"retrieving" poems
.
It's here again...
Heavy downpour...
I inhaled the rain,
cloying with petrichor.
Standing at my window,
looking out...
Street lamps struggled aglow.
People with brollies walking about.
My eyes reached out to the heavens,
tracing these glassy beads
as they'd free fall...
Falling by the sheets,
the pattering hastens,
periodically punctuated
by the thunder's call.
Mind is drifting and floating,
intently listening to a
million love wishes...
Liquid beauty...melding, sketching...
In light entrapped splashes.
Raindrops descend and come,
into my still life tonight...
Won't you will me numb,
with your chilly bite...
Wide-eyed enamour...
Catching a stray droplet or two.
Riding the tail of a zephyr,
finding a place where
no trouble could ensue.
An errant gust blew
to meet with me.
The refreshing moist
meets my parted lips...
Inhaling deep in this reverie...
Into a sea of tranquillity,
my mind slowly dips...
Sigh... If the droplets were kisses...
I would savour each and every one.
If the moist wind came and caresses
I would meet it in a tight embrace
till the break of sun.
What a sight...
Almost surreal it seems...
As the light from the surrounding
lamps dances playfully...
Dispersing and exploding into a
barrage of shattered beams.
Before it gets subdued in the drops
caught by the leaves on a nearby tree...
The drops would trickle
and fall before merging,
forming stranded puddles
unable to flow...
Rippling... Splashing... Reflecting...
An image...
Borne out of a fantastic show.
An image of beating hearts,
overlapping one another...
Speaking of consequential love
and feelings so true
Intertwined...
in the promise of forever...
Slowly retrieving itself into an...
image of you...
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
You are the light
That hides below the horizon
I await humbly for your rays
To illuminate this darkened season
You are the beacon
That would build me anew
Equip me with newfound notions
When dreams and hopes are far and few
You are the air
Of a fresh new start
Allowing this body another chance
At retrieving a brand new heart
You are the opportunity
Held my breath for far too long
Soon be granted to live again
And choose the right from the wrong
You are the day
Like many have too often said
Due to arrive after tonight
And embrace me as I laid in bed
You are the tomorrow
The promise of my brand new day
But there have been many tomorrows
That have come and gone away
You are my tomorrow
My future, bearing much needed balm
Maybe tomorrow I may finally realise
That you would never ever come
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
I crushed it, and it regrew anyways.
The hypothesis, was more romantic,
than tossing and yearning all night
over losing teeth in a giraffe fight.
Your hypothesis, was more romantically
worded, than a thesis on how birds die on impact
when colliding with a glass windowpane,
retrieving teeth lost during a giraffe brawl.
Worded, like the thesis about how birds die during impact,
each line of the letter dripped with invisible ink,
like colliding with a glass window. Pain
is only fleeting, if the end comes close behind.
Every line in each letter, drawn with invisible ink,
doesn't sound in the pronunciation, which
is only fleeting, if the end line draws closed behind.
So close your characters behind you, and don't let the draft in.
Does it not sound in the pronoun, the annulment of which
leaves every thing indefinite, and incomplete.
So clothe your characters before you, so they don't let in a draft,
and catch a cold from ****** or being indistinct.
What leaves everything indefinitely incomplete
other than the ability of the mind to hypothesize,
and catch a cold in the **** state of being extinct?
The inability to reconcile your metaphorical heart and instinct.
The others, they, have the ability to hypothesize,
about what makes us toss and yearn at night.
I forgave your inability to reconcile. My heart: pure instinct.
So you crushed it, and still it grew anyways.
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:18 PM UTC
(Holding fire and water together)
I don't know why the rain keeps writing the
name of Nigeria on the ground in every corner.
I don't know why we are this broken and
tortured like the fragments of the dust.
I don't know why the Dapchi girls returned yesterday while their chikbok friends are
still in captive.
I don't know why every street in Nigeria is
known with an imprint of good leaders.
I don't know why we cry yet point accusation. fingers back to ourselves, who is fooling who?
I don't know why the sun cry here with a
closed lips.
I don't know why we keep writing love stories
while our brothers and sisters perish in shame!
I don't just know why but I think you should know.
