, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC

Thinking Drug Life 13

Im Sitting Here Thinking about life. As The Homies Are Taking Turns Passing, Shot Gun Sniffing, Racking, hot railing Twisting The Pookie Pipe 666 The Devils Clear **** There Getting lost in that **** Addicts since they were all youngin Kicking it with 19, 25 30 40 year olds Im Looking, Then Im looking down. see the pipe passed on to me Where ibegan to think and Look Down On my Life. Reality hits me. Im following the same line, chasing the same thang

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I let go too soon, of these three fingers pinning a white dress to my knees, such a strut they possess, and psychic for the waggle I do on my tulip-days: mama said that the lace came from an elves’ head, I could not wear it. I put it in a dresser drawer, as I lost my appetite for marriage and friends. She said that father wanted to see it, I should parade my red, pulsing veins. A torpedo, it became, cowering until liftoff and glory hallelujah first kisses. Was it not funny when I, poor chap, kept garbage in my teeth and laughed when you slithered your tongue inside, like Friday penetrating the weekend? You are a Leo; I am far from such, but I understand why you may be insulted, as mama garbs turquoise as the sky and all our daffodils burn like rubber. Each says it is because they love me, railing cat-scratches with a stitch – but I do not want that, see earthquakes that hammer on our tulip-days, dear.

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Nov 1, 2012

Nov 1, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC

I let go too soon, of these three fingers pinning a white dress to my knees, such a strut they possess, and psychic for the waggle I do on my tulip-days: mama said that the lace came from an elves’ head, I could not wear it. I put it in a dresser drawer, as I lost my appetite for marriage and friends. She said that father wanted to see it, I should parade my red, pulsing veins. A torpedo, it became, cowering until liftoff and glory hallelujah first kisses. Was it not funny when I, poor chap, kept garbage in my teeth and laughed when you slithered your tongue inside, like Friday penetrating the weekend? You are a Leo; I am far from such, but I understand why you may be insulted, as mama garbs turquoise as the sky and all our daffodils burn like rubber. Each says it is because they love me, railing cat-scratches with a stitch – but I do not want that, see earthquakes that hammer on our tulip-days, dear.

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She looks out in the blue morning and sees a whole wonderful world she looks out in the morning and sees a whole world she leans out of the window and this is what she sees a wet rose singing to the sun with a chorus of red bees she leans out of the window and laughs for the window is high she is in it like a bird on a perch and they scoop the blue sky she and the window scooping the morning as if it were air scooping a green wave of leaves above a stone stair and an urn hung with leaden garlands and girls holding hands in a ring and raindrops on an iron railing shining like a harp string an old man draws with his ferrule in wet sand a map of Spain the marble soldier on his pedestal draws a stiff diagram of pain but the walls around her tremble with the speed of the earth the floor curves to the terrestrial center and behind her the door opens darkly down to the beginning far down to the first simple cry and the animal waking in water and the opening of the eye she looks out in the blue morning and sees a whole wonderful world she looks out in the morning and sees a whole world.

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6.5k

She looks out in the blue morning and sees a whole wonderful world she looks out in the morning and sees a whole world she leans out of the window and this is what she sees a wet rose singing to the sun with a chorus of red bees she leans out of the window and laughs for the window is high she is in it like a bird on a perch and they scoop the blue sky she and the window scooping the morning as if it were air scooping a green wave of leaves above a stone stair and an urn hung with leaden garlands and girls holding hands in a ring and raindrops on an iron railing shining like a harp string an old man draws with his ferrule in wet sand a map of Spain the marble soldier on his pedestal draws a stiff diagram of pain but the walls around her tremble with the speed of the earth the floor curves to the terrestrial center and behind her the door opens darkly down to the beginning far down to the first simple cry and the animal waking in water and the opening of the eye she looks out in the blue morning and sees a whole wonderful world she looks out in the morning and sees a whole world.

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A root of confusion in math is not knowing whether a term is a noun, verb, adjective, or adverb. An equation is nothing but a string of nouns. But I may think about these nouns, by their adjective or adverb alternatives, for example, which convolute the matter. Verbs in math are really the outliers. Thus, I've been thinking wrong with "math is a verb" mentality. The most common math terms are nouns, which function alone as subjects and objects. What I think of as "doing math" is akin to "doing porch". It entails a deck, railing, stairs, a chair, a roof. So too, does math include these things. I walk on the stairs and deck. I sit on the chair. I enjoy the roof's shade. So too, the things of math are used via terms which are not included usually in math terminology. Almost the only verb used in math is "think" which is convoluted by the subjects/objects which I employ during thinking.

