Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"razing" poems
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond. I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre and said to my wife A gun in every home. Those devils would think twice before razing the village and seizing the boys. A well-regulated militia. The local militia the most interesting moment in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,       fights) and a **** sexless love story. Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the       community, the young from the janjaweed. The crop from the **** Limited scope and defensive posture but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)       side by side. Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain. Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture. Great music. Cuba, Africa. The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat       of violence No saxophones in the band. The saxophone! Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the       Congo! When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry for non-violent acts. This quiet neighborhood, July, undergirded by violence, force. That's a given-- any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that. Without just violence Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited, negligible (but not non-existent)?                                                        Regarding King the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon federal force to counter the South's violence. No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be       overwhelmed by southern violence. Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic. Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the       British. Or did he? 1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi     restrained but could release which the British feared, and 2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that     allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint     was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as     emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and     valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture). What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with       community as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession. Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the       common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with       otherwise neutral, private acts. The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is       forgoing deadly force. But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence, in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune       violence. Hence, a gun in every home.
0
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC
A Gun in Every Home
Two fine films: The Lost City and Blood Diamond. I joined Blood Diamond during a village massacre and said to my wife A gun in every home. Those devils would think twice before razing the village and seizing the boys. A well-regulated militia. The local militia the most interesting moment in a strong film with motive (economic, emotional), action (chases,       fights) and a **** sexless love story. Use of violence by the local militia for a limited purpose: protect the       community, the young from the janjaweed. The crop from the **** Limited scope and defensive posture but armed and coordinated, cooperative, the men (and the women)       side by side. Warriors at the gate, you will not run, you will not bargain. Just violence = limited scope, defensive posture. Great music. Cuba, Africa. The Lost City, when the communists tell the club owner under threat       of violence No saxophones in the band. The saxophone! Invented by a Belgian--Look what the Belgians are doing in the       Congo! When the state's violence is turned against the citizenry for non-violent acts. This quiet neighborhood, July, undergirded by violence, force. That's a given-- any farmer, custodian, EMT will tell you that. Without just violence Gandhi's scope, and King's, might be vanishingly limited, negligible (but not non-existent)?                                                        Regarding King the matter is simple -- he was non-violent but dependent upon federal force to counter the South's violence. No doubt without the larger force, the non-violent would be       overwhelmed by southern violence. Here, non-violence was a tactic, not an ethic. Gandhi, however, had no violent partner to protect him from the       British. Or did he? 1. There was the potential violence of the population, which Gandhi     restrained but could release which the British feared, and 2. It was the restrained (limited scope) violence of the British that     allowed Gandhi to exist rather than be extinguished--this restraint     was a (British) cultural imperative (limited scope) as well as     emanating from Britain's view of India as a protectorate and     valued citizen of the United Kingdom (defensive posture). What about violence or threat of violence to compel compliance with       community as in mortgage foreclosure, driving without license, drug possession. Perhaps it is necessary violence to maintain orderly commerce, the       common space, and preempt bad behaviors associated with       otherwise neutral, private acts. The defensive posture is the common good; the limited scope is       forgoing deadly force. But the citizen, too, must maintain a disciplined, armed non-violence, in case the state (the janjaweed) engages in an unjust, autoimmune       violence. Hence, a gun in every home.
Continue reading...
