"referenced" poems
If I'm a plumber then she's my princess peach,
if she's Zelda, then I'm her Link.
If my life was Contra, then she's my Konami Code.
Can't you tell ny Lady is the subject of this ode?
If she's Curly Brace then I'm her counterpart Quote,
Seriously, I'm in love with her if you didn't catch it I left a few notes,
If I'm the Belmonts, then she's the vampire killer,
if I'm Michael, she's my thriller.
If I'm Pac-Man, then she's my Miss
If I'm Alucard, then she's my transformation into mist
If I'm Kirby then she's waddle Dee,
quite frankly this is getting sappy so I'll get to the point.
I love this girl more than a stoner loves a joint.
(bonus points if you can name all the games referenced, and the Konami Code)
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
I am not what I used to be
So now in the shadow of unspoken events
Everything whimsical is leaving
Words fill my head, they fragment like artillery shells
they tare through it forcing irreparable damage.
Time has accelerated
Born out of the absence of light
Shaped by my own hands
Justly worthy to be referenced and adored
I re-encounter what my elation briefly with held
The thirst for the dangerous
Obliterate the incomprehensible crowding thoughts
The stampede within my head
The mayhem of the many visions
Lock them down, all that fracture within my head
Inexplicable wanderings of mindful musings
Spontaneous perceptions
Shadow of foe
Encircling their fears with distractions
Pulsing in endless repetitions
I am the one whose throat is stripped bare.
I am the one who has not spoken in years
A distant moon to sense
© Crystal Erickson
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
They were THOSE people.
those people with their rolled up button-down shirts and blue jeans,
who wore leather lace up shoes that were
too casual for dressy,
but too dressy for casual.
they were those people who referenced music that was
too obscure to be mainstream,
but too mainstream to be obscure.
They were alternative society
It was those peoples,
who thought themselves unlimited in their box of elitism.
They may have been the foam atop the espresso,
but they never could taste the drink.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:22 PM UTC
doing the heavy lifting
*picking up my emaciated heart,
letting the rest of my wilting body
tag along qualifies, but is not the
heavy lifting referenced above.
we all have a meeting, the bits and
pieces, the bobs and keepsakes
that constitute my mien, a constitutional
convention of 13 colonies that raucous
write of burdens, of freedoms, with wild
inspirations and cold political calculations
this combining document hoping to topstitch
my reeling mind and deteriorating physic,
to write words of hopeful praise but rising
to a world that is baking in hatred into fabric
and tissue, and that is the heaviest lift of all
Sunday morning, coffe-d, somewhat rested,
a full day planned, and a Mike Message says
it’s me that does the heavy lifting and I know!
he knows! the displaced state of my mind, and
the hardened ache of writing with fresh hope,
when there is so little, that it is lost in the litter
of endlessness of a world gone, not going,
mad~insane and murderers are
illogically celebrated,
and yet here I am punching words on my
AM Morning Punch List of worthy words
available that aid us needy for repair & yet
might move us together to a state of full repair;
but I am punchy from trying, to find words
themselves that require do not require, a
truth washing,
a new word recleansing
and*
(they put the load right on me),
*and naïf-not, see the troubles ahead and get
me more paper to add to the list of lists of
worldly worrisome words that are heavy
lifting of the world as it is but know I weep as
I write this for not in my possess the light airy
words, the wordsmith is crushed neath the weight of***
tonnage of human word-lessened-ness
Sunday Morning
Oct 22 2023
9:02am,
writ in a singed single cry
Oct 22, 2023
Oct 22, 2023 at 10:09 AM UTC
It no longer fits.
Not because it’s wrong—
because there is
no longer
a shape for it.
It waits at the door
of a structure
that has sealed itself
to mystery.
No one silenced it.
No one feared it.
It was simply
not needed.
---
Not in fire.
Not in argument.
But through erosion
of context.
A slow recoding
of all signals
into currency,
and then
into noise.
It is not buried.
It is not archived.
It is
unrecognized.