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Jul 6, 2021

Jul 6, 2021 at 11:34 PM UTC

A root of confusion in math is not knowing whether a term is a noun, verb, adjective, or adverb. An equation is nothing but a string of nouns. But I may think about these nouns, by their adjective or adverb alternatives, for example, which convolute the matter. Verbs in math are really the outliers. Thus, I've been thinking wrong with "math is a verb" mentality. The most common math terms are nouns, which function alone as subjects and objects. What I think of as "doing math" is akin to "doing porch". It entails a deck, railing, stairs, a chair, a roof. So too, does math include these things. I walk on the stairs and deck. I sit on the chair. I enjoy the roof's shade. So too, the things of math are used via terms which are not included usually in math terminology. Almost the only verb used in math is "think" which is convoluted by the subjects/objects which I employ during thinking.

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Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem: Painting a Function Different I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic Beyond the porch-floor Minerva hangs her wash making the invisible visible Eighty two and three quarters deaf she doesn’t notice But this is, in fact, reality Has always been this way— Bent and bird-like existence Balanced on two twigs—always busy— Her task, is the *********** of space Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing The three phenomena which I must.... Things no one notices— climbing on the abstract surface of a picture Switching the curtains God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…! It figures that— Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune I try to fix them— Her ankles now And she curses at accidental quality from the corner of her mouth which has only one form Clothespin or cigarette? Long johns and animals and men in heaven and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities surround us translucent, contained I decide what to get for her birthday— We are good friends through painting a function different For me? Predestined necessity. Minerva? forgets her manners and eats like a survivor— Thanks going without saying.

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Oct 7, 2017

Oct 7, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

Painting a Function Different

Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem: Painting a Function Different I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic Beyond the porch-floor Minerva hangs her wash making the invisible visible Eighty two and three quarters deaf she doesn’t notice But this is, in fact, reality Has always been this way— Bent and bird-like existence Balanced on two twigs—always busy— Her task, is the *********** of space Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing The three phenomena which I must.... Things no one notices— climbing on the abstract surface of a picture Switching the curtains God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…! It figures that— Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune I try to fix them— Her ankles now And she curses at accidental quality from the corner of her mouth which has only one form Clothespin or cigarette? Long johns and animals and men in heaven and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities surround us translucent, contained I decide what to get for her birthday— We are good friends through painting a function different For me? Predestined necessity. Minerva? forgets her manners and eats like a survivor— Thanks going without saying.

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En robe de parade. Samain Like a skien of loose silk blown against a wall She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anaemia. And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth. In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive. She would like some one to speak to her, And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion.

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4.3k

En robe de parade. Samain Like a skien of loose silk blown against a wall She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anaemia. And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth. In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive. She would like some one to speak to her, And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion.

Continue reading...

I always feel like I’m running. Not running away, there’s no such thing. Just running forward towards something. Something. There’s no such place. With how long I've been running surely I'd have found it by now. I've though of what it must look like. Something could be a field buried in a brilliant, sunlit cloud of alfalfa. It could be a tundra, frozen and without borders. A rainforest, vivid with life, green and flourishing. A mountain, lurching over a city, and in the city there would be nothing but good men. No liars, nor cheats. Just good men and good women, good drink and bad bars, blocks and city blocks of motels riddled, reeking with the smoke of cigarettes smoked sometime post-sex. And in the city there would be nothing but goodmen railing good men raving and ranting, chanting for more railing. *These stairs sure are steep, I best not fall.* Something could be a desert. The dunes would stretch, immaculate, across my vision. The horizon would be sun, sand, and sun again. Is the sky still blue in a desert? Is desert wind built of language and faith, or just oxygen heated to boiling? Is the night full of hushed whispered deviance? Is the night bent over the day's sofa? Is he waiting for sunrise? Rise, sun, rise, what are you waiting for? Do it.

