"refusal" poems
Anger, is the steaming red on her face
refusal creates in an instance;
jealousy is foaming green
profusion of colors in motion
takes this dance for them to upward
and downward turns,
or a sudden dissolution---
an intense ****** in unison.
Even in darkness he can see the
spasmodic ebbing waves
sleep is the banana plantation
where night wears translucent green
"nobody would see us here"
she whispers in his ears,
as if they are thieving sex,eyeing
the yellow banana she likes, to play with
Purple is the psychedelic color
smeared on horizon when
dreams repeatedly fly down
like night bats and happen
the way mind designs
we don't want to leave the scene
of the dream even when we know well
that the show for us is now over
we just want to hang around
like the dog, in the place
it got a juicy bone.
Yellow is the banana song
that's heard as wave after wave,
by the blind bat squadron
that roams with raw aggression,
for raids above the plantations
Unripe bananas show green fingers
to say "NO! we aren't ripe"
like coy underage virgins.
Then, they ripen, go yellow
some even bright red, inviting
who is blue here is the sky
and those bats who got
the bananas still raw green
Night decents on the banana land
as the white umbrella of sun
is snatched by the dark maiden.
Black is the bat's wing extending
and folding like lust, umbrella and the like.
He finds her shivering fingers like a serpent,
on the banana trunk slithering down,
as he dreams bats, banana, blue sky
and she slithering over him.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
kiss me with mango sherbet
in your mouth and sticky
orange tinted lips
these car tires are growing old
but I am young with three
dimples on my face
callouses on my fingertips
of my left hand
stop with the
'you're scared'
in which century does
refusal amount to fear
liberation by the pen drawings
on my hand consumes me
individuality is not dead I
am here
with fiery intent occasionally lost in
a girly figure with a small
waist and awkward ankles
don't dance alone dance a soliloquy
like the bruise on my neck
(labors of love are not
merely towards humans)
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 11:12 PM UTC
Beloved,
In what other lives or lands
Have I known your lips
Your Hands
Your Laughter brave
Irreverent.
Those sweet excesses that
I do adore.
What surety is there
That we will meet again,
On other worlds some
Future time undated.
I defy my body's haste.
Without the promise
Of one more sweet encounter
I will not deign to die.
15.1k
zelle ma belle
(zelle is an interbank system for sending cash in an instant to someone else’s bank account)
sent her an unexpected $250,
at 4:00am, of course,
a check-plus for her life,
because she revel reviews her day at school,
as special person day, teaches them well, and
anointed, appointed unsolicited confirmation by them
“as part of our family”
how they crave her body, her touch, at scary movie parts,
her kitchens diner size menu,
her refusal to ever disappoint,
her candy drawer supreme,
her crayon color visions which they execute,
her zen sense of their moods,
and for me,
for calling them without hesitation
my grandchildren
indeed more here hers than mine
she asks me why the $$ and poet doesn’t lie
but thinks quick at 7:30 am while bed prone,
“you won Nana of the Day award”
the only (grandparent) on the floor with two kids in her lap,
for the magic show,
all the rest,
benched, chattingly adultry things
she thinks on it and says
“ok, I accept!”