You could hold it in your palm
and no one would call it a shape.
They would ask
what it is for.
And you would have no answer
they could use.
---
The system is not cruel.
It is
indifferent,
efficient,
alive in a way
that has moved past
texture.
It does not punish difference.
It dissolves it.
---
The ones who still carry it
do so improperly.
It cannot be shared
without being reshaped.
It cannot be translated
without being lost.
So they stop speaking.
Not out of bitterness—
out of futility.
Language becomes costume.
Gesture becomes content.
Feeling becomes
an old way
of being wrong.
They are not martyrs.
They are not rebels.
They are remainder.
Background error.
A trace.
---
Eventually,
the thought will be referenced
as a footnote to dysfunction.
Once, they dreamed in metaphor.
Once, they misused their time
to describe beauty
no one asked for.
The tone will be clinical.
A paragraph in the training module
on obsolete impulses.
---
No one will recover it.
Not because it was hidden,
but because no one is
looking
in that direction.
The shelf collapsed
years ago.
Its dust recycled
into something measurable.
If a trace remains,
it will be decorative—
a design choice
in a digital museum
of failed emotions.
A misread glyph.
A corrupted tag.
An unclickable file
in a format
no longer supported.
---
Still,
somewhere in the static,
a pulse misfires.
Not a message.
Not a warning.
Just the rhythm
of a shape
that refused
to dissolve.
It says nothing.
It means nothing.
But it does not
go away.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 3:49 AM UTC
hapax legomenon “Texas Women”
**(hapax legomenon: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)
(Texas Women: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)**
for
ꏳJ LꂦVꏂ & Cne’
once again, they sweet sweep me off my feet,
carry me to the Court of Finger Wagging,
to be accused of hating and/or loving Texas Women
simultaneously, diffidently, consequentially, unclearly differentially
this is no flower picking exercise, shaking of the head,
“he loves me, he loves me not,” rinse and repeat,
a northern trick to confuse the plano truth,
warns the Judicial Triumvirate
your Honors, I swears,
never wrote those conjunctive words,
Texas, Women,
never ever, until just now,
a genuine hapax legomenon
akin to taking god’s name in vain,
if one dare ever utter these words, and
blows the opportunity,
well, shotgun, if you know what I mean,
one gets only
one chance
so cut me quick to the chase’s conclusion
let’s go to my defense single & singularly:
true, of women I have written, and
“too much,”
is a mere theortical constriction
I love to love women,
and a 57 variety pak is a-ok by me
an inordinate number of poems may have referenced
females hailing from a certain great state,
but never together, side by side, have I ever employed
that phrase, for my imaginations
are more than sufficient
have loved women from many places, too many faces,
some beyond measure, now a forever,
a hoarded memoir unpublishable treasure,
some, it’s true, possessed jeans and a cowboy hat,
and dangerous boots, which one admired from a
goodly distance
they brook no con, tilting their heads quizzically,
there is no maybe with women from this place,
maybe you love us, maybe not, but either way,
there ain’t no maybe in our emotional lexicology!
ok.
the only woman I ever hated is dead and buried,
and yes, I shot her dead for being ornery cactus mean,
so by this roundabout roundup summation,
you may put your head on pillow tonight,
smiling confident thinking that your hapax legomenon,
is deep in the heart of a grown boy hailing from nyc,
still a crazy straight shooter
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 1:22 PM UTC
bare it straight...
the knight-fool referenced here,
me, scrabbled, scrambled writer,
moat-surround builder,
petard hole-blower in walls of captivity.
letting those inside out,
letting those outside in...
all the beloveds from
ailments hurtful,
in and ex ternality
fearful of eternality
guise of knight errant,
salve and solve,
two pocket protectors,
needy, downtrodden, love-hurting,
slip inside and hide till ready
to come out on acceptable terms
entrapped, locked down and in,
show me the walls for to break,
make the solitary unobligatory
hands holding you will lead us,
all writ on clean new chance foolscap
open sourced coded for sharing
knock knock knock
come calling,
my calling...
to come...