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Dec 28, 2012

Dec 28, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC

I always feel like I’m running. Not running away, there’s no such thing. Just running forward towards something. Something. There’s no such place. With how long I've been running surely I'd have found it by now. I've though of what it must look like. Something could be a field buried in a brilliant, sunlit cloud of alfalfa. It could be a tundra, frozen and without borders. A rainforest, vivid with life, green and flourishing. A mountain, lurching over a city, and in the city there would be nothing but good men. No liars, nor cheats. Just good men and good women, good drink and bad bars, blocks and city blocks of motels riddled, reeking with the smoke of cigarettes smoked sometime post-sex. And in the city there would be nothing but goodmen railing good men raving and ranting, chanting for more railing. *These stairs sure are steep, I best not fall.* Something could be a desert. The dunes would stretch, immaculate, across my vision. The horizon would be sun, sand, and sun again. Is the sky still blue in a desert? Is desert wind built of language and faith, or just oxygen heated to boiling? Is the night full of hushed whispered deviance? Is the night bent over the day's sofa? Is he waiting for sunrise? Rise, sun, rise, what are you waiting for? Do it.

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They would have given a lot those paste-skinned kids with straw for hair and knobby knees Not that frail— it seems Beneath grayish strings through black rims one cracked lens screams— Gets nothing! Changes nothing! Ritual words fall— a rusted refrigerator shoved over a railing from the second floor Barking dogs tied to the radiator of misery fed on rough-house excuses for kindness Why do people keep children? Larger than average eyes huge foreheads of genetic wrong ******* childhood downstairs while mother is sleeping I can get used to the smell of cats Human ***** is not so— different? and if I didn’t change my clothes for a week What do children know? Jenny cuddles a starving kitten then releases it to where they disappear... one generation after another Famished eyes devour anything offered words...food...sex...God Screams from the mats of string and gray Scald the frantic instant badly I watch her bolt beyond explanation Night gives no reason to let her live.... My faith went the way the kittens go Hope and a small girl blend beyond blackness

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Apr 23, 2017

Apr 23, 2017 at 11:24 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

Bread on the Water

They would have given a lot those paste-skinned kids with straw for hair and knobby knees Not that frail— it seems Beneath grayish strings through black rims one cracked lens screams— Gets nothing! Changes nothing! Ritual words fall— a rusted refrigerator shoved over a railing from the second floor Barking dogs tied to the radiator of misery fed on rough-house excuses for kindness Why do people keep children? Larger than average eyes huge foreheads of genetic wrong ******* childhood downstairs while mother is sleeping I can get used to the smell of cats Human ***** is not so— different? and if I didn’t change my clothes for a week What do children know? Jenny cuddles a starving kitten then releases it to where they disappear... one generation after another Famished eyes devour anything offered words...food...sex...God Screams from the mats of string and gray Scald the frantic instant badly I watch her bolt beyond explanation Night gives no reason to let her live.... My faith went the way the kittens go Hope and a small girl blend beyond blackness

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Last week, Cortney moved into a four story apartment with seven twenty-something year old roomates, all boys. The men share the first three floors. while Cortney has the enire top floor to herself. I spent the night there saturday night. And around 10:00pm a twenty-three year old boy Blonde, baby faced, named Kevin Smith stumbled drunk into Cortneys penthouse room. Kevin smith removed his pants, and crawled into bed with us. Kevin Smith nuzzled into my face, pulled me close, and rested his hand, firmly on my *** Kevin Smiths breath smelled of *** coffee, (and a man who regularly brushes his teeth. Good Job Kevin Smith.) At first, Cortney and I assumed Kevin Smith was each other. after further, mostly-unconcious, inventory of our limbs, we gathered this was neither the case, nor a hallucination. Cortney flopped dryly for her cellphone and shined it's light at Kevin Smith. "What the **** Shouted Cortney. No response from Kevin Smith. "What the **** We got out of bed and put clothes on, laughed at how ridiculous it was that a drunk stranger just grabbed my *** while an unconcious Kevin Smith laid in Cortneys bed. Kevin Smith sat up "This is really telling. I uh..." Cortney cut him off "Get out." As she turned on the light. "Can you guys call my phone?" Asked Kevin Smith, "No." Said Cortney Get out of my room." physically pushing Kevin Smith out of her room. Cortney held up Kevin Smiths drunk zanax filled body on the stairs. preventing Kevin Smith from otherwise falling down said stairs and dying. Kevin Smith showed his appreciation by saying, "High fives all around" I watched Cortney strattle drunk Kevin Smith awkwardly, yet also motherly down the stairs. I leaned over the railing and high fived Kevin Smith. "I just want you to know," mumbled Kevin Smith you guys are my friends. You don't need to.. I got this". "No, you really don't" said Cortney, "if you fall down or throw up on me you owe me $20" Cortney delivered Kevin Smith to his bed. Kevin Smith mumbled something, and Cortney returned upstairs. "What the **** Laughed Cortney. "What the **** I replied.