Are you not the one that collected a cup of rice, clean notes and Abrahamic lie from them?
I won't speak ill of this land again, I won't!
I won't judge any one, no, I won't for the
sake of my unborn children.
No, I won't for the sake of what happened to Dele Giwa and Saro Wiwa.
We poets are abnormal psychologically.
We paints abstraction from the abstracts creating fears that might hurt those true patriots.
My muse fell out from me yesterday night,
When my television opened to a scene of genocide.
Men on pants, women on trousers painting out the tears made for people inhabiting hell.
Their laughters and smiles were printed to be archived among themselves.
I won't speak ill of this country, no, I won't!
Because of my unborn children,
I won't!
But I will tell just one tale for them to remember
Of how monkeys carted away with our monies!
Of how Snake swallowed our currency!
Of how good our leaders are, I think you know!
I have been holding these demons in me until last night they came out horribly in fierce protest to revisit this land again.
To tell of those girls ***** under the bridge,
To ask why boys like me are named after me,
To speak against shadows of death lurking here and there.
Nigeria is grey and black, red and violent,
Retrieving this oceans of mysteries from the hidden abyss of grave corruption is the passport tabled on the pyramid top to recreate a versatile muses of a lyrics calling for a right to write our rights.
Take a walk to memory lane pass your shadow, that of your father, mother & grandmas
You will see a Nigeria in another angle trying to free herself from the grip of corruption, then, revisit her tears and struggles you will know we are the cause of our own misfortunes.!
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.
Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..
Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
**don’t
look**
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.
I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 1:42 AM UTC
my belly grows the size of a bag of apricots
there is a will at the bottom of a lake that needs retrieving
the car sank but the body made it to the shore and changed her name by midnight
come springtime the ice melts and the water is back
crawling upon shy ankles
there are growing pains who find a home between nettles and
the hives of adobe wasps
i never could cohabitate with nature
when they ask at parties where i've been
things that are at rest stay at rest
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
~
dark early pre-dawn
body suspended between the-dark ochre earth tones of night,
and the teal pealing notes of warning of an impending morning,
signs aborning, me rising with urgency of the leaden half deaden,
torn from the bed casket to venture into a different kind of twi-lights,
nature demanding both intake and outtake, a restoration of balance
but first a bumbling wobbling, the body as carnival bumper car,
installing soon-to-be-bruising for later examination-exhumation,
lurching from handhold crevices in the walls like crazy cliff climbers,
my balance disturbed, eyes try tearing apart the sticky glue of night,
my sense of direction keeping me from free falling into green glass
edges of glass tables, barely, and not always, red cuts evidentiary
“my balance disturbed” words fresh formed, and a poem expulsion
required to balance the unjust scales of spirit soul and the body cage,
patch an negotiated agreement between warring cousins, just a
twenty four hour ceasefire to retrieve the wounded and the
corpses unfounded in the small copses of false shelter,
like my ancestors expelled from Spain, making escape to be
strangers in strange lands, or remain hidden in place neath disguises
of clothes of new poems, prayers for old and new gods
this new poem comes quick like a young man making first love,
for the poem has been written by thousands nights of practicing,
so ready for quick retrieving in a smattering of a few minutes,
expulsion expulsion
what a perfect verbiage to capture the night terrors, the differentials,
the procession path between what was and what will be,
when my balance restored and this poem’s completion installation
in the body of my work, as a nail disguised in the works of my body,
entering by command of the pitch black gods
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
Those dog days of summer
Near forgotten and gone,
Are stored for the winter,
And remembered in song.
The dogs' days of winter
Tell a different tale,
Of dogs pulling sleds
In Alaska for mail;
Or searching the Alps
Bringing whiskey and ale,
Panting and pulling
In hills, waters and dales.
Siberian Huskies,
The Great Pyrenees,
The Alaskan Malamute,
Run off their tails
Battling death and disease.
The Keeshond
Doesn't wear
Wooden clogs,
Like the Newfie
And Wolfhound,
They're winter work dogs.
If working in snow
Isn't enough to freeze fur,
Look to the Lab,
In frigid waters
In layers of warm flab
Helping fishermen,
Or retrieving a lad.