p.s. also, I have yet to inform her of the (my) elimination of a
crystal champagne flute while doing my manly cleanup from Friday night lights dinner pink champagne celebrating
le weekend’s arrival
olp
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
Deferred thought my mind speaks
but unable to reach
Since, lacking proper fuel
words are no more than tools
Idly on the shelf
All alone by themselves
Whether each has the skill
Makes no difference still
Needs a user to wield
The brain must be unsealed
Else it's nothing but noise
And will only annoy
To communicate one
Has to pay attention
And your message think through
It is important to
Listen right back
Without barbs or attacks
Open-mind speaking freely
Add diplomacy
Must employ use of tact
Support statements with fact
Do not rush; take your time
Critical? Then be kind
Not a must to agree
Can't force someone to see
Each of us has his thoughts
Throughout life we are taught
There are social patterns
Easily to discern
So, wherever you fall
Do not build up a wall
Keeping out you will win
As you lock yourself in
Rigid form without flex
New ideas will perplex
Ignorance and denial
Grow into a pile
On island alone
Statue made of stone
In your mind you’re entombed
Happy life is now ruined
Feeling always against
With a paranoid sense
A refusal to see
An unwavering tree
But a tree can still bow
Give and take it will show
Rigid thoughts become firm
Close your mind; will not learn
Placing all of the weight
Just for you; here to take
And must always support
Forcibly will contort
Having flex we adjust
This in life is a must
Something we can not do
Like to uncook a stew
Won't exist very long
People just not that strong
Or should they try to be
A journey incomplete
Happiness lies within
On these words please don’t spin
A sole island you're not
Harmony should be sought
Infinite universe
You can’t always be first
Finding balance in life
Like to see without sight
Each of us wants respect
But to give is to get
Listen up before talking
Use foot and start walking
Will find in due time
Not to bother or mind
People are free to think
From each other we drink
How we grow and evolve
Complex problems we’ll solve
Not a perfect system
But we gather wisdom
Always strive to improve
It’s the best we can do
To communicate we
Open our minds to see
And try to understand
Flawed and kindred humans
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
"Do not love half lovers
Do not entertain half friends
Do not indulge in works of the half talented
Do not live half a life
and do not die a half death
If you choose silence, then be silent
When you speak, do so until you are finished
Do not silence yourself to say something
And do not speak to be silent
If you accept, then express it bluntly
Do not mask it
If you refuse then be clear about it
for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance
Do not accept half a solution
Do not believe half truths
Do not dream half a dream
Do not fantasize about half hopes
Half a drink will not quench your thirst
Half a meal will not satiate your hunger
Half the way will get you nowhere
Half an idea will bear you no results
Your other half is not the one you love
It is you in another time, yet in the same space
It is you when you are not
Half a life is a life you didn't live,
A word you have not said
A smile you postponed
A love you have not had
A friendship you did not know
To reach and not arrive
Work and not work
Attend only to be absent
What makes you a stranger to them closest to you,
and they strangers to you
The half is a mere moment of inability,
but you are able for you are not half a being.
You are a whole that exists to live a life,
not half a life."
--Khalil Gibran
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
#An Exegesis on the Humiliation of the Word
The world is ruled by darkness.
What appears as harmless is theater,
what pretends neutral is already bent.
The macrocosm corrodes;
and in the microcosm, its reflection gleams..
even in places meant to be sanctuaries of truth.
A poetry site,
born as refuge for broken voices,
becomes another stage of control.
Here too the phrase resounds:
neutralize the threat.
But neutralization is not annihilation.
It is paralysis.
It is psy-ops.
It is the removal of anxiety..
not a side-effect, but the aim itself.
Darkness builds its stage for this alone:
that the "angel of light"
may drown his own reckoning
beneath a world of deception-built self comfort,
so he need never feel
the truth he already knows.
Comfort is his curtain,
numbness his crown..
*the removal of his own anxiety;
his game.*
This is why the world is his theater--
*Darkness does not destroy at first..
it sedates, comforts, smothers.*
Hence..
The whole world is his fully gaslit stronghold,
..for now.
Fade back into the moment--
The young poet arrives,
bringing her unspoken pain,
her hope for words to heal.
Instead, her very wounds are seized as footholds.
Hearts. Reposts. Endless affirmation.
Not to strengthen her voice,
but to redirect it.
She is seduced into belonging,
and her trauma becomes currency.
Unresolved, her ache entwined with lust--
a sacrifice prepared for false altars.
The angel of light has done his work:
offering inclusion without transformation,
belonging without responsibility,
“light” without source.
The poet is neutralized.
Her searching silenced,
her voice absorbed into fog.
Those who carry this fog
cling to cowardice.
Unable to face the judgment within,
they align themselves to the herd;
envy-filled, they only know to mock.
Yet they replicate themselves,
so their refusal of Light
is never revealed--
*Perfectly exemplifying their "Great Example"
the most envy-based mocker of all.*
The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm.
What nations suffer,
individuals now endure--
Comfort without clarity.
Belonging without truth.
Safety without healing.
Yet the living Word endures.
Every attempt to humiliate it
only makes its fire burn clearer.
Carriers of darkness can swarm,
****** and smother..
but they cannot create.
The true word cannot be erased.
Unfiltered, unedited,
spoken from a reconciled temple,
it pierces fog.
It reveals.
It heals.
And so we speak..
not for ourselves alone,
but for those who come searching,
hoping that poetry
might still be a place
where pain can meet truth,
where silence breaks,
where Light is not withheld
but revealed.
#
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
\ih-SPAHY-uhl\
noun
1. the act of spying.
2. the act of keeping watch; observation.
Quotes
The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his evening's business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils.
-- Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist, 1838
s
Origin
Espial is related to the word espy, which comes from the German word spähen meaning "to spy." The suffix -al forms nouns from verbs, as in the word refusal.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
awakening with the gradual rise
of the subdued heather hued sun
a palpable spectral silence permeated the air
the anticipation of celebration intercepted
by an enveloping phantom black malaise
hiding in obscure shadows
the terror of the twin towers final doom
elucidated quivers of melancholic nuances
rippling through the greying vicinity
my birthday september 11th a tuesday
my night to sing at abravanel hall
with the utah symphony
unable to serenade death
our voices remained indubitably silenced
in hushed wistful reverence
ensuing 9/11s channel somber sentiments
cloaked with annihilation while
dark visions occupy smudged iphone screens
this anniversary i will dissipate despair
transmuting dark despondency
splashing all with lucent petals of delight
i’ll live this day with passionate intensity
and those subsequent with equal ardor
ferociously painting back the light
i will raise my voice with effervescence
and sing in wild abandon
for my precious brothers that were lost
demonstrating devotion through a refusal
to be silenced by fear bestowing honor
with a conspicuous message that love wins
©2016janetaylor
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 6:22 PM UTC
Features, my reflection—
subtle hints stare back offering wordless reply,
their evidence a betrayal of age.
A wrinkle looking deeper,
mane of face, of head—hairs
fresh lacking pigment.
Vain attempts made to mend heart,
to sooth soul's dread.
Testimony of experience
of wisdom, persistence, perception,
an impotent contraceptive, the argument
aberrant.
Regret to cloud memory, my youth
seeming a flesh and blood cliche.
Tiny footnotes heavy with prose,
words in bold
to distract mind's eye—a demand of attention.
Edging out tomb's more beautiful weight
of love and heartache
of passion's attempt failing,
to try again, sinking before succeeding.
An era's dusk and dawn anew, life's advent
unpredictable—without cause changing.
Notion hanging lingering, poisoning future,
the venom of defeat an insidious invasion.
This new age creeping toward night
in this stage my life's sun less bright.
Maturity's introduced responsibility,
some enjoyable while others to own hostility.
A brigand mugging freedom—time for leisure.
Spurring combat for what remains of youth,
fingers wrapping air in futile seizure.
The inevitable to command subservience,
presuming ownership of life, though the mature
demonstrate the defiance of the immature.
Objects, activities, music assaulting ear,
their manner,
symbols of strict adherence to who once was—
a spiteful surrender refusal.
A piece of me defining me until no more,
years holding power—threatening
to change who I am at very core.
Canvas construction the colour of murre,
rubber toe caps the shade of pure.
Design worn since youth, dead and resurrected;
a million mile shoe of valorous resistance—insurrection,
a Converse rebellion.
In torment of age's scars,
I'll never be too old to wear my All Stars.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
I am not the master of my writing
-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;
the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional
so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;
I offer the she-muse two choices:
give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,
bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance
my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant
muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services
weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad
the muse-bitch cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh
there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
what's strength?
forgiveness?
refusal?
it's independent decision.
i can't decide.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
4:21am
Tue
Aug 12
<*>
restless is the thinking brain,
rapid repeated beating
from an overheating sun
in a room of full-on dark,
difficult to weep,
harder to silent breathe,
one listens to his arrhythmic heart,
sending out messages incessantly & incomplete
every single sin ever committed
comes in with cheery face,
a greeting of, still here!
in this ,
our temporary final resting place
finish us off by completion,
makes us full of restitution,
by seeing to our undoing,
revolving, unending, the finally of sufficiently
those old curses
we can only face
by turning our faces away,
drop in, like best friends, come to sunrise visit
though dawn is yet eons of minutes far away,
though relief can never be fully attained,
though "though' is the first ****** word of excusal,
though betrayal is always next, the secondarily, refusal,
there is never a dot of period,
only a comma of pause, because,
there is no ending in completion
only in forgiving by your harshest critic,
yourself, yourself, our selving,
this unsolvable function of forgiveness upon this,
this, the two-days of Tuesday,
to day
Aug 12, 2025
Aug 12, 2025 at 4:56 AM UTC
Heat
Calcification
Incalescence
Swelter
Suffocation
Arctic circle above 32 degrees Fahrenheit in December
Leaking lakes of Methane gas in Siberia
Scientific data to price
Changing 2 degrees
has caused mass extinction
Melting glaciers
Oceans 7 centimeters higher
Drought in the Amazon
Changes in migration
Disruption in pollination
Heatwaves:
high death tolls
Decreased plant growth
Zika in Florida
Ignorance from the government
Refusal of proof
Nonbelievers in the White House
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
I'm alone in a crowded room.