58
There’s a scurrying sound of something, burrowing, Down in the depths of the dungeons, hurrying, Skittering, pittering-pattering, scattering When there’s a footstep, hear them chattering: ‘Here come the lords, and here comes the vassal, Tripping their way through Cockroach Castle.’ Here come the ladies, all in their finery Tripping and sipping the wine from the winery, Trailing their silks, their satins and bustling, Up in the ballroom, while the rustling Army beneath the sounds of their razzle Is down in the depths of Cockroach Castle. Spilling their millions up in the glooming Out from the flagstones, terror is looming, Up on the awnings, hung from the ceiling Under the swish of the skirts they’re stealing, Dropping in hair, and burrowing faster, Cockroach Castle is set for disaster. Suddenly all of the room is screaming Flapping of hands, the roaches are teeming, Myriad hordes in the Carbonara, Candles are tipped from the candelabra, Choking smoke from the candles guttered, Flames leap up from the ones that stuttered. Clothing and flags and the awnings razing Silks and satins flare up, and blazing, Roaches in eyes and ears, they’re rasping Clogging their throats, to leave them gasping, There isn’t a lady or lord, or vassal To come out alive from Cockroach Castle! David Lewis Paget
0
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
Cockroach Castle
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ perched atop a muddy graze amongst the reefing centipede does lady jade a’ponder days from whence the eldest had decreed. *"what's this a'fuss upon the breeze that sings a song of fallen trees?" **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn! a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..*** was broadening—a shiver, swift— bespoken of her crown to rest? what way whereby these spirits lift that hide should (of the head) contest? *"what, unbeknownst, should overwhelm this silv'ry shoat, what's felling elm?" **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn! a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..*** amidst a cruel cacophony, the lady seed, she must concede the razing of her progeny beholden to appease a need. *"what's this in want of dire good that preys upon upholding wood?"           **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!                     a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..*** on arbor brawn does ardor dine does earthen daughter march to meet as tireless as the vile design divesting mother's gen'rous teat. *"what subtleties uproot the heart as bodies from their souls depart?"           **a burnin' Birgham urn, aburn!                      a'crack—a'whack—a'wish..***
0
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
Fauna's Mourning
*Have anthologized every cerebration of mine, finding myself snared in dogmatic mysteries of cosmos. My cognitive contents are razing & vitiating, leaving a brobdingnagian lacuna. Striving to surmount it but, incapable of sating the one that domiciliates within my èlan vital.*
0
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
Innermost Crusade
I'm scared, said the earth to the moon, I think I'm going to die very soon. There's a constant haze in my blue sky And that's what happens before you die. The air has become so stale That it's difficult to inhale. The pollution makes it heavy and thick And I'm beginning to feel quite sick. They're razing the forests, hundreds a day, And the rivers and seas are full of decay. How can they expect their children to endure When they've sentenced me to a death so premature. Suffocation is imminent, I'm afraid, The oxygen supply is going to fade Without the trees to replenish the air. My demise is certain, does no one care? How sad. Never again to feel the breeze, Or watch the rain, or touch the cool seas, Or smell a flower, or welcome a new spring, Or see a green field, or hear a human being.
0
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
Earth's Lament
I lay and wait to sail the seas of infinity Black fabric catching nebulous breezes As an ancient god of mythology sneezes The wooden ship creeks never stealthy But noisy as hell seeing the cosmic swells Of eternity’s well My skin burns with the razor whips Of solar ray that phase through Time and space Razing all darkness in its’ way My vision once darkened by the void Now explodes with spatial wonder My skin is shredded by the fury Of burning nebulous gasses Particles of space dust envelope me Incinerating every cell of me I burn in orange, brown, purple and blue hues Spiraling vapors consume the ship to No howls of pain echo in the vacuum There is no struggle My hands hold tightly to the sword of my youth I wear my rigamortis with pride as I slide Up and into the gates of Valhalla A white and fluffy faced man stares at me Laughing half heartedly And says Hey you got the wrong gate Valhalla loads down the ways at station eight This is the Judaic station
0
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Valhalla Gate
After countless battles, We've finally gotten married. Ours was not a lengthy engagement If there was even one to begin with. A long courtship, though. Skirmish after bloodbath after slaughter Fighting trolls and giants and the undead We were comrades Brothers in arms. And then a quick confession A purchased home That was it. Now we sleep in on weekends Slowly wake to the cool darkness of the room Make love with sleep still frosting our eyes I serenade you in the cold evenings with my battered lute As you tend to the crackling hearth Before tending to my gashes and bruises Earned from the day's clashes. This must be what Valhalla feels like -- Coming home to you and a hearty stew After a long day of fighting Covered in blood (Some of them mine) Loaded down with loot. Doing this for a lifetime seems preferable To being High King for eternity. Dragons may be razing the northern wastes Savage tribes holding sway in the mountains Rebels and imperials clashing in the plains But in here It's just you and me. Nothing and no one can enter our sanctuary. Like you said, Brief as life can be here, We have each other. I may be the Thane of your hold But you are the Thane of my heart.
