"rearing" poems
Twas the night before
Hawaii islands on the radar
A monster opened the door
It shoulders a storied scar
Of the last time, it hit its mark
Rearing its ugly head, ahead of pace
As the eye looms '82 in the dark
Wrinkles on this eve sit sadly in boldface
Kauai sat once in unnatured infamy
It sunny shores hit once by the beast
Clouds of villains played in that symphony
With the next generation looking to feast
As the residence brace for the worst
Of the monster stepping on its paradise
With category four winds and cloudburst
The hope is that the monster plays nice
With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis
In place of bold headlines of strung wrath
Hawaii can pray rays of light in the coming days
Willing the monster to take a different path
Logan Robertson
8/23/2018
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC
Watching wild unicorns, dance in the snow,
Whinnying, frolicking, as happy as can be,
As I hover high above, observing all below.
Such stunning beauty, makes my heart glow,
Mythical creatures, running wild and free,
Watching wild unicorns, dance in the snow.
They are seeds of dreams, we lovingly sow,
Rearing in acknowledgement, just for me,
As I hover high above, observing all below.
They begin racing clouds, perhaps for show,
Maybe I am a dream, one only they can see,
Watching wild unicorns, dance in the snow.
Amongst trillions of stars, one must know,
Unicorns live and play, with unbridled glee,
As I hover high above, observing all below.
Through layers of cloud, drifting so slow,
To unlock sheer bliss, I now possess the key,
Watching wild unicorns, dance in the snow,
As I hover high above, observing all below.
©Paul M Chafer 2014
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
Sunflower Susan, you're a ray of kindness.
You help everyone, but your petals are wilting;
your yellow glow is fading and your stem is leaning.
Your campaign to help is now halting.
Sunflower Susan, grandmother, sister, aunt, mother,
you're falling apart now and it's hard for us all.
I feel angry. Saddened. Shocked.
Could this be history repeating itself? Cancer
rearing its ugly head to take another?
Sunflower Susan, you will keep growing.
You will keep strong, your stem never breaking.
Sunflower Susan, I have hope and faith that you
will survive. Sunflower Susan, please survive.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 7:56 PM UTC
.
*I awake in the night and whisper your name,
is it just a dream when only silence replies?
a melancholy descends like a blanket of shame
at the arousal of remembering your Siren's eyes.
Such sleep as I had not enjoyed in long ages
disturbed by the intrusion of an old lovers face,
rearing up to unbalance the serenity pages,
your name passes my lips with yearning grace.
Unsettled by your surprise and quiet arrival
I lay back, anxiously sigh to the waiting void,
uneasy closing my eyes, craving dream survival
but the illusion of rest has now been destroyed.
I sleep in the night and whisper your name,
is it a dream as the silent in mute rejoice?
A sadness drops slow like a blanket of shame,
at the distance of remembering your Siren's voice.*
© Pagan Paul (21/10/18)
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
She raised me to be God fearing
And taught me right from wrong
Where have our lives gone wrong
After all the tender rearing
Now she needs my fatherly care
To cook for her and pay the bills
My giving is plain with no frills
It's hard for me to truly be there
She prays to her God in Heaven above
I work quietly with nothing to say
Unsure if she loves me to this day
She failed to teach me to say one word, "love"
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
Check:
Let O = Orifice
Let D = What ever your imagination brings you to
The Limit as D approaches O
you see her face start to glow
The log of the base
is a way to find the D in her face
No function can go on an asymptotes
But i will **** in her and cover her *** in ***** layered coats
The polar coordinates of your O
Is Tangent to where she is ******* my big toe
Because you will find me in her
The quadratic has multiple integers
The function calls to vertically stretch O
So at the end of the day I Dont Really Know
This is a metaphor for really weird ***
Thanks.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
The small blue Arab stallion dances on the hill
like a glancing breaker, like a storm rearing in the sky,
In his prick-ears,the wind, that wanderer and spy,
sings of the dunes of Arabia, lion-coloured still.
The small blue stallion poses like a centaur-god,
netting the sun in his sea-spray mane, forgetting
his stalwart mares for a phantom galloping unshod;
changing for a heat-mirage his tall and velvet hill.
3.6k
Blessed with matchlessly magical Parents,
Their supremely good, serenely happy raising,
design our thought processes.
Their loving, comforting storytelling skills,
leave indelible footprints and heartprints.
Thankyou God for this Benedictory Love!!!
Blessed with a bombastic Brother,
self-styled natural, perennial itinerant,
Sentinel of sisters life-long.
Sentiments flow unabatedly,
for our illustrious, boisterous beloved younger.
Thankyou God for this Blissful Love!!!
Blessed with delicate darling Sister,
who wears expressions benignant perpetually.
Wiitty, gritty, easy-going habitually.
Evident protected favourite of all surely.