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Dec 11, 2016

Dec 11, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC

New Girl Upstairs

Last week, Cortney moved into a four story apartment with seven twenty-something year old roomates, all boys. The men share the first three floors. while Cortney has the enire top floor to herself. I spent the night there saturday night. And around 10:00pm a twenty-three year old boy Blonde, baby faced, named Kevin Smith stumbled drunk into Cortneys penthouse room. Kevin smith removed his pants, and crawled into bed with us. Kevin Smith nuzzled into my face, pulled me close, and rested his hand, firmly on my *** Kevin Smiths breath smelled of *** coffee, (and a man who regularly brushes his teeth. Good Job Kevin Smith.) At first, Cortney and I assumed Kevin Smith was each other. after further, mostly-unconcious, inventory of our limbs, we gathered this was neither the case, nor a hallucination. Cortney flopped dryly for her cellphone and shined it's light at Kevin Smith. "What the **** Shouted Cortney. No response from Kevin Smith. "What the **** We got out of bed and put clothes on, laughed at how ridiculous it was that a drunk stranger just grabbed my *** while an unconcious Kevin Smith laid in Cortneys bed. Kevin Smith sat up "This is really telling. I uh..." Cortney cut him off "Get out." As she turned on the light. "Can you guys call my phone?" Asked Kevin Smith, "No." Said Cortney Get out of my room." physically pushing Kevin Smith out of her room. Cortney held up Kevin Smiths drunk zanax filled body on the stairs. preventing Kevin Smith from otherwise falling down said stairs and dying. Kevin Smith showed his appreciation by saying, "High fives all around" I watched Cortney strattle drunk Kevin Smith awkwardly, yet also motherly down the stairs. I leaned over the railing and high fived Kevin Smith. "I just want you to know," mumbled Kevin Smith you guys are my friends. You don't need to.. I got this". "No, you really don't" said Cortney, "if you fall down or throw up on me you owe me $20" Cortney delivered Kevin Smith to his bed. Kevin Smith mumbled something, and Cortney returned upstairs. "What the **** Laughed Cortney. "What the **** I replied.

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I cry because happiness is a harder concept to grasp than sorrow. Because sorrow greets me as an old friend. Fondly reminding me of my mistakes, my flaws, and my current inner desolation. Reminding me of how I failed and how I cannot fix my mistakes. While we **reminisce over a bottle of melancholia and a plate of regret.** Leaving me with yet another notch on my belt of nights I cried myself to sleep People pass you by because pretending everything is alright is more convenient than noticing they are broken. They are the people that hide their silent tears at the back of a closet and bury broken smiles into the corner of a sock drawer. But soon …There won’t be enough room for the hidden emotions that you think are irrelevant and can be dealt with another day, soon every emotion you hid will come out of the closet and show its face in the most unpleasant way. Tears. You can’t escape them. I cry because she cries, my best friend, drowning in her own sorrow, I cannot help but drown with her. For what is a friend if that friend will not jump into the murky depth we call depression, sinking ever deeper? At least we sink together. Treading conformity, stress, humiliation, we tread together. As we sink deeper, we try to grasp at the bubbles of happiness escaping our lips, somehow bring them back. We can’t, because once they’re lost no amount of pretending can give us the air we sorely need or the fake smiles to get by without question, day by day. But at least, we drown together. So many times I have looked out to a warm sunset and felt chilled to the bone. Because if I let go of the railing, life would go on. Because if I did not exist right now nothing in the world would change. It would just erase any memory of all the ***** ups I collected like stamps and baseball cards. Because no amount of blankets and soothing words can warm the icy thought in the back of my head whispering in the persuasive voice of a friend, “What’s the point?” I cry for the people who don’t think they matter, who think that turning to something to relieve their pain will fix it. I cry for the people who think killing themselves will make them feel alive. For the people who get lost trying to find themselves. For the people who put on a mask desperately waiting for someone to see through it. And for the people who cut themselves trying to become whole. Breaking themselves down bit by bit, holding all the pieces, and waiting for someone to put them back together. I cry because this entire explanation is just eloquently realizing that I am sad.

