"reinforced" poems
Collab, collab! Oh thoughtful collabs!
Amalgamation of two unique minds,
Merging of dual thinking labs!
Cerebral workshop of life's diverse grinds!
Collab, collab! Reinforced true!
Melding of minds and honed crafts,
Mounted up with bolt and *****
Assembled solid in monochromed poetic drafts.
Collab, collab! A trend that's trending!
A fad that now seems ever growing...
Each other's style we will be wearing.
Matching ensembles, yours for the liking.
Collab, collab! More of it please!
Ocean of creativity, pearls ripe for picking,
Journey for two across artistic seas.
Wonder who with next I'll be swimming...
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
like water
I poured myself into her until she was overflowing at the brim
like reinforced steel
I bridged my heart to hers and welded myself to her soul
like the sun
I filled myself with light to cover her darkness
like a blanket
I shielded her from the harsh world underneath the covers
like magnets
I orbited her aura until we inevitably collided
like a seed
I felt myself growing up from her
Then, like an idiot
I could tell she felt nothing.
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
people **** people
with nothing but fingers and hair
and their very heavy breath.
their breath like a crow beak
before crucifixes of straw. like a tightening banishment of a lung.
remember when we would blow it
onto our car window and create that
consistent mirth of fog to
begin in?
the bodies riddled with bullets that flank
the highway are no such thing.
the schoolchildren lying face down in the corner of the closet are no such thing.
they are just winter coats with schoolchildren to fill them
for the time being.
no amputation of what’s mine
will aid them into the grave.
no mass communication grief. so
why would you call it a mass grave when in truth it was just a pit i dug to fill with crowds of people who died under the pretense that they had previously done so,
that nothing was new under the sun.
and when people **** people like people
do with their instruments
as ways of extending themselves into the world and into the marrow of our body
obliterating organs of people with their stretching of the muscular rib, shoulder.
one eye closes firmly.
it’s nothing but a hand gun
as if to say a hand eats the gun
and makes it whole.
as if to say the reinforced metal door
exit plan for people who are being killed by other people clicked shut and locked
15,000 years ago and i can’t quit slamming what’s left of me into it.
your kid is very dead.
but then again so is mine.
suppose they killed each other.
suppose they both made the mistake of dragging their small, stupid bodies through the trajectory of another body in the first place. in the chip aisle of a gas station maybe. in theaters this christmas.
in the midst of a good song that began playing on the lobby radio
just a minute before,
oh yeah before,
things really got going.
i saw people killing people
on television the other day
with their
whole bodies,
devouring themselves like surgical gloves
slick with oiled consumption
and bleeding out
and i could do nothing.
some kids died just because
and they told me so and i was told nothing could ever help them because they were just people and they were dying.
“breaking news” ended up just being people again.
in those moments, i was eating breakfast.
our houses were very quiet and needed me in all of them, grandfather clock over CNN, clarifying what has already been
committed and committed again.
the cipher was others lost blood.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:24 AM UTC
therapy and resistance
how is it that therapy becomes the excess of class war or the oppression thereof?
When the struggle of the individual is made to seem self induced when it is easily and clearly directly a result of the failures and complacence afforded by the majority of the group.
When in a therapeutic environment it is important to distinguish the opportunities of resistance from the experience of trauma.
there has always been individuals who establish groups that are in a realm of desperation.
Understanding how this process has unfolded institutionally is just as valid as treating the individual.
This gives the individual the choice and resources needed to heal.
The healing could look like resistance rather than assuming aspects of class war or oppressive culture to be normal.
Otherwise therapy is nothing but the means to normalize the process of oppression.
The traumatic state needs to be able to decipher its organic existence from that of organized oppression and its institutional cooperation.
the neglect of deciphering or distinguishing these differences causes individuals to make a competition out of trauma. This minimizes certain trauma of individuals and causes the group to have less of an opportunity to resist organized oppression of the institution.
Those that are in the realm of desperation or traumatic state are given no choice but to repress in order to continue being social or a member of the group.
in excess the hierarchies of gender, race and class are reinforced to an almost superhuman level.