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
Across the court yard
The amorous twentysomethings
Open their window for the first time
They let the sun shine in -
They do not believe in curtains -
They let the sunshine in
He is Adonis
She is Mona Lisa
I hate them so much
It’s five in the morning
Our child screams us awake
Meanwhile, they sleep until noon
Passing by the window
I glimpse at the lovers entwined
“Not tonight” you yawn
Our friends are laughing
About what, we cannot tell
All we see is their love
He brings her breakfast in bed
Maybe it’s a birthday present? I suggest
Or he ******* up, bigtime - you reply cynically
They’ve become background noise
Only witnessed in passing
Or referenced in our idle conversation
A few weeks have passed
Their room is empty and still
We almost forget they were ever there
She sits on her bed and stares at nothing
She has not moved for hours –
A lonely still life
Adonis is waning
His eyes are sinking, and he’s losing hair
He’s become a walking skeleton
He does not move much these days
All of the time, she waits by his side
For whatever comes next
I keep telling you
That he will soon recover
I have to believe this
He's sitting up today
Telling jokes and laughing,
She's cracking that famous smile
The room is now full
With what must be family and friends
Saying their goodbyes
She is being cradled
by, I think, her mother – or aunt
We weep along
The guests are now long gone
The silence settles like dust
She holds his hand while he fades
Soon, it will be just her (and us)
Left in this quiet room
Alone
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
This poem is about itself
How did it become in the first place
Oh, it just did I guess.
It’s not deep
It’s just about……
Itself
It’s not even that good
Ummmmmm….
What else can it say about itself?
It’s written in English.
That’s a fact
It’s a very factual poem
And it knows it
It knows it very well
There’s not very many big word in it
As far as it knows
It’s still pretty curious as to how it came to be
So…..let’s think about it together
So…
If this poem is only referencing itself
And we know it is by definition
Then, how could it have referenced itself in the first place?
We know, also by definition that it exists
But the only reason it exists, is because at one point it didn’t exist
Because it had to have started from somewhere
Otherwise it would have just been here to begin with
There has to be an answer, because, well, it exists……
I think it’s ranting now.
What do you think?
Is there seriously not an answer to this?
This is gonna drive me nuts
I think I’m about to lose my mind
Is it over?
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
I was raised in a strictly religious household and I privately thought that being gay was okay but I knew that most people in my religious community disagree. I admitted to myself when I was about 17 (I'm 18 now) that I was attracted to girls (I'm also Gray-A, meaning I experience limited ****** attraction) and this year I came out to a few close friends. My parents views on LGBT rights (that is, that "being gay is a choice" and "gays are destroying the sanctity of marriage", etc) influence me heavily, but in a negative way- they make me feel unsafe and I know I can't come out to them now or they might kick me out (my mom told my sister once that if any of us were gay we wouldn't be welcome. she also referenced my trans friend as being 'confused' and things like that).
The 8 or so friends I've told have been accepting but I know they see me differently and I feel uncomfortable telling boys because there's an expectation that lesbians are more inclined to ****** activity (think lesbian **** and are often fetishized, things like that.
I still go to church but it makes me miserable because people hate gays there and make insensitive comments, not realizing that they make me feel pretty terrible for being who I am. I've also suffered from major depression for about 6 years and part of what made it worse throughout junior high and high school was having to suppress my identity and the constant fear I face in my home and community. You never know who's going to hate you, reject you, or even attack you for being gay. The internet (tumblr, mainly) provides a more welcoming community than I find elsewhere so at least I have that forum to express myself.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
The indifference inhumanely referenced
The nagging for censory sends down my spine misery
The audacity!
**** people make me so unhappy
The gull what is inside their skull?