Fondest moments born in her queenly company.
Thankyou God for this Harmonious Love!!!
Blessed with solicitous Husband,
His silent romanticism, macho protective ways,
smoothen tumultuous paths.
Terribly correct and sober better half,
Brokers peace, plots life's happiness graph.
Thankyou God for this Angelic Love!!!
Blessed with an endearing Child,
Whose arrival, auspicious, momentous and miraculous, Rearing the divine and sublime born,
definitely, a definition for the guardians.
Our child, our panacea, promise of better tomorrows.
Thankyou God for this Supreme Love!!!
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 2:06 AM UTC
Aspirations ,prayers,wishes and more,
When it is right ,it's definitely right!
The universe conspires to create miracles and one such miracle is you !
The smell of a familiar me ,connected with cords ,cut but uncut long after they are only to hold you in my arms now connected through heartbeats and love growing strong.
The tiny , soft fingers bound around tightly ,
The twinkle seen through half closed eyes.
Tender skin as soft as snow , whats
there to ask for more ?
A bundle of joy and happiness came fore !
So they say when the time is right , it of course is !
In my hearts core I knew long before,
God choose to give me the best .
Thee! extraordinary from the rest .
A tessellation of wishes came to surface in a matter of time and test .
Your addition to my life brought in a sense of peace ,pride and profoundness.
Rearing to take on the world gearing to accept responsibility.
Surviving every obstacle , a Lioness closely guards and protects her cub , to see him grow into thee "King of the Jungle "
©Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 8:13 AM UTC
Who is amused?
there's primordial ivy clinging on my brickwork
and an incident of blank verse at my poetry club,
possible unemployment rearing its head for moi.
Before my downsizing commences,
I've been busy buying more CD's
but that's my contre jour
befittingly everybody else is into iTunes,
I can only listen to myself,
even if music be the devils tune
I'll soon be home for more,
burning fossil fuels willingly
of Mesohippus's and other three toes.
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
Rhyme, the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits
True conceit,
Spoiling senses of their treasure,
Cozening judgment with a measure,
But false weight;
Wresting words from their true calling,
Propping verse for fear of falling
To the ground;
Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,
Fast'ning vowels as with fetters
They were bound!
Soon as lazy thou wert known,
All good poetry hence was flown,
And art banish'd.
For a thousand years together
All Parnassus' green did wither,
And wit vanish'd.
Pegasus did fly away,
At the wells no Muse did stay,
But bewail'd
So to see the fountain dry,
And Apollo's music die,
All light failed!
Starveling rhymes did fill the stage;
Not a poet in an age
Worth crowning;
Not a work deserving bays,
Not a line deserving praise,
Pallas frowning;
Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
Happy Greek by this protection
Was not spoiled.
Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.
Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish
To restore
Phœbus to his crown again,
And the Muses to their brain,
As before.
****** languages that want
Words and sweetness, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyrant rhyme hath so abused,
That they long since have refused
Other cæsure.
He that first invented thee,
May his joints tormented be,
Cramp'd forever.
Still may syllabes jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
Resting never.
May his sense when it would meet
The cold tumor in his feet,
Grow unsounder;
And his title be long fool,
That in rearing such a school
Was the founder.
3k
i kind of just wish
that i could be alive somewhere else
in another time zone
i dunno why the tears come to my eyes
or why i have to fake it day after day
to win some sort of
fake prize
that fails to materialize
doesn't even bring me to where i need to be
it's my demise
i grasp
and cannot feel
cannot understand
what it is
that it is real
i just want to feel like i used to feel
when i was a kid
and happiness was real
content
knowing
that i'd go to heaven
and i have nothing to worry about
now
all i have
are my dreams and aspirations
friends and family
keep me healthy
active
alive
but without them
i don't think i'd keep plugging in
don't think i'd like to keep living
i'd want to have some other sort of special feeling
i feel like depression is back
rearing its head
in my face
i'm on the couch
it's dark
but through the window
things are looking out
looking in
showing me
that i'm hallucinating
and contemplating
about killing myself
i'll never do it
but i just want to live
i just to overcome
i want to be successful
this is the hardest struggle i've ever been
in
i want peace
but every time i get it
it goes away
i don't want to feel this way
cigarette after cigarette
looking off in the distance
my mind blown
smoke so much ****
to ease the pain
but it just goes away
it fukin goes away
:(
:(
and **** everybody else
who didn't want to hang out with me
my friends left me
and i become
so sad
depression
is something i've had my whole life
i just now realized this
tonight
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 4:26 AM UTC
*the losers,
report me to
the bad poets society,
bad student loans , bad poems
bad boys and girls society
taste, head rearing, daring
elegance, shocking awe,
fk that looks it like be a poeming **** forming,
ah, the teenie weenies millies become white walking whiners
write a poem about the sky,
**never using the word blue black
or grey**
Then, use it to
tell me why the
Paris dead
matter
the most remarkable feature
of the sky is its endlessness,
no matter what the colour of the day be,
for what else can you point to
beside the sea,
that simply visible
has no boundaries?