0
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
Breezehome
I would like a tall glass of chlorine, to burn my insides clean, for they are far from pristine, they are sick and twisted and green, in this state I cannot be serene, so give me a glass of chlorine, to burn my insides clean. i would like a pack of c4, to blow down my inner door, and stomp in with guns blazing, each devilish thought i be razing, i should like a pack of c4, to demolish my inner door. I should like a bottle of hydrogen, to open in my mind, to leave it's burdens lighter, to make it's thoughts burn brighter, I should like a bottle of hydrogen, to make my burdens lighter.
0
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC
Chemistry
stone ground mustard Venus burns. She's not concerned that constant falling and orbits, elliptical - are the same thing. Her eyes are deaf. My eyes adapt to the pattern that rattles the chain of events. my Spartan theories dangle in dubiousness. I find a trap, and call it Seattle... for i see cattle - grazing a state of mind; north, north west of what God meant. washing tons of pocket lint by hand. chewing their cud in the dark. meanwhile - outside the ranch... My eyes refract. ***** and un-twink in the black lacquer that came - with the oblique miracle. they sustain things that would sunder a doll-eyed bovine to ever breach The Fence. my hardened arteries jangle like numinous. I pine and snap ruinous barbs from Death's prattle... for i see battle, razing the Grace of Time more at war, than at our best. more - bereft of what Reason defends. tossing guns at bullets by telekinesis. [ undefined ] i come from where i've never been. you were there. and ewe were there; fleeced and bleating in the snow that fell as soon as shearing ceased. i recall, you were never there. but remember passing you by... shilling an ocean roar you swore you'd plucked from a Seashell - salvaged from the divine dry sockets of Poseidon's skull. you were hawking your unawares. i played a flute made of question marks and glass drum skins. i went where my stride was inclined, and never where i went to. i never arrived by approaching the destination. only by always being somewhere else till i got there. i came from where i'd never been and - ain't been Nowhere since. but i'm sure i pass through There ever since.
0
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
I Come From Where I've Never Been
stone ground mustard Venus burns. She's not concerned that constant falling and orbits, elliptical - are the same thing. Her eyes are deaf. My eyes adapt to the pattern that rattles the chain of events. my Spartan theories dangle in dubiousness. I find a trap, and call it Seattle... for i see cattle - grazing a state of mind; north, north west of what God meant. washing tons of pocket lint by hand. chewing their cud in the dark. meanwhile - outside the ranch... My eyes refract. ***** and un-twink in the black lacquer that came - with the oblique miracle. they sustain things that would sunder a doll-eyed bovine to ever breach The Fence. my hardened arteries jangle like numinous. I pine and snap ruinous barbs from Death's prattle... for i see battle, razing the Grace of Time more at war, than at our best. more - bereft of what Reason defends. tossing guns at bullets by telekinesis. [ undefined ] i come from where i've never been. you were there. and ewe were there; fleeced and bleating in the snow that fell as soon as shearing ceased. i recall, you were never there. but remember passing you by... shilling an ocean roar you swore you'd plucked from a Seashell - salvaged from the divine dry sockets of Poseidon's skull. you were hawking your unawares. i played a flute made of question marks and glass drum skins. i went where my stride was inclined, and never where i went to. i never arrived by approaching the destination. only by always being somewhere else till i got there. i came from where i'd never been and - ain't been Nowhere since. but i'm sure i pass through There ever since.
Continue reading...