I hear the faint sound of music.
But I pay no interest.
I have to find something to steal my sobriety.
I see hatred in the eyes of judgement.
And temptation is drunken,
Therefore becoming,
More seductive by the second.
A love rusted over,
And a damsel in distress,
Trying to tarnish the lamp,
But the genie refuses freedom.
And the genie feels no remorse,
For refusing to grant a wish,
From a removed stranger.
Because his refusal is in good faith.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
Words without
Unspoken truths
Cut in neat pieces
Sharp like knives
Plunged deep into yesterday’s drivers seat
Intoxicated
The sweetness of wine
Time took hold
Tastes grew old
Drank straight with ice
A barrel aged whiskey with bite
Involuntarily, my body shakes
Like it was trying to run away from the feeling
“I didn’t know you would make me so drunk”
Stumbling and fumbling with my keys
Scratched drivers side door
Attempts to unlock what shouldn’t be
It left chips in the paint
“F*ck” murmured beneath my breath
The engines low rumble grumbled and sang
A stereo left on too loud came alive when I turned the key
Busted eardrums, slow trickle, ears that bleed
Silence spoke the loudest after that
The nights drive turned sideways
Cherry red lights matched with blue
I could outrun them if I tried
Pressed petals in between pages
Pushed gingerly to the floor
The speedometer creeped to new heights
That annoying flashing brightness followed me
Threat to freedom and a refusal to give in
Twist and turns
The chase ensues
I finally feel like I’m gaining distance
Little was known, encroaching on a dead end
Blew past a warning sign
Wrapped my car around a tree
Crimson red soaked shirt
“Why is my face wet?”
A steady stream of life giving fluid pumped through a **** in my forehead
Dizzy, it made me dizzy.
I sat and waited, not for help
But for time to be taken away
I understood that sometimes a mistake is made, and I can pay the price with iron clad bracelets and a night spent on a bench for a bed.
You taste like wine and then bit like whiskey, when all I wanted was coffee black on a crisp summer morning with the sun rising up to meet a lovers lust in my eyes.
Mar 27, 2022
Mar 27, 2022 at 1:33 PM UTC
**You want to read little pristine pretty posies
not get involved betwixt & ignore the thorns of life
whatcha gonna do when your scratch becomes infected
hiding in the bushes of denial will get you hives
of the contradicting type, bucking like a bronco
amidst the flowery storm clouds of refusal
riding through wild fields of four leaf clovers
on unicorns wings of phantasmal puff'd perfectly pink skies
pseudo fairy tales conjured up in the mind
never to cross the median line of reality's mock deception
swallow the chimerical pill of inauthentic utopia
just be sure your mythical allegory never plays havoc
in your secret garden of rainbow streaming sublimity,
the fall is greater from the zenith of repudiation**
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 7:06 AM UTC
All colors, shapes and sizes. A cunning disguise. Quite stunning. The right fit. A refusal to go the extra mile. Poor Myles. No more fake smiles. A mask. Can coerce a crowd. It's quite loud when your face shows but no sound. His face. It's quite a disgrace. Tells of his battles and all. How many times he's fallen. He's quite clumsy.
He makes it his number one task, to buy a new mask. He's new in town, and wonders why everyone looks like a clown. I mean surely they can't all be happy. Masks. A store. "May I try this one on sir?" Perfect. Task complete. He fits in. But underneath, he's not the same. Possibly insane. He hides something deep, so deep it never speaks. It only sleeps. Family. Friends. They can never tell. What he hides. The mask. It tells lies.
Someone close. Someone you know. Watch closely. Their mask will slowly deteriorate. Dissipate. Time. It may take a while if you try to pry. Their mask. Their completed tasks. Even those close to Myles couldn't tell. Underneath, we're quite different. Don't you see. We all wear our own. How many do you own?
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC
(for Nietzche, who cowers behind art.)
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every night yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
when there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing.
Yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise.
The world called Canaanites ******
while they traded and toiled along the shores
of land promised to the aged heretic of Sumer,
whose wife could give only love.
The world called Hebrews ******
while they raised Pharoah tombs
Provided respite from the eastern chariots
Stubborn in refusal of the living gods
Drinking only Eloheim's bitter grape
That provides brief respite from his decrees
When delving deep in one's cups.
The world called Britons ******
When flogged Boudicea fought and fought and finally fell
To Roman spear and gladius
When Angles and Saxons raided then stayed
When Cromwell climbed the pale cliffs
The world called the Iberians, Gauls and Teutons ******
when Caesar crossed the Rubicon
Pax Romana for Citizens born
Land for the wealthy, voting rights too
Taxes and tithes from their toil.
The world called the Khoikhoi of South Africa ******
From the VOC to fatal Apartheid
Up rose a man
The heart of the land
A man named Nelson Mandela.
The world called the Viet Minh ******
from Can Vong to Dien Bien Phu
'till they slogged howitzers above
to reign Napoleonic terror below.
And to them it was just
The American War
After the world called them
Vietnamese.
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every day yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
When there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing
yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
'though it never watches its own rising
undoing raiment of fading embers
swimming naked in the royal blue
bathing all with daily newborn naked glory
chasing the celestial tidal tease
that seems to wander where it please
reminding that all are born free
but can grow into ignorance
and be called ******
Seek truths
that hold in unity;
that provide nourishment
beneath the lash
allowing one
to rise, to rise, to rise.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 9:01 AM UTC
When words are not enough,
and the world won’t get off her back,
she dances the Devils way,
She’s a princess,
wait she’s a queen,
wait she’s an angel,
wait she’s everything,
a Goddess,
the hottest performing artist I’ve ever seen,
and she’s dancing,
dancing is her therapy,
I mean,
I’m not James Brown,
but it’s a man’s world,
even if Rihanna runs this town,
See,
she’s been suppressed all her life,
and I’m not just talking about Rihanna,
I’m talking about every girl that was ever forced to be a wife,
just to survive in this life,
she was touched by her father,
or brother or cousin,
when she was just a little girl,
I know we all wish it wasn’t,
but it is true,
so what’s a girl to do,
when she’s a clean 13 messing with The ***** Dozen,
this isn’t battle of the sexes,
this is war of the worlds,
wants to be a woman but she’s just a girl,
no No Doubt just burnt out nerves taken turns,
she never asked to be born,
with the burden of being beautiful,
but she refuses to conform,
she is attractable irrational and radical,
so when it’s all too much,
the stares and the catcalls,
the aggressive forceful touch,
the nails across her back like a blackboard,
and the moans become just white noise,
she takes it all in,
she forgives the man because he’s just a boy,
he is an angel even if he has fallen,
she takes it all in,
and she uses all of those abuses,
as the fuel with the tools which induces,
an allusive state of truth which,
allows her to move with intuitive smoothness,
and lose herself in the music morphing into what a centrifuge is,
separating fluids transforming what was otherwise useless abuses,
into a truth that cruises and confuses the stupid stooges,
she dances,
in a statement of glorious refusal to submit to their ideals,
she is more than a princess queen angel goddess,
she is fire burning up all preconceived notions of *** appeal,
the real deal,
dancing sweating cleansing her soul and her pores,
moving faster in progression refuting repression,
overcoming an obsession of oppression and knocking down all doors,
she is not a possession,
though she is possessed when,
she’s a dancing expression of how we all feel and more,
no words are enough,
she shows what we all feel,
she reveals what,
was before thinly concealed,
she is the perfect expression,
of imperfect circumstances,
she is poetic stanzas,
she is the paint on the canvas,
there is no question that she is the answer,
and all of this is made clear when she takes it all in,
let’s go of everything and dances…
∆aron L∆ Lux ∆
#strength #metoo #dancer #ballet #blackswan
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
I was raised by a pack of fools
Who proclaim Caucasians are the best.
And are glad to fight, at the drop of a hint
To put the whole matter to the test.
They have an entire joke routine
And descriptive names they repeat
In minimizing and insisting that
Their right to decent treatment isn’t real.
There are references to some animals
And unfunny comments about color.
The statements about characteristics
Of body and features always go together
With a special set of gross anecdotes
To cover any kind of non-Christian belief.
And the refusal to consider equality
As a decent attitude stands in bright relief.
Beneath all this horror, not very deep,
Lies a sickening river of hate and fear
That fails to improve as education is
Rejected year after disgusting year.
Pointing out the error of their ways
Might earn you a punch in the eye
But the bigot hangs on to their rage
And never gives fellowship a try.
The American Bigot claims to be
A staunch Christian all the way through
Which forces them to hate and cheat
And lie as much as Jesus would do.
Of course, we know that Jesus was
A preacher of love and acceptance
But it seems that bigots never quite
Made that Jesus’ acquaintance.
So, here we can see we need to add
Some terms to this kind of individual
Whose relationship to peace and love
Is at best slight, scant and residual.
We also need to append to their titles
Of masters of anger fear and prejudice
The unhealthy pallor of indecency,
Dishonesty, inhumanity and cowardice.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:33 PM UTC
wind like a south wind carrying a plane south
deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current
on a branch with nothing companionable in sight -
no answer, no voice to answer, no voice,
no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon
and nothing pressing. No urgent business,
maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent
there being urgent business later.
He's not all smooth. A little feather
cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know
how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants,
who would want to eat him. I don't really understand
anything that is going on around me. But look,
I understand more than him:
the tree is dying.
Oak wilt blew in from Canada,
took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins
and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of
corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots
at the search.
(Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.)
There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about.
Or his legs know it, and that message
is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid.
The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he:
his skeleton is spun from delicate copper.
If you open him up, he's like a penny -
pretty, and useless in this economy.
People and things always trying to get rid of him,
and he's listening because he knows it,
and he's singing because he knows it.
Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it.
(Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.)
It's not a curse, not specifically:
just one fragile thing standing on another
but - count mercies -
too light to break it.
A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups.
His song comes from the throat.
His song is about something he saw once.
His song is unquestioned, muscle moving
without will.
His plumage is mostly air
And the tree is anchored in the ground
by the very thing that chokes it,
and we're all standing together:
me, tree, bird. At least until
I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in
a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness,
and leave whistling.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
Take a fresh Playstation
Add plenty of seasoned frustration
Marvel at the glory of this Machine
Roll a spliff made for Charlie Sheen
Game for 6 hours at room temperature
Squeeze controller until you see hairline fracture
Anger rising to the top
That guy lied to me, the one from the shop
Nothing but coffee flavour in this bag of Revels
Listen to your shoulder devils
Ask Playstation to work the way you want it
Refusal to comply, I miss 8bit
Swing controller like a ball and chain
Look, as its blue eye turns to red in pain
Proceed to dance on Playstation to tenderise
A madman reflected on the screen in disguise
Last salvation is on the warranty sheet
Enjoy, Bon appetit
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 4:11 AM UTC
Striped carnation (refusal):
I have long since discovered that the fires
in me were never going away.
The heaviness, from refusal
to spit the ashes.
Queen Anne’s lace (fantasy):
I thought you put out the fire last night
but you weren’t there.
Willow herb (pretension):
How long have you been gone?
I told myself as many lies as I could handle
but none of them ever worked.
Scabiosa (unfortunate love):
We’ve built enough bridges to take us nowhere–
tell me again what we’ve become:
trembling hands,
trying not to spill blood on what was left.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
Oh, fuming teardrop!
You’ve boiled over from wrath and anger,
leaving painful blisters as you sear the heart
Why you don’t evaporate is a wonder
but there must be a valid reason…
If only to let the heart know it lives
Oh, fuming teardrop!
Will you ever learn how to forgive?
Oh, defiant teardrop!
Teetering on the edge and glistening,
refusing to fall to make yourself known
It is not fickle mindedness playing,
rather, a power play of emotions
a blatant refusal to show what’s within
Oh, defiant teardrop!
Why even stop yourself before you begin?
Oh, crocodile teardrop!
If you were truly so, slink back shamefully,
recede to your lacrimal gland and stay put
There is no need for your insincerity,
the world is chaotic as it is, too troubled
Fall not, trickle not, trick not who see you
Oh, crocodile teardrop!
How can you be so heartless to fool people so true?
Oh, pensive teardrop!
How gracefully you streak down window sills
Wash away grime and grit, cleanse everything
Flow unhindered, purify hearts you fill
Laughter may be the music of the soul,
but you are pure— the distilled spirit
Oh, pensive teardrop!
Will you course down blackened hearts, pay a visit?
Oh, jubilant teardrop!
Married to laughter, frolic and dance to its tune
Give birth to hope then soar with elation
Brighten faces, sparkle days, light up the moon
Let souls remember that you speak of pain, joy
Let them remember, then allow them to heal
Oh, jubilant teardrop!
Why did I ever doubt that you are spirit revealed?
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 4:24 AM UTC