To the desperate or traumatic state…
what needs reinforcement is that there are humans just like us who have resisted oppression and caused the normalcy of the group to be more inclusive and aware of the processes associated with organized oppression.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
the things we do - indirectly.
i’m drawn to this sort of thing,
torture. but,
i pull myself clear of it.
when she
shakes my hand, her body is elsewhere,
unbothered.
her vessel formed in ceramics and reinforced
tightly
every wish granted, “hey!” i’d say.
it isn’t fair! is it?
i understand these sorts of things
the way i tortured my thoughts into patterns
and my body is elsewhere,
unharmed, because
i pulled myself clear of it. such am i
“above it”: so
it turns out i’m envious
in effigy, “don’t worry,” i’d say.
it’s not real, because
i’m not real
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
My heart broke 700 times
I'm glad you found your closure
It feels like it opened a cavity in my chest
A billowing hole ******* the air
From out of my lungs and
Away from my brain
Away from the sanity I've created
Where I thought I felt secure
But instead the infrastructure was so weak
That the simple memories you mentioned
Left a mark on me yet again
As my heavy heart weighs me to my bed
And I wish so desperately to be alone
I feel as though I'm dying
I must accept reality as it is
I know that all too well
That's why I agreed to meet
To see you
To see me
To see us
Now
We're different than we once were
And while I understand how and why
My soul mourns the moment
And I know I should just live it fully
Because so soon it'll pass
And once again
We'll be strangers on the street
One heart armored with reinforced steel
The other a sloppy mess of
Broken shards and what ifs
Rotting until it turns to ash
And new flowers bloom from its death
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 8:30 AM UTC
On that fateful day of Pentecost,
power came down from on high.
For it originated with God’s presence
and His Kingdom, that’s far beyond our sky.
The ascension of Christ had been witnessed,
with Him clearly rising above the clouds;
He was no longer bound by planetary constraint
and the opinionated amazement of the crowd.
Upon the Earth, a violent breeze blew;
it brought forth ‘winds of change’ into the hearts of men.
This first outpouring of the Holy Spirit reinforced
God’s abundant Love, for us all once again.
The power of Jehovah had appeared,
as ‘tongues of fire’ above the people’s heads -
Thus fulfilling an Old Testament prophesy,
as the prophet Joel had previously illustrated.
The spiritual battles are fought today
inside the imagination of our minds;
cleanse your thoughts with The Word
and shift your ideals with His holy paradigm.
God has promised in The Scriptures
that He will never leave us nor forsake us.
His comforting Spirit remains along side
as we now await - the final return of Christ Jesus.
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2010, All rights reserved.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
A sonnet's what this is, that much is plain
There really isn't any need to stare
Its introduction's made in this quatrain
Two more will follow, then a rhyming pair
It is iambic, so it goes “dot dash”
Two syllables a foot, five feet a line
The rhythm takes you onward in a flash
The sense of structure's reinforced by rhyme
After the first octet, a change of mood
The sonnet's true intentions are revealed
Its themes are love and essence, nothing crude
Hard hearts begin to melt and ******* to yield
Then closure as it slowly slips away
A soft exit – a pyrrhic fall – spondee.
Oct 21, 2009
Oct 21, 2009 at 12:09 PM UTC
You saw me naked.
Not without clothes, but without my wall.
The 10 foot, steel reinforced, wall around my heart.
You broke in, brick by brick.
And I let you, I let you see me vulnerable.
Forgetting what others had done to me when they saw me the same.
I wish I could say you were different.
But, you saw me naked.
And you laughed, pointed out my insecurities, and broke me so much that I rebuilt my wall.
I rebuilt it higher and stronger than before.
Protecting my heart from so called love.
You also saw me without clothes.
Burned your touch into my skin.
Whispered sweet nothings into my ear, and that's just what they meant.
Nothing.
I can't look at my body without thinking about you.
Because, you saw me naked.
Defenseless and with open arms.
I shouldn't have trusted you.
But I did anyway.
I thought that since you had a wall to we would be amazing together.
But.
I never saw you naked.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC
Customers have torn open the Christmas
chocolates. Shoving it in mouths,
shopping bags, children’s eyes.
Quiet. We are shopping. as. a. family.
Smoke accordions out of Santa’s mailbox. The sprinkler system
hisses stale air. Custodians ride by on their metal cart laughing,
sanitation chemicals flickering out of buckets.
The 80 year-old piano player is hammering out Schoenberg.
Customers shove lamps into their shopping bags, shove children
into them.
Turn on the light Jimmy.
The ninth floor is barricaded off by old woman. They
have turned the clearance divans on their sides
and are throwing toasters. Down in the basement,
the security staff have locked themselves into 2’ by 2’
cells. Fetally-positioned, their panting echoes off stone walls. Static
sizzles on the array of sixteen camera screens. Customers
have begin to bow in the reinforced door next to the two-way mirror.