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Sep 26, 2013

Sep 26, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC

I cry because happiness is a harder concept to grasp than sorrow. Because sorrow greets me as an old friend. Fondly reminding me of my mistakes, my flaws, and my current inner desolation. Reminding me of how I failed and how I cannot fix my mistakes. While we **reminisce over a bottle of melancholia and a plate of regret.** Leaving me with yet another notch on my belt of nights I cried myself to sleep People pass you by because pretending everything is alright is more convenient than noticing they are broken. They are the people that hide their silent tears at the back of a closet and bury broken smiles into the corner of a sock drawer. But soon …There won’t be enough room for the hidden emotions that you think are irrelevant and can be dealt with another day, soon every emotion you hid will come out of the closet and show its face in the most unpleasant way. Tears. You can’t escape them. I cry because she cries, my best friend, drowning in her own sorrow, I cannot help but drown with her. For what is a friend if that friend will not jump into the murky depth we call depression, sinking ever deeper? At least we sink together. Treading conformity, stress, humiliation, we tread together. As we sink deeper, we try to grasp at the bubbles of happiness escaping our lips, somehow bring them back. We can’t, because once they’re lost no amount of pretending can give us the air we sorely need or the fake smiles to get by without question, day by day. But at least, we drown together. So many times I have looked out to a warm sunset and felt chilled to the bone. Because if I let go of the railing, life would go on. Because if I did not exist right now nothing in the world would change. It would just erase any memory of all the ***** ups I collected like stamps and baseball cards. Because no amount of blankets and soothing words can warm the icy thought in the back of my head whispering in the persuasive voice of a friend, “What’s the point?” I cry for the people who don’t think they matter, who think that turning to something to relieve their pain will fix it. I cry for the people who think killing themselves will make them feel alive. For the people who get lost trying to find themselves. For the people who put on a mask desperately waiting for someone to see through it. And for the people who cut themselves trying to become whole. Breaking themselves down bit by bit, holding all the pieces, and waiting for someone to put them back together. I cry because this entire explanation is just eloquently realizing that I am sad.

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I suppose there has to be a reason or at least a note to mark that day-- He ate his breakfast She let him out He walked along the railing like the plank defying death for pleasure of his lady's company to get his belly rubbed sprawled long across her lap She released him to chase the squirrels of his dreams to his black cat adventures to the aching green of life's late summer ways But, the days assemble against your return May the angels find you quickly my darling, Bailey Dark beauty of coal I was a Tuesday, bereft You disappeared-- like the shadow of a whisper Disappeared like hope-- in the last blow of day

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Oct 31, 2017

Oct 31, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

The Witch's Black Cat

I suppose there has to be a reason or at least a note to mark that day-- He ate his breakfast She let him out He walked along the railing like the plank defying death for pleasure of his lady's company to get his belly rubbed sprawled long across her lap She released him to chase the squirrels of his dreams to his black cat adventures to the aching green of life's late summer ways But, the days assemble against your return May the angels find you quickly my darling, Bailey Dark beauty of coal I was a Tuesday, bereft You disappeared-- like the shadow of a whisper Disappeared like hope-- in the last blow of day

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Cold beer, a long necked bottle held to my forehead and in my throat, to my lips, so relief comes both ways, glad for it, the double of the cool, helps the day of troubled nothingness, and the long necked bottle makes it worth the extra second of anticipated tasty wait can't drink in the river park, don't cotton to brown paper bags, do it anyway cause the East River tides me over on its way thru the Verrazano Narrows, bound for the Atlantic with me low rider spirit in tow, a devil may care attitude en contrôle this troubadour opened the store at 700am but not a one came looking for a song, but the mail came reliable, with dues due, promises that need keeping, and other items, what the grownups call responsibilities June Monday early eve and the Moran tugboats ply their trade like reliable ****** to the sailors, and their larger than bathtub size toys, turning containers, freighters, into docile boys who do as they are told on their way to ports far there are stick figures outlined on the hexagon paving stones that are so nyc for me, here pedestrian! follow your designated path here pedestrian, you must walk to be safe arrived but I take to the railing, where Isaac-bound and mesmerized, I imagine surfing the churning wakes on the surface of the riveting tides and wonderous wanderlust for where we are bound... no voice heard from the heavens, saying Abraham put down that knife, because I have not passed the test of true belief, perhaps the river's invitation is my test, if I should sing another song here, perhaps it will tale the end of this tell...

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Jun 16, 2014

Jun 16, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC

By the East River, a Cold Beer, on My Forehead...