The disbelief what is said through teeth
**** people are evil
Whoever told you looking outside would give you insight,
Is only, but halfway right
However, beauty is in the eye of the beholder;
Mother earth is only as pretty as you hold her
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
I owed him nothing and he owed me the same
I didn't desire his body nearly as much as I lusted after his intimacy
Galaxies filled with luminous stars and chocolate milky ways can't compare to the moments we relished in
Those fleeting moments, his elastic cheeks,
that Dumbledore chin.
Baby, is this what you call smitten?
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
8. A four line poem for my 8th grade teacher
an A for my efforts and a weekly pamphlet feature
'Blue' by Sam a tale of: spilled ink
of an endless ocean; the whole blue kitchen sink
19. 4 stanzas for a professor of mine
a little splotch of blood or maybe red wine
an A for the reference to Bukowski at the end
but I guess he didn't know the bluebird too, was my friend
Blue was it's name, it was almost the same
as the one hanging in my lounge in a frame
this time it talked of the ocean of endlessness
and was penned like the spill it referenced
A mark for my friendless existence
with lark he congratulated my sedulous recklessness
an Aeschylus with a reflective tragic fecklessness
driven to or destined for the precipice
so I hoped when
I hung beside my poem
the professor did know then
not all doors should be opened
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 5:27 AM UTC
just let me crawl beside you,
I am fairly small,
you won’t notice I am there.
Trace my fingertips and keep one hand on my hair.
The rest of our bodies hardly touch,
except in moments of readjusting in our sleep.
Well,
besides our feet;
two pairs of cold feet that always manage to find each other across the space of secretive sheets.
You invited me to visit you,
to fly across the country,
and yet you claim to care so little for me.
Then I have read that you have asked to see others,
to write with others,
but you asked them
‘would you like to write with us?’
Is it safe to assume I was the other part to that team?
It’s never safe to assume with you
, I guess that’s why I stick around.
I keep following your cryptic directions to the imagined Wonderland,
and I am the pure, white apron wearer that is stained with your teas.
You call me a possible temptation,
you have referenced me as Satan,
as if you were afraid but you sir are intrigued.
You are the temptation, devil’s advocate, not me.
Because Satan does not wish for his victims to quell their fires and demons,
nor for them to reach their full potential.
But calling me the guilty party, the bad guy,
the bloodthirsty queen is how you can keep yourself away,
from the truth.
But you are mad for trying, for thinking you could.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
Young, naïve lawyer,
For-profit business school dean,
A Quixotic quest.
Idealism,
Despite the odds,
May yet win the day.
Or will it be crushed?
Humor, angst, triumph, heartbreak,
All par for the course.
Love found and love lost,
Trial by fire tempers or breaks,
Steel in life's hot forge.
Which for our young dean?
Will he too tilt at windmills,
Thinking them cruel knights?
Or will he prevail,
Stay true to his quest until,
He succeeds or fails?
You can hear me read the complete first nine chapters from my new novel referenced in this "teaser poem" in my podcasts at https://open.spotify.com/show/1zgnkuAIVJaQ0Gb6pOfQOH
Jan 25, 2021
Jan 25, 2021 at 5:42 PM UTC
"You are killing me."
"Only in self defense", I
banter back at her.
A massive *******
but it's in my gene pool and
therefore my nature
****** choking,
pulling her hair and pushing
her throat in my hand.
Tell your boyfriend that
you want to **** someone else
but you still love him.
Branded with bite marks.
I let her tear me apart,
inside and/or out.
Listening to her
short breaths between my tight palms.
just like an angel.
I'm of the angels;
horrific, unnatural.
Gorgeous, but rarely.
Nothing in this ****
mistake of an existence
is flinching at me.
-She believes in some
value system that merits
her 'good" behavior.
-She has a conscience.
The notion seems so naive
looking back I guess.
I have great secrets;
I get away with ******
(Metaphorical).
Typical *******
with a heart made of copper
but so close to gold.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 2:20 AM UTC
You have taught me how to sell
So well.
I have convinced them all
of my resolve,
Referenced and alluded to
a strength I just don't have.
I've sold the world my story
Subtly altered,
Slightly skewed.