These warm furied friends
Will work til their end.
The dog days of summer
Ran off with the pack,
Leaving the dogs
Of our winters
To haul, trail and track.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Your inferior intellect disgusts me. While I have some trouble verbalizing my own, I know that it is far more than what you display. Your immature actions and juvenile conduct will get you into trouble some day; real trouble. You may not even notice, because you are too stubborn to face the fact that you aren’t a goddess. You have bad intentions and wicked tongue. Your fuel is jealousy and your eyes are blind. But we’re both growing older, and one day you will realize that everything I’ve done has been good. Or maybe you won’t realize - if not, I will pity you, but I will have no mercy. We all have a choice. We all choose who we want to be, and I’m not disregarding DNA; I know it plays a role, it plays a strong one, but we feed on experience, and I expected better from you--of all people.
You’ve been put through the same evil that you construct. Why? I only want the best for both of us, for everyone. You seem to differ. I’m not sure if it’s selfishness, envy, or determination to make a point, but it’s something. I’m not sure of its irrelevance to our confrontation, but I sure as hell know that it is irrelevant to anything else. So, why? You know as well as I do that we all have our different skill-sets, different opinions, and different incentives, so if you’re trying to prove something, stop. You know the human can’t be tamed once his or her mind is set in place. You’re apparently set in stone. Maybe I am too, so do you understand now? You can’t change my mind. I will do as I please, just as you will. We are a lot alike, you and I. The only difference: yin vs. yang. And you know I’m right. Your inadequate hands, reaching out, just so someone will notice. Well I notice, okay? But I will not submit. Neither will he. So, please stop. I understand your apathy and your care, but is it genuine or is it all a lie? After all these years, I feel that I should know the truth, but now I feel that I don’t know you at all.
I’ve watched the change creep up your spine, and I don’t blame you, completely. I know the storm has been rough, but don’t you know that it covers the whole sky? We’re all getting rained on and all you seem to care about is your own umbrella. Sure, you may hand it to me every once in a while so I have a bit of cover, but I know that you’ll be retrieving it soon, just like always. I just hope that some day the sun comes out for you, because I want that for you. I want you to be okay. I want you to be happy. I want to be happy. I want your interference to cease. From one empath to another: I know you can feel it. You know you can be better. I’m not sure if it’s fear of failure or simple carelessness that’s getting in the way, but something is. You can control it. I would never intentionally disrespect you; you’re almost like a sister to me, an older sister. So start acting older. You have a substantial amount of potential in this life. All you have to do is let go of all the negativity and you’ll be set free. Just like me. I love you, so please understand.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
What happened to the dandies
Those gentlemen of the grandest Culture
Destroyers of dreaded boundaries
Mockers of meaningless morality
Inquisitors of a profound lack of imagination
Guardians of good taste
Messengers of modernity
What happened to those 19th century hipsters
Who so gracefully dissected Society
And whose wit and wisdom
Shook the foundations
Of mainstream hypocrisy
Of inept intellectualism
And lamentable lies
We are in dire need of retrieving
The lost art of being a dandy
To shake the foundations once more
And to revoke the righteous rage
Of the cultural creed
To set society aflame
With wit and wisdom
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
'I went out myself into
an immortal body, and
now I am not what I was
before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
weeding ‘n planting,
(ten rows of garlic, waiting to bite caressing hands)
<•>
unsurprisingly to me
garlic native to northeastern Iran,
so says the arbiter-know-it-all, Senor Wikipedia
did you know that,
amongst us,
a young woman whose back
is bent,
bent over,
weeding and weeping, while picking,
retrieving the fruit of the plain earths plane
spending days
retrieving spring-planted bulbs in the sun,
a mysterious poet residing among us
conjuring up poems and, **** even
plants questions
with granted permission
asks a strangers gasping queries
so simple she renders his
body from soul, makes him
disclose his crazy ill-at-ease
showing
his own
general roots,
slumbering deep in reddish brown soul’s earth
one whose only great escape
through the written poem
when his back is straight,
straight against the wall
backed up,
and ripe for the picking
in reparation
the favor will be returned
three inquiries will be fedex’d
if I ever learn her address
for now, in the throes of soil resting within,
my need knowings just nurturing
until the calendar declares time!
harvesting is now
when we ready shake hands
when you say
“here is the garlic tended,
and here are our hands,
bitten and caressed”
till such time I get
the answers from
the farmer herself,
I can patient wait
further research needs
original sources,
till such time,
make up tales
that will hold in abeyance
my half contented garlic dreams
for was it not written centuries ago:
Even After All this time The Sun never says to the Earth, "You owe me." Look What happens With a love like that, It lights the whole sky.
Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī
Jun 3, 2018
Jun 3, 2018 at 11:05 AM UTC
A famous "Barry Hodges" poem!
I was strolling along the Normandy beaches
In the close vicinity of Caen one day
With a very tasty piece of arm-candy to hand
When I found a bleached human femur on the beach.
Oh dear me, what thoughts this conjured up in my brain
As I imagined whose bone it might have been!
Perhaps some pathetic soldier boy landing in forty-four
Who got slotted by a gallant German gunner,
His eyes feasting on the sacrificial cannon fodder
So foolishly supplied for his target practice.
Then, as I grabbed my lady friend's juicy ****
Causing her to turn and sink her tongue into my earhole,
We sank onto the sands in order to sate our lusts,
(enflamed by a very delicious meal of moules marinières
and a bucket or two of well-chilled Muscadet sur Lie)
I thought, what the **** does it all matter?
This is now, and that was then, and this old world
Has become a much nicer place nowadays;
But how mistaken I was in that fond thought;
Oh what an idealist I am in a world of woe.
For, all of a sudden, a contingent of fat dwarfs appeared,
Totally naked apart from their luminous Uncle Sam hats
And the Stars and Stripes hanging from their arseholes;
How I marvelled at their disgusting shapes
(and how surprised was I to find their genitals
were of normal measurements and thus
rather intrusively large by comparison
with the rest of their miniature bodies).
O dear Lord and alleged Father of Mankind
Forgive their horrid ways verily and forsooth.
With a whoop, those demented military retards, [see note below]
The famous 118th battalion ****** Marine veterans,
A contingent of whom emerged from a portable toilet
(which must have been a bit of a tight squeeze),
Chopped my girl-friend up with their bayonets,
Whereupon I crapped myself in terror and pity,
Before retrieving the purse from the eviscerated corpse,
Realizing that her PIN number was still useable
Until 'les flics' discovered her unfortunate remains
After the shore ***** had partaken thereof.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
And she danced to the gorgeous melodies of the ocean waves.
Echoing grace in her courageous and forgiving heart.
Retrieving what she lost in the darkest cave of the past.
A song of promise
to her most bearing self.
All the love that she deserves.
Everything she forgot
to give herself
before.
Jun 4, 2022
Jun 4, 2022 at 9:42 PM UTC
"I didn't mean that..." he said retrieving his coat
that was resting on my shoulders
Protecting me from the wind and sleet coming down
I can deal with a lot in a relationship
the dates spent with you crying on my shoulder
me, constantly wiping away your tears
The ninja star you through at my picture
reassuring you I said "It wasn't my favorite picture anyway"
but when you sent me a bar of chocolate and the poem
Every day for two months, without much a word
or a minute in your company
a replacement for your heart
a gift that you retrieved
what are your words,
without your actions holding them up
You later told me "I didn't give anything in the past half year to you out of love"
what did you give it out of?
Pride?
revenge?
Pity?
You know better then anyone
I don't need that 5 dollar chocolate, that just goes down like a weight
or the poems, long words that meant nothing, a long way of saying
here is a page with words on it for you.
because you can't tell me in person
"You mean nothing to me but a five dollar chocolate and long words on a page"
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 1:11 AM UTC
She wrote his name on the seashore, along with what she never told. Taking a step back, she let the turbulent waves crash upon the shoreline and wipe away it all away. She let the words be taken back by the retrieving waves, letting them be lost in the sea. Inhaling the cold air that made every cell of her shiver she hoped one day the words will be whispered by the breeze from the sea.