Cold beer, a long necked bottle held to my forehead and in my throat, to my lips, so relief comes both ways, glad for it, the double of the cool, helps the day of troubled nothingness, and the long necked bottle makes it worth the extra second of anticipated tasty wait can't drink in the river park, don't cotton to brown paper bags, do it anyway cause the East River tides me over on its way thru the Verrazano Narrows, bound for the Atlantic with me low rider spirit in tow, a devil may care attitude en contrôle this troubadour opened the store at 700am but not a one came looking for a song, but the mail came reliable, with dues due, promises that need keeping, and other items, what the grownups call responsibilities June Monday early eve and the Moran tugboats ply their trade like reliable ****** to the sailors, and their larger than bathtub size toys, turning containers, freighters, into docile boys who do as they are told on their way to ports far there are stick figures outlined on the hexagon paving stones that are so nyc for me, here pedestrian! follow your designated path here pedestrian, you must walk to be safe arrived but I take to the railing, where Isaac-bound and mesmerized, I imagine surfing the churning wakes on the surface of the riveting tides and wonderous wanderlust for where we are bound... no voice heard from the heavens, saying Abraham put down that knife, because I have not passed the test of true belief, perhaps the river's invitation is my test, if I should sing another song here, perhaps it will tale the end of this tell...

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Our houses, spitting-distance close Feet propped on railing cold beer with fresh lime watching robins flung in flocks to the failing of August Too close-- Really? John, on his cell is fu_king the world again from his garage Why not-- squeeze in pool or a dog Lawn mowers and **** whips tune in to whine late Friday afternoon 'bout dinner time Clinking silver, scrapes of plates Running water for suds through open windows to the thunk of pots Doors bang behind on pathway to garbage or joint in the woods wafting over all wordless squeals of delight from autistic child Meanwhile, the odor of nail polish removes all doubts of-- --Gawd! lodging low and toxic as the sun dissolves orange in its acetone setting Kids playing Man Hunt as darkness falls Leaping hedges, slamming gates No yards can contain these kinetics restless legs, furtive minds Muttering wind chimes from four different porches above the drone of highway a half mile yawns Pieces of talk flipping the crickets over-- Why or who or at what time? Other-worldly glow from The Mall dims stars outlines mountains brightens the horizon behind Mosquitoes coming in for a landing

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Sep 2, 2016

Sep 2, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

Spitting Distance

Our houses, spitting-distance close Feet propped on railing cold beer with fresh lime watching robins flung in flocks to the failing of August Too close-- Really? John, on his cell is fu_king the world again from his garage Why not-- squeeze in pool or a dog Lawn mowers and **** whips tune in to whine late Friday afternoon 'bout dinner time Clinking silver, scrapes of plates Running water for suds through open windows to the thunk of pots Doors bang behind on pathway to garbage or joint in the woods wafting over all wordless squeals of delight from autistic child Meanwhile, the odor of nail polish removes all doubts of-- --Gawd! lodging low and toxic as the sun dissolves orange in its acetone setting Kids playing Man Hunt as darkness falls Leaping hedges, slamming gates No yards can contain these kinetics restless legs, furtive minds Muttering wind chimes from four different porches above the drone of highway a half mile yawns Pieces of talk flipping the crickets over-- Why or who or at what time? Other-worldly glow from The Mall dims stars outlines mountains brightens the horizon behind Mosquitoes coming in for a landing

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in ashes hidden, smoulders god of love from matted dancer's focus conflagration purely come continues still perhaps in empty homage of a sa ta na ma personage of ((Shiva)) white bones pierce the sky in upward curtain-seethes of heat beyond imagined burning hells... the triad ventures into zero-zones of anti-life, sands of absolute defeat. shadow trust imparts a silent teacher's mantras; soothing psychic words, "Bala" and "Adi-Bala" carry over dunes of morbid thirst-- the gape of ancient serpent-maws choking dust of frightened, elephantine skeletons fissured by immobile sun-- their inner sound become cool water of a summer stream in timeless desert, traverses strain of royal line: god-fated tutelage of seedling savior, lightning skill with bow and virtue sinew shining arms horizon's arid form: despite begrudging honor kings expect when offspring given after years in hard-earned sacrificial grace: yet still obeisance ends in facing demonaic rage to which is pitted youth to slay-- despite allay by symbol feminine, as if to question her abode would conjure her in dire storm and quake announce gigantic step and hairy gulf-- with arrow sprays destroy Thataka's trident, curdling throat the slitting of, rejoicing pantheon proclaims heroic, forever railing under epic breath of tacit page theodical: "we gave you progeny, now grant us our theocracy; before your son our asthras lay their weaponry" .