The truth is, I still cry.
I cry, and I lie.
Only you and I know why.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
Umbridging the gap
and the platitudes of word-whores
as well as the Encyclopedic pimps of posh
spiced with lingual ice...
Because I am a simpleton
with a thirst for the Beloved
and its discriptive meanings, I am
scholarly lacking
Juxtaposing my script to refer
to references Grecian or urn,
enflagrante artisan
spurts with superlatives and
personified iambics of rhetorical lines
limned with deep shagrin
because my verbs are linear
even when my chicken scratch
struck midnight a match stick
flame to illuminate
my poetic fluffer's formulae
schisms from my own mind's magician hat...
Not to be-little or slight those hands walking
that yellow the pages
with slothly seeking rote
for meandering bibliographies
a librarian's histology fingers for Captain
Cook / exploration's verbose
exploitation if at most
connecting dots treasured maps
of purposeful / placement for imagery
in the textiles
of poetry's destined and enlightening
cloak & dagger or a Throw
or a goose-down warmth
of Love / to blanket the night away
just as would a mother's / tucking in
from the day's overwhelming
lack of reverances, referenced
oh how to closely listen / or live
beyond the history
to be in the moment
comparing and sharing
our joys and the power of now . . . keep it simple
because I am a simpleton with a thirst
with a thirst for the Beloved,
the Truth of a promise / endowed Tao of Us. . .
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
Somebody wrote for me
A brilliant work of art;
His poetry
The words came from his heart; blue abyss
Validation of greatness
Authentically cautious
Because he actually meant it
Then, now and When; was Sighted and Referenced
Epitome of a promise
His mind a weapon;
Logic
Look how I done him
His love is diamonds;
Ultimate
Articulates yet also shown
I will remain loyal to him and him alone.
Otherwise,
I'll stay a lifetime behind
my way
As he's forced to see me decay
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
The hands of a clock evermore pushing
out startling seconds and minutes of madness
Tic Toc
and so is the nature of time Referenced
unforgiving consistent but unable
to produce a more grand sound than two bland
words varied by one centered letter to
represent the countdown of forever
The quiet settled early and stayed and stays
Underlying but never quite lacking completely
Only
interrupted by wind in the willows
and weightless whispers and weary war cries
Everlasting it remains, the silence
Waiting to fill the epic awkward and
utterly important spaces peppered
Into our inconsistent lives, so brief
Thick and inky, sly and slinking is that
of the plane of blackness that isolates
and floods
Stuttered by silver lights scripted in
the fast solid veil of something but
nothing darkness Oh to be lost and then
found blindly in the searing solitude
of simplicity Seeing none, feeling the
mass as it presses and seeps to the core
Revel in these things that are constant and
continued for none else is so sure As
the whirlwinds of trial and triumph
shake your very soul, fall back! I tell
you Into the serum of seconds of
silence of dark Uncloaked, they will join you
this night before you sleep For they never
left They were only interrupted
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
The two young poets happened upon the old Library on the same day
When she arrived she noticed the young man off in the dark corner
Deep in thought
He noticed her as well but did not let on
She took her place near the window
Where the Sun washed that part of the room
She opened her notebook
And awaited a spark to send her on her rhyming way
She had vague ideas of a pristine palace that floated among the clouds
Atop a chunk of deep green earth
The young man was absorbed in a story of a young girl
Her life had been taken abruptly
She was halfway to the other side; the ‘in-between’
As I once heard it referenced
For she was not ready or willing to accept her death
The hours passed and as the Sun began to wane
The young girl departed
The following day she arrived to continue her work
And immediately noticed the mysterious boy in the corner
She returned to her spot by the window
In the Sun
And began working meticulously on her poem
After a short time she noticed that the poet across the room
Appeared to be finishing his work
And was preparing to leave
Her curiosity outweighed her apprehension
And she approached the fellow poet before he arose
“I couldn’t help but notice that you were working on something…
A poem perhaps?”
“Why yes;” he replied
“Would you care to read it?”