32
At some point You stop .... caring ...Stop Tilling those thoughts in your head Refusing to let doubts seek root Razing the field Making yourself equal With reality Coming To accept The inevitable truth: It doesn’t really matter
0
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
Gardening
Mountebanks and madmen And marvelous maidens Populate and pollute politics Which joss sticks cannot chase Or alleviate the electorate In its counter clockwise swirl Down its own bathroom drain. Only morals don’t ameliorate It only exacerbates, enervates Rather than eliminates the pain. The pain is felt by franklins, Never the nobles or magnates; They go on and make play dates With other multi-billionaires In debonair pied-a-terre lofts And scoff at the peasantry While exchanging pleasantries Over gold-laced desserts Thinking nobody gets hurt If they pilfer and pillage Far off village and town Tearing down and razing, With life grazing scorched earth. To the rich, nobody has worth; Voices that implore are muted And garbage-chuted in the press. Nothing to confess, the smile; A mile of porcelainized teeth Made more intense by pretense That importance is impotence In the face of extreme wealth When stealth cease efficacy And delicacy isn’t required. The moral judge is fired. A new wife is squired In hopes a son is sired To take over the empire.
0
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
MOUNTEBANKS AND MADMEN
YOU made men to lead the race, Bequest him with pride and ace; For him you made the trees and taught him to graze, Then why O’ lord you put him to this disgrace, To raze and blaze, the haze and the nature’s face YOU made him sneak speak and smart, Bequest him with amazing skills and magnanimous art; For him you erected the forests and Oakwood’s mart, Then why O’ lord you put him with that heart, That preys and disobeys thy inimitable nature’s cart Whilst razing and blazing, preying and disobeying, He got bothered of his survival and living; For him you then again made him to earn the dollar and the sterling, To put it for the make-up and the filling But O’ my lord, he, in tranquil kept himself fooling, That he benefits thy nature with his meager darlings.
0
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 7:21 AM UTC
Suggest a title
they say home is where the heart is well my heart sits inside this war-torn body going through the motions breathe in breathe out smile suture together the gaping hole that screams from the center of my mass tugging on the ragged edges trying to fold in on myself my own ouroboros subsisting off my own flesh eating my muscles a supernova collapsing with a crushing blow that rattles my bones and reverberates through my heart. so this is home the lodging where my beaten soul and battered consciousness have wiped away the dust taken the sheets off the unused furniture and curled up with their feet tucked up underneath their body paying no attention to the leaky roof pitter patter of water droplets heavy with the chaos and ire of the outside world as they land definitively in pots and pans littered throughout my body lingering in my liver and sopping up moisture that springs traitorously into my eyes burns straight through my retinas and reminds me of my weakness. how can i be my own big bad wolf? alternating between a warm bed and hearty meals that bode a bountiful harvest suddenly replaced by howling wind and razor sharp rain drops cutting into my skin and i welcome it. i let myself be cut to ribbons until all that remains is shredded flesh clinging precariously to ivory bone hanging by a thread an elephant at the edge of a cliff tail tied to a dandelion. i relish the destruction in razing my corporeal temple to the ground reducing myself to ash and scattering to every edge of the earth until I burst forth from this atmosphere this geological prison my dermal incarceration and fly as star stuff to become a distant universe for didn’t the liquid power of the stars always run through my veins an oil fire burning higher and higher until the black acrid smoke consumed the entire world and absorbed the sun’s rays to bring about a never-ending night. close my eyes. it doesn’t matter if it’s dark outside.
0
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Ouroboros
they say home is where the heart is well my heart sits inside this war-torn body going through the motions breathe in breathe out smile suture together the gaping hole that screams from the center of my mass tugging on the ragged edges trying to fold in on myself my own ouroboros subsisting off my own flesh eating my muscles a supernova collapsing with a crushing blow that rattles my bones and reverberates through my heart. so this is home the lodging where my beaten soul and battered consciousness have wiped away the dust taken the sheets off the unused furniture and curled up with their feet tucked up underneath their body paying no attention to the leaky roof pitter patter of water droplets heavy with the chaos and ire of the outside world as they land definitively in pots and pans littered throughout my body lingering in my liver and sopping up moisture that springs traitorously into my eyes burns straight through my retinas and reminds me of my weakness. how can i be my own big bad wolf? alternating between a warm bed and hearty meals that bode a bountiful harvest suddenly replaced by howling wind and razor sharp rain drops cutting into my skin and i welcome it. i let myself be cut to ribbons until all that remains is shredded flesh clinging precariously to ivory bone hanging by a thread an elephant at the edge of a cliff tail tied to a dandelion. i relish the destruction in razing my corporeal temple to the ground reducing myself to ash and scattering to every edge of the earth until I burst forth from this atmosphere this geological prison my dermal incarceration and fly as star stuff to become a distant universe for didn’t the liquid power of the stars always run through my veins an oil fire burning higher and higher until the black acrid smoke consumed the entire world and absorbed the sun’s rays to bring about a never-ending night. close my eyes. it doesn’t matter if it’s dark outside.
Continue reading...
68
Anya sings words I would rather she have not spoken and decimates what little remained between us all. He looks to me and I pointblank-sawnoffshotgun refuse to meet sight of sapphire sky eyes now too singing along to her song. My mother always said you were two sides of the same paper and you will both slice me the same. But scissors always win; laceration's chorus croons to all. Origami smiles so carefully cultivated as I kindle our final swansong, a celebration in flames - simultaneous ignition of friends to lovers and that irrevocable rendering; razing lovers to ash.
0
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 10:57 AM UTC
Of friends and lovers.
Dragon slain, Vile creature, Pillaging our home. Family lying dead Torn to ****** shreds In the rubble of destruction. Senseless slaughter, Unreasoning winged monster, Murdering and razing. Vengeance has been mine. Hunted down, to its bower, Slain without mercy. As it has shown none, So have I. Vengeance sought and found. Exhaustion, grief, pain, Now mine, Tell me I have lived this horror. But going on? Inconceivable, Grief unreliquished. Sinking to my knees, Praying to that God, Begging final peace. No answer given. Only the quiet sound, Of one spared. Calling for help, Beneath debris, Safely sheltered. Tis my own, My child, My reason.
0
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
After the Vengeance
Worlds shaking Hearts breaking Iniquity razing our reality The castle with lonely halls desperate calls for holy hands Frustration breaks your stained glass pieces of beauty forever despised As worlds shake and hearts break forgiveness rebuilds the castle stands still
0
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
Anxious Castle
The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed Trumpeting, he ******* and triumphed… Did he, has he? Thumping his way forward, Jumping through the hoops of word and phrase, Razing those that blocked his ways, He dazed the lot. Crazed, ablaze – or not. But hot, He took a stand, But didn’t seem to understand (and may not still) That energy attracts a gangland: Thinking not that crowds could form, Become a throbbing, clobbering or bombing mob: A swarming army. Young we heard, You can’t take back the caustic word Once in the air it’s there! So rather than lie down Crowds gather, Drawing to themselves an anger, War uncivil, Civil war once more, And monies that he’s vowed to earn Will burn in costs for crowd control, police patrol. The day that Trump was voted in May not, in fact become a win - For reasons manifold and sundry. The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed 11.11.2016 Our Times, Our Culture II: Special People, Special Occasions, Arlene Corwin
0
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed
In the haze of Cerebral hemispheres Counting the seconds between Lightning and thunder Returning fire With the same manic glee As eating ice cream Right from the carton Two Minutes Hate I'm bleeding out like Notes from underground That contain secrets Of the wounded sky I feel a provoked heaviness like Manhole covers Razing cane over The shoddy infrastructure Two Minutes Hate "The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but that it was impossible to avoid joining in." - George Orwell, from the novel 'Nineteen Eighty-Four' ~
0
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 7:55 AM UTC
Two Minutes Hate
*The world alight with brilliant flames Crackling, roaring, and all-consuming Slowly, slowly burning sun-kissed earth Rusted copper and scalded vermilion Tawny ochre and golden amber A beautiful fire twisting, twirling its deathly dance The blazing inferno destroys the world Razing summertime's final last breath With the charring remains of autumn once more*
0
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC
Autumn Leaves
***Papier-mâché bliss, wrapped of wafer-thin   promises midst kisses, glued together with     yesterday's adhesive, fallen as separate pieces    of wayward glances &    capricious charades razing      death do us part illusions    in finale's flimsy tissue shrouds***
0
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
Papier-mâché Promises
And when mein kampf Is placed in shelves Art twists to fit in boxes Of a must ache (or a mustache) And a must have And a must not be Blue-eyed soldiers of fortune Encompassing poles across every direction Aryan infernos piercing the nightline Razing pillars of the stars As Abraham weeps over his children Seeing through their eyes The thorns he long thought Died along with the past
0
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 6:34 AM UTC
Hither, Wither, ******
gasping for air deep in the nitrite-laden murk grasping at what lurks in the reeds needing the darkness lightened the haze brightened and offering clarity and the rarity of an honest phrase the razing of a debt that weighs that brays its neighing and nagging reminder a tick-tock doll wanting you to wind her a quick chalk scrawl of admonition desperate incitement and sedition left breathless by your rescission by your willing dispair I'm left gasping for air
0
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
Oxygenation
~ for Rob Rutledge - @ 6:15am ~~~~~ we all are living, reading and writing, paycheck to paycheck even if by happenstance, our bellies full, for the white sheets we lay our words down and upon, our supporters of ids and egos of egg shell thin lifes are the bare emptied shelves of our unending, still ongoing pandemic pandemonium, razing times of eroding joys the sheets are blank, but our souls wearied, helmed and whelmed by the unending of the unexpected that demands, orders and commands, no matter what pour it out blasting unleashing the rage compelled, compiled, completely compulsing we selves ordered to compose giving form and firmament to our vaporous innards, releasing new oxygen from the tides inside and without, clashing ideas, irregular notions that demand we poets responsible for reconciliation and auditing for human truths we awake barren but weighty, the emotions are rustling in the now daily, common, mighty metors of gusts of higher winds, spreading fire and measles to spite, not despite our fragile failings & flailings oh goodness and grace, let that be the colors of our skin, our face, essay on, sashay with a swinging motion, yes, rhyme and rhythm and deliver us with words so soft, they shatter the gloomy desperation of what confronts our entirety, when the terrors of our sleeping dreams cannot be differentiated from the sad eyed waking ones so write, and right, these troubled times, when trolls, dragons and yet unnamed monsters seek to take away our tiny green planet, watered, seeded and plentiful fruited plains enough to satisfy us all if we are so emboldened to choose all of us over our lonely selfish selfs
0
Feb 25, 2025
Feb 25, 2025 at 6:31 AM UTC
and the readers will come like pilgrims to your holy land, wearied and yet so delightedly hopeful(1)
~ for Rob Rutledge - @ 6:15am ~~~~~ we all are living, reading and writing, paycheck to paycheck even if by happenstance, our bellies full, for the white sheets we lay our words down and upon, our supporters of ids and egos of egg shell thin lifes are the bare emptied shelves of our unending, still ongoing pandemic pandemonium, razing times of eroding joys the sheets are blank, but our souls wearied, helmed and whelmed by the unending of the unexpected that demands, orders and commands, no matter what pour it out blasting unleashing the rage compelled, compiled, completely compulsing we selves ordered to compose giving form and firmament to our vaporous innards, releasing new oxygen from the tides inside and without, clashing ideas, irregular notions that demand we poets responsible for reconciliation and auditing for human truths we awake barren but weighty, the emotions are rustling in the now daily, common, mighty metors of gusts of higher winds, spreading fire and measles to spite, not despite our fragile failings & flailings oh goodness and grace, let that be the colors of our skin, our face, essay on, sashay with a swinging motion, yes, rhyme and rhythm and deliver us with words so soft, they shatter the gloomy desperation of what confronts our entirety, when the terrors of our sleeping dreams cannot be differentiated from the sad eyed waking ones so write, and right, these troubled times, when trolls, dragons and yet unnamed monsters seek to take away our tiny green planet, watered, seeded and plentiful fruited plains enough to satisfy us all if we are so emboldened to choose all of us over our lonely selfish selfs
Continue reading...