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Aug 12, 2012

Aug 12, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC

Rama's inauguration, facing the murderous gluttony of Thataka

in ashes hidden, smoulders god of love from matted dancer's focus conflagration purely come continues still perhaps in empty homage of a sa ta na ma personage of ((Shiva)) white bones pierce the sky in upward curtain-seethes of heat beyond imagined burning hells... the triad ventures into zero-zones of anti-life, sands of absolute defeat. shadow trust imparts a silent teacher's mantras; soothing psychic words, "Bala" and "Adi-Bala" carry over dunes of morbid thirst-- the gape of ancient serpent-maws choking dust of frightened, elephantine skeletons fissured by immobile sun-- their inner sound become cool water of a summer stream in timeless desert, traverses strain of royal line: god-fated tutelage of seedling savior, lightning skill with bow and virtue sinew shining arms horizon's arid form: despite begrudging honor kings expect when offspring given after years in hard-earned sacrificial grace: yet still obeisance ends in facing demonaic rage to which is pitted youth to slay-- despite allay by symbol feminine, as if to question her abode would conjure her in dire storm and quake announce gigantic step and hairy gulf-- with arrow sprays destroy Thataka's trident, curdling throat the slitting of, rejoicing pantheon proclaims heroic, forever railing under epic breath of tacit page theodical: "we gave you progeny, now grant us our theocracy; before your son our asthras lay their weaponry" .

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Small barge go to meet honoured guest Leisurely lake on come At railing face cup alcohol On all sides lotus bloom On a skiff I meet an honoured guest, Slowly, slowly, it comes across the lake. Facing at the railing, we drink a cup of wine, On all sides, lotus flowers are in bloom.

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3.2k

At the Lake Pavilion

Small barge go to meet honoured guest Leisurely lake on come At railing face cup alcohol On all sides lotus bloom On a skiff I meet an honoured guest, Slowly, slowly, it comes across the lake. Facing at the railing, we drink a cup of wine, On all sides, lotus flowers are in bloom.

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red tile roof ... whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle , fridge full 'f 1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza -- clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture) $1000/week: (i could live on that) lucky strike spirals in spanish summer, bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada. afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines) spend 75 drunk nights ( reading , smoking , swilling gin ) & typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire) flamenco on a record player back in the house one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there still as death) as she gets into the jacuzzi. & spend 75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand up skirt of my carmen-du-jour. climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves. (feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)

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Jul 15, 2012

Jul 15, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC

dream 162 / tres meses

red tile roof ... whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle , fridge full 'f 1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza -- clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture) $1000/week: (i could live on that) lucky strike spirals in spanish summer, bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada. afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines) spend 75 drunk nights ( reading , smoking , swilling gin ) & typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire) flamenco on a record player back in the house one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there still as death) as she gets into the jacuzzi. & spend 75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand up skirt of my carmen-du-jour. climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves. (feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)

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chasing down those clouds in penetrating light rode to the bridge sun had set pink and gold patterns on the river The man at the water plant leaning on the railing glanced down the river. above the silhouetted hills below the salmon gilded clouds a patch of blue no longer blue but the color of the turquiose ring on my bike tires

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Oct 19, 2016

Oct 19, 2016 at 7:11 PM UTC

Riding at Sunset

chasing down those clouds in penetrating light rode to the bridge sun had set pink and gold patterns on the river The man at the water plant leaning on the railing glanced down the river. above the silhouetted hills below the salmon gilded clouds a patch of blue no longer blue but the color of the turquiose ring on my bike tires

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We’re quick to blame those that break our hearts, Railing against lovers for our misfortunes, Consigning them to hell and so forth, When in reality, Our oft exhausted and defeated transgressors Serve merely as the catalyst for the internal destruction that follows For no one impacts your emotional wellbeing as much as you, And you birth your demons, your pain, After ‘us’ is no more, There is just you and your head, An entity far more dangerous than any borne of flesh and blood Do not judge those that hurt you, For they are as foolish and human as you, And remember that though Love may linger and torment, It is a reminder of what your heart can do, When it’s met its match

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Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC

We’re quick to blame those that break our hearts, Railing against lovers for our misfortunes, Consigning them to hell and so forth, When in reality, Our oft exhausted and defeated transgressors Serve merely as the catalyst for the internal destruction that follows For no one impacts your emotional wellbeing as much as you, And you birth your demons, your pain, After ‘us’ is no more, There is just you and your head, An entity far more dangerous than any borne of flesh and blood Do not judge those that hurt you, For they are as foolish and human as you, And remember that though Love may linger and torment, It is a reminder of what your heart can do, When it’s met its match

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My ankle is chained. I gripped on the railing of my sinking ship, hoping i could pull myself out of the water. As i waited for rescue, rain poured down and waves grew bigger. The chain attached to my ankle was too heavy that my hand was already slipping. I had to let go since it felt like i was being torn in two as i was being anchored down the depths of the ocean. I was sure my ankle bled from the chain's tightness and the weight that was pulling me down but i couldn't feel the pain. All i felt was the freezing cold water and my heavy chest. It was as if my heart carried my whole weight. I never wanted to drown but i felt like i no longer had enough strength to resist. I gasped for air one last time and yet even the air felt like poision. Now i felt the physical pain. It stung. My throat was on fire as i allowed myself to be dragged further down. I closed my eyes as tight as i could and clenched my teeth while my body trembled in pain and my chest felt tighter. This. This was the only time i hoped my heart would stop beating. but no matter how i hard i wished or prayed, it wouldn't stop. It felt like an hour of drowning and yet i was still conscious. It's my fault. I built it like this. I built it with hope and faith for years. Now i couldn't understand whether it was for good or bad. To hold on to life or hold on to the pain? Slowly, i was being pulled deeper down the ocean. I tried to open my eyes but i couldn't see anything anymore. There was nothing but the color red. I never knew i had this amount of blood. Enough to build an ocean which only God can make. I'm still alive. I can move. But i am stuck underneath this ocean of blood with my chest still tightening, unsure of when the pain would stop or if anyone could find me at this depth. You said you'd come visit. So I left a note on my desk hoping you'd find it. I went cruising even if i hated the waters. I brought an anchor and a chain with me but i left its key on the desk too. I had no idea what it was for or why i brought it. All i knew was i was watching the sunset and it was suddenly chained to me when darkness came. I didn't know how my ship sank or how i got in the water. Maybe it was not in good condition. But then again, i knew you would check it everyday because you told me so. Where are you? Have't you read my note yet? Did you come visit? Are you on your way? I'll be here waiting, holding on, and hoping that your hand would be the first one to pull me out of my misery. Even if i know you'd never read the note in the first place.

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Mar 2, 2018

Mar 2, 2018 at 7:08 AM UTC

A Story Of Drowning

My ankle is chained. I gripped on the railing of my sinking ship, hoping i could pull myself out of the water. As i waited for rescue, rain poured down and waves grew bigger. The chain attached to my ankle was too heavy that my hand was already slipping. I had to let go since it felt like i was being torn in two as i was being anchored down the depths of the ocean. I was sure my ankle bled from the chain's tightness and the weight that was pulling me down but i couldn't feel the pain. All i felt was the freezing cold water and my heavy chest. It was as if my heart carried my whole weight. I never wanted to drown but i felt like i no longer had enough strength to resist. I gasped for air one last time and yet even the air felt like poision. Now i felt the physical pain. It stung. My throat was on fire as i allowed myself to be dragged further down. I closed my eyes as tight as i could and clenched my teeth while my body trembled in pain and my chest felt tighter. This. This was the only time i hoped my heart would stop beating. but no matter how i hard i wished or prayed, it wouldn't stop. It felt like an hour of drowning and yet i was still conscious. It's my fault. I built it like this. I built it with hope and faith for years. Now i couldn't understand whether it was for good or bad. To hold on to life or hold on to the pain? Slowly, i was being pulled deeper down the ocean. I tried to open my eyes but i couldn't see anything anymore. There was nothing but the color red. I never knew i had this amount of blood. Enough to build an ocean which only God can make. I'm still alive. I can move. But i am stuck underneath this ocean of blood with my chest still tightening, unsure of when the pain would stop or if anyone could find me at this depth. You said you'd come visit. So I left a note on my desk hoping you'd find it. I went cruising even if i hated the waters. I brought an anchor and a chain with me but i left its key on the desk too. I had no idea what it was for or why i brought it. All i knew was i was watching the sunset and it was suddenly chained to me when darkness came. I didn't know how my ship sank or how i got in the water. Maybe it was not in good condition. But then again, i knew you would check it everyday because you told me so. Where are you? Have't you read my note yet? Did you come visit? Are you on your way? I'll be here waiting, holding on, and hoping that your hand would be the first one to pull me out of my misery. Even if i know you'd never read the note in the first place.

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