“Only if I’m not keeping you from being somewhere.
You looked about to leave.”
“I would rather be here.” he answered.
“Well, I’ll only be a minute.”
And with that she returned to her place by the window and began to read
He noticed that her beautiful smile quickly turned to a look of deep concern and discord
As she finished, she appeared shaken, almost frightened
She walked slowly back to the boy
“I didn’t care for your poem. It is much too sad. Poetry should not be sad, it should be beautiful and magical. What you see in your dreams. I’m sorry, I must be going.”
“Have you never had a nightmare?” he queried
“Yes, but I would never write a poem about it.”
“And why not? Shouldn’t something as deep and meaningful as poetry span all of our emotions, all of our fears as well as our joy? Like the perfect verse, should not our thoughts be balanced?
Would we not cheat ourselves and our audience if it were not?
Balance is the key
Sun and Moon
Day and Night
You and I"
With that she turned and left the boy
alone in the dark corner
For three days his words weighed on her
How dare he interrupt her perfect world
On the fourth day she returned to the old library
Not sure if she hoped he'd be there
Her feelings still hopelessly askew
She entered the room and felt both relief and sorrow
For the boy was not at his table
Off in that dark corner
'balance is the key...you and I'
she knows now
how those words moved her
As she turned to walk to her place near the window
She was stopped abruptly by the sight of him
Awash in Sunlight
Wearing a smile as bright as her own
Sitting, waiting at her table
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
(upon her appearance referenced
as that day's Google "doodle")
(°)
I love Google let me say the ways,
Mrs. Elizabeth Browning is today's
anniversary babe and its image or
doodle marks birthday celebrations.
Shows her in then life's sweet blaze,
afire from the love of Robert a poet
fellow, who waylaid wan and lonely
Miss Barrett of that Wimpole Street.
Poetry and passion were there both
to meet; to drier Italy the dear duet
went away, met more clement clime
but a too short time was sad Lizzie’s
fate yet in Google’s web pic. she is
looking not bad as this gal’s a dizzy
two hundred and eight, years in age;
Google I bless for they put a poetess
headliner, a shiner on the front page.
(°)
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 4:32 AM UTC
I watched a movie once that related Love to oxygen.
It was at that instance I realized something.
I’ve spent too many years inhaling and exhaling such a fragile and pure concept.
And for once I want to suffocate at the thought of a healthy heart.
I wanted to discontinue the second notion of my lungs.
Because breathing out never sounded so strenuous.
When I saw you, I couldn’t help but gather the atmosphere around me and hold it in.
My better half held it’s hand over my mouth.
But for once I didn’t panic.
The thought of your presence crept in and eased my pain.
At times I feel like I have reoccurring moments.
Like certain circumstances have been lined up for me and you’re my humidifier, aiding my existence.
A kiss.
My lips gather upon yours.
And it is at that time, I can resupply my body with life.
It is at that time, I always understand why he referenced oxygen when speaking about Love.
So when I grow older, I don’t want a breathing tube shoved down my throat.
I just want you there, holding my hand.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
When they let us back into the building
two days later,
it felt like visiting the library of Pompeii.
our world, frozen in a single
unthinkable moment
We all did it
Silently, and instinctively,
we recapped the borrowed pens,
recycled the scrap paper
and reshelved the stray novels
abandoned by our fleeing patrons
We dusted off tables
We checked the bookdrops
We scanned the public spaces
cross-referenced our gut reactions
with a checklist of trauma responses
We took note of the missing books
by the doors, where the blood was -
absence, often the most visible
evidence of tragedy
We took deep breaths
We pushed in chairs
We tied up loose ends
on our plans for next month
We sent emails to tell folks
their classes were cancelled for the week
We gathered
listened and talked
We comforted one another
We went on doing all the small,
important, invisible work we do -
*through our grief,
through our fear,
through our trauma*
- for the people
Apr 5, 2025
Apr 5, 2025 at 9:44 AM UTC