I will tell you.
see my grieving rage
boundaryless,
for the Paris dead,
and there is no colour,
just one dead blanched black rose
placed upon my chest,
soiling my face,
a visible reminder that
forgetting is
endless, colourless,
rage and revenge
too*
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
the carousel played
in the carnival park
bright music to lure
tinkling lights in the dark
spirited ponies, animals quaint
all snorting and rearing
colored with paint
the spinning floor stops
for us to get on
we choose our mounts
it starts with a song
up and down go the horses
the calliope sings
as we go 'round we reach out for the rings
sometimes we miss them
they go on by
but there's always a chance
for the second try
the turning seasons
so very like life
you get your good job
your husband or wife
your car and your boat
your kids and their stuff
you go 'round and 'round
but you can't get enough!
then all of a sudden
death cuts like a knife
and you discover you've wasted your life
the scenery, the colors
just a smear. just a blurr
the music passed by
your heart was not stirred!
you didn't smell seabreeze
feel the wind in your face
you didn't seek God
missed out on His
GRACE
LIFE IS THE JOURNEY
but you forgot
you passed up the beauty
without a thought
LIFE ISN'T ALL GOLD
it don't mean a thing
so reach for the
Rose
as well as the
RING
reach out for
GOD
He's important as well
when you take your ride
on the bright
CAROUSEL
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/15/2015
c
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
Selfless love
pours out like a waterfall
from her loving and caring heart
nurturing all who would drink from it.
Courage seeps from every inch of her muscle
protecting and guarding
For she is our guardian angel.
Her heart beats at a different frequency
But resonates with each one of ours
Embracing and harmonizing
creating a beautiful symphony.
Like a sunshine
she refuses to eclipse
radiating positivity and happiness
To the deepest, darkest of corners.
Encouraging, rearing and believing
pushing and advising
she gave and gave
planting flowers in our gardens
helping us bloom
and bringing the best versions of ourselves forth.
Unconditional and pure is her love
Patient is her soul
She is our mother
And a very happy birthday to her!
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC
that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
Thomas, Tommy baby,
you are both hot,
and sweet.
Tom Cat you’re red hot--
when I catch you in your Tom Cat Strut,
sauntering across campus,
strolling like it ain’t no thing,
cuz it don’t meant a thing
if it ain’t got that swing baby.
So dig this, Tommy Gun,
you groove with the best of ‘em
when I spot you strollin’—
Your head, teetering left and right like a seesaw, boppin’ baby,
arms hangin’ loosely, swinging freely, wildly, go! go!
legs scooping forward in boisterous trombone slides--
Groooooove Tommy baby!
You’re Louis’s best blows--
ten feet from the mic and the Fives baby,
you’re hot, red hot,
any closer and I'll burn up!
Go!
But you’re cool, real cool,
and oh so sweet.
Super sweet--
in your beard like a pepper and salt shaker tossed across the table,
I look to see those rosy lips part,
and peep those pearly whites shinin' like the bell of Louis’s cornet
brandished in the air, under those ballroom lights--
you’re screamin’ Tommy!
Let me hear that laugh that shakes the room,
punches like Blakey’s bass drum,
thumps like Mingus--
T-Bird you’ve got that hard bop in your soul,
you’re gonna bop to the top TB,
into the third heaven where the angels fall in line to your swing,
that incessant strut that keeps the devil at bay,
Blow! Blow! Blow!
And I see you now Tom Cat,
up there in the clouds,
digging your way across eternity,
bopping and jiving, swinging and blowing,
in your faded khaki pants and worn tennis shoes,
loosely buttoned collared shirt,
tight rectangular glasses that glistened the bell of your eyes even more--
I gotta stand twenty feet away Tommy baby!
You glance down at me and wink,
rearing your head back to let loose that Mingus and Blakey
bottom-end laugh,
guffaw guffaw guffaw!!!
--so hearty and rich,
the backbone of every nervous first-year classroom,
and the sniggering seniors you continued to befuddle and dazzle
with your mysterious ways
and insatiable swing.
So blow, Tommy Gun, blow!
Go Tom Cat go!
Dig T-Bird dig!
Let loose Tommy boy!