A fat man is leaning against it. He has been dead
for over an hour. Restaurant staff are tearing
down the great tree. Ornaments funnel down pop-crashing
upwards from the floor. Three pound ceramic dinnerware crashes
into the walnut bar The customers are putting mattresses in their bags,
they are putting the offices in their bags. Human resources
are backed into the employee orientation computer lab. Customers
have poured Starbucks on the circuit-breakers. The lights are dimming,
Escalators are jamming. Children scream
I want to see Santa.
Santa is dead. Employees calmly walk over his protruding
belly. The velvet and fat feels good on tired
feet. An inhuman voice garbles
The store will be closing.
Families grab onto shelves, racks, other
families. Employees pick up the registers and slam
them on granite counters. Coins explode out like bells. The rotating
doors are not spinning. They are stuck, crunching on limbs.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 5:16 PM UTC
Wasted margin space in a datebook, frames weekend's entry slots left free to relax. I hatch them down with marginalized thoughts best served on a table reinforced with wood grained plastic, naturally. The morning bird chirps, filling a brimming cup of foreboding work. It takes much to do a right job. Eek! Hunting, fishing, browsing for scraps of sustenance and sharing them with you, my nomadic tribe. Time to go! Living on the fringe outside predators and above ruminating herbivores isn't easy.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
Crest of the wave shoulders
moulded into the final box;
Russian doll soldiers
have nothing on this once free-bus-pass holder.
Open the windows to the let the fresh death out,
past the PVC French doors, triple glazed
and no doubt worth their weight in gold.
Tidy up her lips with thread reinforced with care
and a careful hand tidied up in a well healed white gloved pair.
The next-to-the-cemetery funeral home sits not far from Wakefield
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
I am the
SAME
as you
I work in your community
I live in your world
I contribute
(too much)
to Capitalism
by frequenting your local stores
and buying
WAY
more items than
I need
I vote for your President
your Congress
your Governor,
I participate in politics because
I care
about the way
our world
functions.
And yet I'm not equal
I'm not "the same."
As if any of us even know what being
"the same"
means anymore
When I dated men you
ALL
applauded me, praised me
Even when I dated total
********
people said,
"Well you're just too good for him.
But you're such a great person for
being able to see past his
'rough' exterior"
I saw past
SO MANY
'rough exteriors'
And I was miserable
And I forced myself to
PRETEND
to be happy.
And loved
And love-ING.
But then
SHE
walked into my life.
SHE
had been there for awhile,
but I shoved the feelings to the side
because they're
NOT RIGHT
NOT
acceptable
NOT
real
NOT
important
Be with a man they say.
And I followed their rules.
Which lead to alcoholism
drugs
depression
suicide after suicide after suicide,
never
accomplished.
Which reinforced the fact that
my life would be full of
Failure.
And then came the kiss
(when my lips met her perfect lips)
that opened my eyes,
and changed my life.
Now, I may be
Unequal
Rejected
Frowned upon
BUT
There is no frown upon
my face.
For my world is
Complete
Authetic
Rewarding
Real
And I wouldn't change that
to cultivate the appearance of
Equal.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
it's funny the things you forget
when asked for an 'interesting fact' --
you sleep on them for days
and exhume them from the ground
because they matter! so deeply!!
there's no metaphor that does them justice!!
it's poetry because it isn't!!!
i don't know my siblings.
my parents sleep in my dead grandad's bed
and i received his cupboards:
yeah, we're pretty much begging to be haunted.
let's be positive, it'd be nice to see him again.
thanks to reinforced childhood superstition,
i still pick up pennies from the ground
(yup, even with my germ phobia).
i used to write to the tooth fairy!
she warned me about gum disease.
her name was tiffy, but it turned out to
just be mum writing with her left hand.
as an internet-addicted hermit,
little me hated going abroad
since the only friends i felt i had were online.
there's thus a list of places to someday re-visit -
rotterdam is one.
i'd like to be somebody's muse.
if my life plan fails,
i want to work in a funeral parlour:
it feels as though i'd do it justice.
watching the same film more than once
just isn't something i do -- except grease --
exceptions can be made when it's on TV.
i mean, c'mon, it's grease.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC
Eyes chanced upon a brown object
Nestled on a crowd of multi-colored subjects
A bunch of dried and fresh leaves,
Small, thin and soft spikes of twigs
And I wondered.....how on earth
Did fibers and strips of polyester sack
Get included in this mix?
One would think it might fall, and be slung
But it stayed put, steady, where it hang
I was trying to figure it out:
A cylnder, at first thought...but I had my doubts
I realized, it was a crooked oblong
And, from its opening on one side, came the soft songs
A small part of which, was attached
To the thorny Bougainvillea branch.