65
On my window sill, perched is a winged being Unhappy to be sharing space with another form of life Perplexed as I am, at what my next move might be - Like it, I do not know what it is like to be bereft of being. They say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder - So I behold, and obscurity I see Chaos and rivalry makes me cringe in my space Hiding from circles – invitingly tainted. Yet beauty I had seen amidst the chaotic life Life – a symphony orchestrated at his free will Though some notes were beyond my taste I try to nod along, as if imbibing its grace. My palms capture the monsoon after the blazing summer Dark skies are torn open by the mighty thunders It mellows down, pouring in as cold welcome showers For halting hectic lives, it also makes some scream. The earthy fragrance which follows induces in me – sleep And paves its way smoothly within my tired frame – deep I see myself relax, though my silence loud-ens Embracing my soul it blocks out even seldom words that peep. My life, a duet, maybe composed by time But sung by me – and I hadn’t followed the rhymes I tweaked a few tones, I’ve upset the hymn Wrongly pitched a few notes - maybe missed a few lines! A silent sigh somehow escapes my pursed lips As the hurt which instilled it, eats into my will Though I know I had tried to face it like a man - I had never run away nor brought about any harm. I hold no account for the countless days, bygone Nor try to justify reckless moments, the past has now worn. I know I have had my razing revenges – few But I also know I have stood up for all my deeds, lewd. I have created many bonds for my kids to take along And broken a few too, for which into pillows I have sobbed I may not have lived life, the way it was meant to be – But I know I have lived it true, so now I recede!
0
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 10:51 AM UTC
Existence through Survival
On my window sill, perched is a winged being Unhappy to be sharing space with another form of life Perplexed as I am, at what my next move might be - Like it, I do not know what it is like to be bereft of being. They say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder - So I behold, and obscurity I see Chaos and rivalry makes me cringe in my space Hiding from circles – invitingly tainted. Yet beauty I had seen amidst the chaotic life Life – a symphony orchestrated at his free will Though some notes were beyond my taste I try to nod along, as if imbibing its grace. My palms capture the monsoon after the blazing summer Dark skies are torn open by the mighty thunders It mellows down, pouring in as cold welcome showers For halting hectic lives, it also makes some scream. The earthy fragrance which follows induces in me – sleep And paves its way smoothly within my tired frame – deep I see myself relax, though my silence loud-ens Embracing my soul it blocks out even seldom words that peep. My life, a duet, maybe composed by time But sung by me – and I hadn’t followed the rhymes I tweaked a few tones, I’ve upset the hymn Wrongly pitched a few notes - maybe missed a few lines! A silent sigh somehow escapes my pursed lips As the hurt which instilled it, eats into my will Though I know I had tried to face it like a man - I had never run away nor brought about any harm. I hold no account for the countless days, bygone Nor try to justify reckless moments, the past has now worn. I know I have had my razing revenges – few But I also know I have stood up for all my deeds, lewd. I have created many bonds for my kids to take along And broken a few too, for which into pillows I have sobbed I may not have lived life, the way it was meant to be – But I know I have lived it true, so now I recede!
Continue reading...
36
I invest too many hours creating scenes with words bigger than my imagination. Articulating a grand scheme of vividly painted phrases sculpting the workings of a surreal scenario. Practicing pristine implementation of descriptive speech for God-like abilities to plant emotion. Patiently calculating the steps from beginning to eternity; from birth to infinity. The deconstruction and reconstruction, razing and elevating, of rewrites cycle through an incessant reel. Connecting bits of frames with no correlation and binding their frayed edges to author an insatiable, perfectly disorganized, cinema streaming through cracks of my consciousness. Hinting at the exception; drawing my attention from the tangible existence before me.
0
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
The Birth of A Mile