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 5:32 AM UTC
Dear Love,
How dare you? Keeping me in the dark for so long... Blinding me with expectations, toying with my Ego, leaving me to fend off Fear-- and all for what? So I could grow? So I could see beyond this world of illusion-- beyond the farce of fame, the unending stroke of Time, the loneliness of pain, the screeching void of darkness? How dare you?
How dare you break the comfort of the weak man I'd learned to be? Stripping off the habits from my body-- only to send them back in a tighter, sexier dress. Replacing the sweet nectar of oblivion with the sweeter taste of empty knowledge. Giving me false hope so I could see hope as false... How dare you give me life and just as swiftly take it back?
How dare you test my patience, bow my will and give me faith? Making me responsible for my body, mind & soul-- granting wishes long enough to see them turn to dust. And all for what? So I could learn? So I could fall? So I could stand, so I could fall?
As if your endless tide of giving and retrieving, over thousands of lives, could make me be like you. As if your never-ending understanding could ever make me bloom. As if by every test of strength you've sent, has been to know me true. As if by pain you'd see me gain a wisdom, such as you....
Love,
Damian
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
I'm not going to be a teenage wasteland forever
Someday I'm going to stop polluting my body and hating my mother
I have an addiction to those
toxic remedies
like hair dye
nutmeg
and bleach.
I'll be taking calcium supplements
for dwindling marow
and for once I'll actually care about politics.
Daddy had a habit of calling me a
super-feminist
just because I wouldn't bring him his slippers
when he got home
from retrieving the mail.
I've always hated dogs in the house
so I became vegetarian.
My subscription to Cosmopolitan has long
been expired.
Instead I stick my fingers inbetween the crevices
of the fan
There's a secret to resentment:
Hang it up in the closet
on the hanger
next to the apron.
It's wanting to pour wasabi down pants
so they feel the kick
so they can hear
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
I love my little butterfly
Who flits from room to room
Retrieving toys for little boys
And pushing back her broom
I love my little butterfly
Who works from dawn till night
Untangling curls for little girls
And making boo-boos alright
I love my little butterfly
Who floats on house shoe wings
And tells them stories of ancient glories
Of distant queens and kings
I love my little butterfly
Who works the whole day through
Changing diapers and windshield wipers
And cooking chicken stew
I love my little butterfly
And loved her from the start
Each new sunrise her angel eyes
Captivates my heart
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
Tired of explaining
Ignoring the presence of my stillness==
as you walk with bitterness==
your radiance is no longer true==
a melody with seduction over due==
the song so bad wiped out by you==
rotating my abdomen==
from the soul==
the worms inside==
they all die==
under your control==
separating the way==
is as if though==
all the beauty in the world==
up and lived==
you are more than i need==
drowning in my own abyss==
judging you one==
right after the other==
a hellish so profound==
Revelations passed so suddenly==
expression of limbo i replay==
the revenge==
the revoke==
suffer catting my oxygen==
they illness==
then lifeless==
they identify==
then disgust==
never play the sensitive==
feel my needs==
like the wound full of abscess==
a sore to never go away==
yes like the illness==
then lifeless==
dropped addict==
these shivers down my spine==
identify, escape, abuse of certain==
announcing it even more==
proof that i am found==
out of love==
the mind finally receives==
Revolution with open eyes==
the heart is trapped to proceed==
clever than the open skies==
old sweat glands in my hand==
retiring the mind==
the best of my heart has no stand==
died from your retrieving cries==
advancing to my knowledge==
the darkness that you lend==
DISCLOSURE==
to==
in the depth of your eyes ==
i run before you hypnotize==
oblivion to the Valley of your wits==
refusing to relive the song==
feeling that are gone==
never will it feel right==
i still feel the rotation==
exhale went out your soul==
exiting far from sight==
revoke an end to your light==
a kiss of death to you good night==
a kiss of death to you good night==
By: p.d.
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 3:58 AM UTC
a clairvoyant sketches a gravedigger
retrieving a dead child
it was midnight inside his heart
and in the drawings
a limo hints at a tale
murmurs in the crevices of night
trying to find a way out of
or onward beyond
the cul-de-sac
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 8:41 AM UTC
She stared blankly at the computer screen
With its flickering screen of judgement.
What are you looking at?
Silence. A screensaver.
Enough of that sass.
It was finally complete.
Her hair wearing its disheveled frizz like a badge of honor
From all-night typing
And two pots of coffee
Where her comb-fingers turned the smoothness of her hair
Into a stress-reliever
As she muttered madly to herself
(But quietly, so as not to wake the roommates
Who slumbered in their honey chambers
Away from the heart of her hive of activity).
She had buzzed all night
On a caffeine-high
That made her hands tremble
Her muscles ache
And her eyes hate her.
And now
With too much to do
And a limited time to do it in
She had to keep buzzing.
Coffee *** number three was carefully stored
In a travel mug
That she clutched to her clavicle
Just to keep the warmth that much closer to her hyped-up heart.
She made her stops at offices and libraries
Retrieving promised letters
And printing the labors of her night intensive
Before she could finally deposit it
Behind the glass windows
Of the scholarship office.
This is too much work for less-than-ideal odds.
But she had no time to dwell
On the gamble she had made
And paid in hours of wakefulness
And the inked-up peelings from tree corpses.
She rushed from class to class
Where she tried to speak in coherent sentences,
To dance with sharp choreography,
And to contribute to society
But her body hated her
Because she had betrayed it
And deprived it of the only thing that it truly loved in this world:
Sleep.
It would have its vengeance.
It would have its vengeance when she was old, creaky, and could no longer move.
But for now, her body made do with small rebellions
To demonstrate its displeasure.
Sentences were not sentences
And every turn, leap, and twist
Made her think longingly of sleep.
And her body laughed.
But at long last,
The sun set
The girl slept
And then the sun rose.
And this continued to happen
Many times.
It rose and it set
It rose and it set
It rose and it set
Until she had forgotten
And her body had forgiven
The sleepless night.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
a friend posed the question
there is a first world
and there is a second world,
but where do you find the
second world?
and sadly i think i know the answer.
the second world lives is
the hidden shadows of the
first.
and is populated by....
.....those who live in the shells
of architect designed houses, with no power running
water,
..or worse live in cars or
couchsurf.
....it is those pensioners who
exsist on tinned cat food
and teabags re-used
seven times.
....old people who wear their entire wardrobe in the winter
cold.
....children with bad teeth and chronic health issues
un-attended because they
can't afford a doctor
...it is the man,
who died the other day.
hit by a train,
while his children watched,
retrieving some dropped groceries,
he got from,
a food drive van.
...it was the first food
they would have had in 48hrs,
the child stated for reporters.
this .....
is the second world!!!
right here ....
mostly hidden from sight
not even reminded by sad
tv ads
only when abject utter tragedy
happens
do we see a glimpse
of the second worlder's
desperate plight.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
Everyone has baggage
A suitcase from the past
It's how we choose to deal with it
That decides if it will last
Me - I have a steamer trunk
Bursting at the seams
Full of bits & pieces
Broken hearts & shattered dreams
Stuffed full of self objection
Self criticism & blame
Cloaked in dust & cobwebs
You can barely see my name
But now I shall unpack it
From the attic of my mind
Pull it out into the light
From the place it's been consigned
The lock is old and rusted
Battered from the sea
From the ashes of emotions
But I have a brand new key
And so I delve into its depths
Retrieving from the embers
Fragments of my past - that
It hurts me to remember
Old books, cassettes & letters
Hankies soaked with tears
The crumbs of old injustice
The mammoth bones of fear
I lay them out around me
And soak up all the pain
Seeing them with new eyes
Before I shut the lid again
Lurking in the darkness
Hidden underneath the rope
That I put there once to end it
Is a polished gem of hope
I grab it with both hands
Clasp it tight against my breast
This tiny piece of energy
Undetected in the chest
I shall put it in my pocket
And stroke it when I'm down
When my world closes in on me
It will soothe away my frown
Because now I own my baggage
It's no longer in the past
I have hope, self love & guidance
And this is set to last
Be un afraid my friends
Of those suitcases of old
That weigh you down, drag you along
Sheathed in grime & mould
Unpack them & rejoice my friends
Find the hope submerged inside
And love yourselves, like others do
And do it - with a sense of pride
(C) Pixievic 2016
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:13 AM UTC