Strange.....for it was small...yet steep
A human hand could never go deep
You wouldn't think it could contain anything
And yet...inside it, were resting
Three tiny eggs...warming
And eventually, would be hatching.
Soon, the Red Palm and Sweetsop trees
Buzzed with activities
Birds of many kinds, watched, upon the bay window eave,
High on the electric cables...they perched and wouldn't leave
To and fro.......high and low, they flew
The air was filled with bird sounds i never knew
Soon, too, soft tweeting was heard
Along with the louder chirping of the older birds
Then came that morning, when, a birdling,
Eagerly, tested its wings,
Then fell off its nest
Down to the roots of the Red Palm tree
Where it almost met its final rest...
Suddenly, came to the rescue, two big palms
That put the birdling back inside its home
And reinforced the nearly displaced nest...
Both birdling and nest, were put to a test....
Today, other birds fly around this once busy space
Where life's significant phases
Inevitably took place,
Lonely and deserted now,
For the birdlings are fully grown
They're now flying on their own...
From my rocking chair, I could see
Among those entangled twigs
Hidden among a crowd of sprigs
Still ably rests
An abandoned strange nest
That once told the story
Of an Olive-backed sunbird....and its glory...
Sally
Copyright February 18, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
^^^^^^^^^^
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
--slightly out of tune
Am I right to hedge my bets on being famous, ply my arts all day alone,
silence, no tv? Mark said, the difference is people are actually listening
to **** Jagger, but I thought that’s not so big a difference.
When Dad died it only reinforced the futility of our daily efforts
notwithstanding my hopeful eulogy about our responsibilities to each
other.
People listened then, and closely, searching for an echo
from the abyss. What is this abyss and how do I know
it’s there?
Jul 18, 2023
Jul 18, 2023 at 7:29 AM UTC
No one really knows,
Where we go.
No matter how strong,
Together,
And reinforced
We try to be;
There is
A force we can't control:
Fragility.
So,
Let's not
Think so much.
Our nature
Eludes true
Vulnerability.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
I learned how to weave a basket
To carry my shattered dreams
Its bottom deep and reinforced
And bursting at the seams
I learned how to weave a basket
To carry my broken smile
I emptied my happy endings
And filled it with denial
I learned how to weave a basket
To carry all of your lies
Though it's stained with liquid pain
That's flowing from my eyes
I learned how to weave a basket
To carry my memories in
They slip away a little each day
For the bottom's way too thin
I learned how to weave a basket
To carry my broken heart
But this basket isn't big enough
I've known it from the start
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 3:11 PM UTC
The sky was green, the trees were red
Folks were rising from the dead
I guess I should have stayed in bed
Things were going on in Salem
Zombies walking through the town
The inside of my shorts was brown
What once was up was somehow down
What was going on in Salem
I'd heard a tale of witches three
Who died in sixteen ninety three
They all were hung from a tall tree
In a spot outside of Salem
I checked to see they weren't around
They were still buried in the ground
They lay there silent, nary a sound
But, what was wrong in Salem
Covens, witches, fake or real
Red trees, green skies was quite surreal
For zombies, I might be their next meal
The was magic out in Salem
I did some research and found out
That spells recited round about
By witches reinforced with stout
Would ***** things up in Salem
You see, a spell from in the past
would never work, nor would it last
Especially if it was cast
By a drunken witch in Salem
We found her dancing in the park
She'd gotten drunk just for a lark
She'd been drinking hard since before dark
To cast a spell on Salem
The cops came in and charged said witch
For casting spells while drunk, the *****
Forgot the rules, there lies the hitch
Of casting spells in Salem
Public Intoxicantation , the charge was laid
For all the mischief that she made
Three nights in jail, a fine was paid
Now all is well in Salem
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 7:00 PM UTC
We had a really fat bird in the morgue last week;
We had to put two tables together
Just to accommodate her bloated mass
And the funeral director said
She'd need a specially reinforced coffin
And a flatbed truck instead of a hearse.
