"raisers" poems
You have your hammer down, foot stamping Passion Poets,
the ones who feel something and like a waterfall
similes fall out of their pen and land
they are LOUD and they are dynamic,
their metaphors are laser beams out of eyes,
they are the Crowd Raisers.
And you have your hearts open, eyes closed Emotion Poets,
the ones who love something like a fountain,
spilling over adjectives their words are
red, they are heated
yellow, they are revelling in that shade of
blue that poets hate to love,
they are the Heart String Pullers.
And then you have...
me.
I'm an imperfect, writer's block, In Between Poet.
my similes are more like a puddle than a waterfall,
all the same parts but nowhere near the power,
I am LOUD in all the wrong places
my metaphors are dead battery laser pointers, I am
not a Crowd Raiser.
My fountain spills over adverbs quickly dying
out my words are sort of... gray, they are
not Heart String Pullers.
But
We are all Poets
we are like similes
we are comparing our words to something bigger,
we are metaphors we find a way to put love into words,
put hate into words,
jealousy into words.
we are adverbs quickly coming to life in all its splendor
we are
All the Same.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
I have so much love in my heart
But don't let anyone love me
I take and take and push away
I bruise, I break, I bleed.
I crush the souls of those I meet
To get my daily feed
A dose of poison in my veins
Is all the love I need;
Heart breakers and hell-raisers
Can never love for free.
Why do I fall so easily?
Why does nobody satisfy me?
These questions seem to fill my troubled head
I push away before I'm hurt
I too have felt pain of the worse
Because with love and lust comes fear and greed.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
Yeah those wild hooligans, those mini hell raisers
What was their motive? to be trail blazers?
They're smoking squares, and sneaking out
Facing alota scares, but never cry a shout
They're simply cool, calm and destructive
Shoutin out obscenities, and being abruptive
Yeah the boys remain true, to themselves and their crew
Simply bein themselves, and askin who are you?
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 2:33 PM UTC
Infant hands
gripping thumbs.
Tired arms encircling adult neck.
Your first smile,
first laugh—
first tooth, step, and word, our
first shared glance.
Moments, landmarks of your life, the
joy of my own.
Infant eyes so full
of wonder,
even the meagre astounds.
Constellations,
planets and moons, asteroids
creeping through space,
world destroyers and raisers of new.
The universe, its
infinitely vast magnificence, at
molecular level iris comprised.
The pupil—centre ajar
serving soul's route,
a window into 'nother realm, the
place of spirit's hailing.
True self temporarily encased,
the pathway to which
in resides of corporeal existence
the pith of life.
Your eyes—as much wonder possessed
as perceive.
A wish;
you might stay young forever, each
day spent together, that
your innocence,
your heart, may
never know break's suffering.
That cheek, tear might never dampness vandalize.
Your life—unspoiled joy,
mere childish disappointment to claim,
might always remain.
A shelter from hate,
from hunger and strife.
The broadcasts of the world
that their weighty burden might never
find home upon tiny shoulder.
In my palm, Atlas' strength I possess,
to keep at bay
war—its further result.
Disaster.
Death,
thunder wind lightning,
the monster under your bed.
The fear of all things fear inciting,
a paladin whom you I serve.
But in that wish
I might deprive,
an incalculable love—life's
blessed comprise.
The force by which
a patriarch's drive—
the reason for being.
By selfish pinning of youth,
fulfilment you may never know
As much to protect you,
I do myself.
A fear of my own finale.
Residing forever in this happy dream.
Terror realized,
contrary to that my inevitable absence—that
I might never leave you, but
that you might never leave me.
My son, I love you, and
in time you will see.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 6:20 AM UTC
This is not a poem, well maybe it is, but it isn’t a poem about streetlights and butterflies and metaphors about metaphors. It is about weak men and strong women and places where lost souls practice bravery.
I don’t know what she felt
I don’t dare claim to
But I know she cried, I know she fought, I know she broke in places she didn’t know she had, I know she scrubbed hard all the time praying her skin was the memory, I know she prayed, I know she prayed hard, I know it rained, both inside and outside.
But I don’t know what she felt.
I’m tired of excuses and stories about how men are built like tsunamis raised between rock and hard place leaving broken bodies in their wake. I betrothed the knife under my pillow to the souls of men like you, men like me.
Is there a crack in my spine, why can’t I understand that women are nothing but a sum of their body parts. Is it my fault for seeing them as everything we can’t be, from wishing well belly buttons where life comes from to men raisers and once in a while they beat us at our own games just to remind us that they can rustle at the top also but foundation is key. I’m tired of apologizing for men that cradle in the arms of a woman but still reach for her neck with their arms forgetting the reason he is off the ground.
But even if she was none of these. Even if she was built like a tsunami raised between rock and hard place. In his eyes her body will still always be a temple for his sins and sacrifices.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
My finger's on the fritz
On your door step, ding **** ditch
In that frame of mind during that time frame
Spewing gibberish
Sirens blare
Attention ****** with ulterior motives
Pick up the gauntlet
Surpass the bar raisers that got too big for their britches
Face the predicament with courage
Trot through the bible belt
Sort out the sugar coated ********
That right state of mind and the right time period
Attached at the hip
Tip top, ship shape
I see all the old tricks in the book
I smile and put it back on the shelf
I got a new one, don't look
For my eyes only, keeping this for myself
Withheld from the industrial fans, investors, blood ******* insects
At a loss for words
What you see is what you get
You get what you get and you don't get upset
But give what you get
So get going
With your selective hearing
And your selective memory
Do it for the down trodden
Don't settle for the consolation prize
Drum roll please
-Tommy Johnson
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
I watch cooking for joy
I love it
When vapours rise
The scintillating smell
Fills and arouses my nostrils
And my mundane mind
I like being blown away by this juggernaut of joy,aroma
Sensual satisfaction
I enjoy
The spurt of cumin
In rich oil
I love the
Dance of
Mustard crackling
How asafoetida
Sets the stage on fire
How curry leaves sound
Being sauteed
Only to come out
In an enchanting form
The fairies take centrestage
In this cooking dream
In vegetables
As they simmer
And get coated
With raisers of
Your taste buds
And assume
Magnified beauty
The *** turns into
A flurry of colours
You seem to get lost
As you gaze in wonder
Then the splash
Of tangy lemon
Juiced to Glory
Comes only
To leave you amazed
Fresh coriander
Basking in glory
Of it's green leaves
Makes it's debut
To leave you amazed
Your senses overflow
And in case you're
Not done
With this
Mesmerizing magnificence
The Majesty of food
Has more to offer
Your mouth starts watering
And you slurp it down
Enjoying every moment
Attaining some containment
In the form of good food!!
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 2:41 AM UTC
I am quiet in a line of on-lookers, big-thinkers, hell-raisers
I sing a song to a corner in the room
It winks and blinks along the beat as
Large shadows confidently raise their arms in triumph.
I am sitting still, a floating ocean depth silence
Watching waves crash and clatter miles overhead--
What fun they must be having out there in the world!
Where the blue is sometimes yellow or pink and
All one knows is not only the dark, deafening hush of
Blue--Where
The colors really taste like they advertise:
Savory sweet honey orange, supple plump green melon,
Ripe for the picking, these--
These are the pickers.
With their power-tool loudness, their "I can fix it!"
The red-runners, the green-makers.
Their lawns rolling out like gold ****** dresses
Reveling in their own chaste gold underskirts under a matching
Gold sun
The earth bowing her shoulders to make room
I am the crisp subtle crunch between bites
The shamed blouse of the *****
The sufficiently watered bud among a field of tall daisies
The pause in your breath
The silence of an empty house
The quiet lemon shavings left on
The quiet cutting board,
Bleeding rind by way of knife
The metaphor in a poem -- waiting in quiet verse
To rear its head to the reader
How many empty glass bottles can you shove into a bag
Before it all leaks out the bottom
I am the bottom
A soft reflection in the train-car window
I see you all.
I hear you.
I don't know quite yet if
I understand you
Rambling on in high buildings with your
***** reared high.
Whether love is just temporary obsession or
If one can make it to death without truly living.
But I do know, quite often, that there is meaning
In complete
Silence.
--
c
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
The cruelty of our passions
Burnt down into small pieces of ashes
By those who despise us
Even though this very country
Was built on freedom of speech
So although we keep fighting
Hoping to win this battle
Between all odds
We’ll keep attacking
With the power of words
And the power of the human soul
We’ll raise hell if we have to
For that is who we are
We are the brilliant,
The omnipotent,
The spontaneous
Hell Raisers
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 7:05 PM UTC