Swing for us, swing swing swing--
Hot and Sweet, Tommy baby,
hot and sweet.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
with what sense does
this sea of read
pirouette on?
the soot leaving black
blotches on the ****** sheets,
lampposts do not complain
of sudden twitches
as cacophonously, a line
of machines with their ravenous
machinisms create a seam of
crimson to a slender
rose's architecture.
i leave my engine on
so as to hand this road
my readiness,
Ely Buendia on the tattered radio
leaks outside the ajar windows,
chasing the dream of rearing
movements
as my flesh remains dreamless,
stationary.
there is a sequined gathering here.
erratic simulations of
naked eyes pierce the musk
of the austere air's gravity
of existence.
all of us
occupying space
and our attendance is our
sigh of dismay as our homes
decompose in waiting,
as our beds remind us
of our body's aging clamor,
as our ineluctable senescence
opens the dungeons of our frailties
with its trembling, wrinkled hands.
we are our waiting's consummation
as we are left here,
wary of our precise proprioception,
left in
the tongue-tied dark.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
There was a time when the glass slipper graced my delicate la petite foot
that you guessed we had a similar future but discreetly
you mocked me
We should have been married in time and gently rearing gently bred children
but the lure of longevity, put you away from me, so many years
ahead of us
Guess what I put in the teapot of our delicately brewing tempest?
Coffee
Yes, coffee, that insidious brew that you refuse to drink with me
as we sit watching the sun gain it's zenith, waiting for it to become
an apex in the sky
And when it leaves its blood spread across acres of blue
I scream WHY~
Until we sink into the darkness of the night and black
becomes white
and the stars are just aneurisms exploding
behind eyes that are blind
I find
Excuses and non de plumes
another name for the noxious fumes
that you continually spew at me
Freedom, Anonymity
all which are acceptable to you
but not me
saying goodbye should be easy
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 6:48 AM UTC
Following dark roads all night
looking for bright lights
to spark excitement and wonder where life went
the further we break from the burden of the world
the thinner the barrier between us and the heavens
I can almost reach out and touch them
while were on these hilltops
dancing like demons and devils
letting the magic dipped paper slip split
my mortal mind from my immortal soul
as the past slithers through the crowd like a snake
lurking in the grass only rearing its head to boast its own self loathing
but being so lost in the bass and the movement
makes me not even close to human
makes me more immune then
a deaf man trying to tune in or an ignorant man assumin'
and just as me and her return from our voyage
mother earth greets us
with the most beautiful sight
these one time eyes have ever seen so pristine
like a dream as a cloud drops to kiss the crisp hilltop
once again everything stops
and I thought
even witnessing the rot that she got
from scraping the bottom of the barrel
and lapping up the sin couldn't dampen the thin grin on my chin
so smile back baby
because not even all the cumpsters, so called friends or Christopher Walken himself
can stop us.
Sep 17, 2011
Sep 17, 2011 at 9:35 PM UTC
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
available for the world to break once again.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Pushed into the deep
Thrown to wolves rearing teeth
Swim or fight, sink or flee
Growth wont wait until we're ready
The right time is sometimes the wrong time
We may encounter what we're not yet wise enough to understand
that is exactly what will show us how
You'll need to get lost to find your way
Order is unattainable without chaos
You dont know now but you will
More has to happen before it becomes clear
The view from the bottom of the mountain is very different from the peak
Look back at where you were, how far you came, and you might see
Life has a way of giving us exactly what we need.
Aug 16, 2025
Aug 16, 2025 at 12:34 AM UTC
The Devil is alive
I hear its suffering
Burnt out eyes and vacant lies
Which whisper in my ear
He snakes a hand across the chest
And lies on glowing embers
To writhe like centipedes in Nyx’s hair
He walks into the kitchen at half-past five
And takes my honey jars
With scabbed hands and bleeding tongue
He licks the sides and cap
Transforms into my wildest dreams
And rearing back at ecclesial verse
Lies with me while I nap
When the bodies are buried he returns home
In the sewer marked with rotting pheasant
Three feet in, light fades and dies
But shrieks of anguish always faint
He bids goodbye and leaves me here
To stand in purest morning cold
Still holding crucifix to die a saint
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 7:01 PM UTC
When I Traversed The Spirit World I Attempted To Wake The Dead.
The Dead Only Slept So On I Did Move, Moving Through The Spirit World.
When I Traversed The Spirit World I Tried To Play With The Fae.
But The Fae Only Dine On Fruit & Red Wine, They Tried To Circle Me To Dance For All Time, But The Dead All Stayed Dead So On I Did Move, Moving Through The Spirit World.
When I Traversed The Spirit World I Was Spotted By It's Demons.
They Hung In Packs, Slobbering For Snacks, Rearing Up To Attack,
But The Fae Fought Them Back, Im Not Their Kin But They Don't Relax.
On I Can Move With The Fae On My Tracks.
When I Traversed The Spirit World I Saw A Sight, A Giant Tall, Sat On Mountains Watching All. I Ask The Giant Where I Am, Death He Said Its Where I Began, To Wake The Dead & Free Those Scammed,
Like Myself Be Released From The ******
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 3:29 AM UTC