By the way, I think I should debunk
That legend about fat chicks appreciating it more;
She just lay there, like all of the others,
No sign of gratitude what-so-fucking-ever.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:14 PM UTC
Olive branches smother and dismember
in the mud giggling in time
with the squish emanating from
my alternating huff and puff
footprints
I trudge in Winter's sweat of
schizophrenic rain
My old defence, sheepish stolidity,
got tweaked in a twist-up
tight as a candy cane
with a modest gasp
of underground success
That shadowy hush of acknowledgement
ballooned in my ear like a blow fish
amplifying the environmental inertia
that never made me happier
nor this sad
I may have been mad
walking from informed opinions
like a failed Orpheus
but defence shouted in silence
and I returned home
to the unconditional support
of a pet art
Acknowledgement's shadowy hush
tore a blister trail down my back
The ointment of Winter will soothe and
release me before billing me
with a scar and littering in the recycle bin
of who I want to be
Today I wanted to be accepted
Night has arrived with reinforced snowflakes
and the chill on my hot back
has me wondering if I would rather be feared
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
Above the public pool
a volleyball so cool
stuck for years
in the rafters
Someone’s
breath of life
trapped in
it’s bladder
Evidence of
their lingering
presence, me
wondering
if they ever
pondered the
relevance of
the essence they
left behind?
Singsong thoughts
turn inward …
What about me?
In all the places
I’ve been,
pieces of me,
residual traces
of myself
left behind,
cast away!
Small links, unforgotten,
faithfully preserved
by old friends—
threads of connection
reinforced by timeless bonds—
who keep my words,
moves (dancing!), and
shared memories as
precious cargo,
cherished keepsakes,
A clear reminder that
I exist! I matter!
I’m something much more
than simply air I breathe
on an unremembered day …
Like that beautiful volleyball
in the rafters
W I L S O N ! ! !
Mark Toney © 2023
Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 10:10 PM UTC
The thought of you makes me want to refashion old Bible verses,
“Consider it a pure joy to be a part of this trial,” I whisper,
“And you know that the testing of faith becomes perseverance.”
The sound of your voice carries more overlapping melodies than
Hard brass mallets hammering at the tips of my fingers,
More depth than does escape the open casing of my grand piano.
The warmth that flows from your heart is a testament to my lack
Of circulation, despite my ability to swim through the ocean naked,
Far passed the pier and into the horizon, every ceaseless morning.
The sight of you tears me open, tears me open, until I am all
But unable to put my nerve endings back in order, despite the fact
That they are reinforced every minute of my solitary waking hours.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
William raked the leaves and dry pine needles in silence, a reverence that, to him, seemed simple and appropriate in the cemetery. Mother was close by arranging silk flowers to place on his grandparents' graves, a festive red splash of color in celebration of the Christmas season despite the unseasonal warmth and humidity in the air.
"Can you believe the weather," he calls out to his mother. "Grandma and Papa would have loved this."
"Yes, they would have," she replied. "I'm ready if you are. We still have some errands to run before it gets too much later."
William bent down and scooped the loose pile of nature's molt off the graves and placed it in an old plastic shopping bag. "I'll go throw this in the trash while you set up the flowers, that way we can get moving with the day."
Mother set to work on the bronze vase as William walked away to the trash can ten yards distant. He was grateful for her presence, not just for the help in maintaining the graves, but also because it reinforced to him that she was the best mom he could have ever asked for. The graves were not those of her parents, but belonged to his father's parents. William thought it was a great show of respect for her to help him. Father had passed a year before either of his parents. Not that it much mattered; William's father had seemingly forgotten both William and his own parents somewhere along the way. Father had given all his attention to his new wife for the last few years of his life.
"All done! Just let me pull these last few weeds before we go," Mother said. William nodded acknowledgement and absent-mindedly wandered the surrounding grave plots. Unknown faces of unfamiliar names blanketed the grounds nearby. He found himself suddenly wondering if he had even visited his father's grave. Feeling ashamed, he began searching in earnest for the site of his father's final resting place. He thought it was close at hand, perhaps in the vicinity of the small copse of trees a few dozen yards east of his grandparents.
After a ten minute search, William realized he could not find it on his own. Mom will know, I will ask her, he thought. "Hey Mom, I know this sounds weird, but I can't find Dad's grave...where is it?"
Mother cocked her head slightly, and after a brief pause says, "Will, your father was cremated, and your stepmother told us that she spread the ashes at sea, but we can't be sure that she really did."
"Oh. I forgot."
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
A vista
spiels with neon
Non-essential conversation repeating
Humanity hovers at the entrance
In this shopping centre every need seems urgent
Mouths pause their chatter
To sip at coffee or chow down burger
Gestures are reinforced with nail polish,
jewellery on many fingers
and small change passing across counter tops
In here the weather is neither warm nor cool
and everything seems designed to stimulate my mediocrity
Reflection in the shop-front is on sale at bargain price
but today I cannot afford to buy on impulse
I turn away to blend
With colourful blah
MChallis © 2009 (reworked 2014)
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC