"rifling" poems
Introduction
There they stood; keeping silent company.
Yet of His face, wept searing electricity.
To the lovers of life
Here they stand, keeping silent company.
No utterance dealt; yet clear in both their minds
A single, brilliant truth:
He longs for her with a savage delight.
And it cries from every fibre, exalting!
It is in the bearing of his eye;
Rifling through her tender flesh
In search of what he knows, from voices ages old, is there:
That her heart will beat for no other as it beats for him right now;
That in this moment, their Souls are bared
To each other’s glares- naked, and blemished, and cowering-
Yet his eyes remain fixed and sure:
And for this, she loves him.
For they have seen each other for the First of Times,
Truly! And as with many the Ancient Laws unfurled,
They stand aware, in lack of ever being taught,
Aware with every atom, every straining tendon tight
That their time's so very short.
And so they drink… wordless
To each other, to their youth, and to their bodies
Shining like never before in the noonday air
Garbed in cloth that snaps and furls around their waists.
They imbibe with electric eyes,
Eyes that are new born to this world of light
And come out screaming, living, and sensitive
For lack of ever being touched.
They revel in their new-found joy;
Pouring from Her figure,
Of Her sleek, supple waist and the arch of her back,
Bristling with delight,
Of His strong hands and easy smile,
That spoke of laughter scattered
Across countless campfires of summers past.
Their light does burn intense as any fire,
And when their brimming anticipation
Overspills its crimson chalice
The silence shall SHATTER.
To find peace again in each other's arms.
Fumbling in sweet darkness-
Of heavy lids, of earthy flesh,
With lips embraced...
In ravenous finality.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 5:14 PM UTC
Where is the patriotism?
Nowadays everyone is diving in the ocean of imagination
Regardless of what is happening to the nation
The majority of educated people who never stood in poll lines to give votes
Can now be seen in Bank and ATM lines collecting pink notes
Everyone tries to show patriotism in their famous poem and notations
But when it comes to reality everyone they are pretending that they had just went into depression
On the night of 8 November the poor felt that they had become wealthier than the rich
But now the politicians have started commenting that their situation is not less than the homeless *****
On the same night all the corrupt started rifling their old currency notes
Few were found in the pillow covers and few in the Tommy's dusty coats
The next morning the scrap of old notes were found some in the dustbin, some on the river Ganges and even on the boats...
Now I have just a simple question, is this the patriotism they had all the time showed?
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:39 PM UTC
If ever there was a time to stop breathing I chose a clearing at dawn.
A deer appeared right as the gleam of the sun touched the top of the forest line.
I heard a chipmunk scurrying across the oak roots rising from the ground.
A cardinal group begins to sing in the distance--as their sounds reaches me, I realized I have been distracted and turn my attention back to the fourteen point, white-tailed buck in the clearing.
I slowly lift my weapon.
I set my aim, positioning the cross (in the scope) at the shoulder of this magnificent creature, and I catch my breath.
The situation itself is far beyond a man simply taking the life of an animal--exceeds the thrill of a firing pin striking, creating an explosion that builds pressure, sending a six centimeter long, one and a half centimeter wide copper-coated bullet through the rifling pattern and into a target one hundred and fifty yards away.
I believe that Destiny brought us together based on the choices we both made.
I can only guess the animal's intentions (running away from a predator, looking for a mate, etc)
Myself? I am here because I argued with my wife of 25 years.
The deer drops to the ground.
We all make choices.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
I feel the friction raising blisters to fingers.
I feel the whispers of the smoke when it lingers,
a siren rifling delirium
and biting to the throat of a genius
who questions how bad miasma hurts the singer.
It's the quintessential fever dream between us
Oh, he's so smart, look at his three page diatribe
describing his rage, he's a machinist
yeah
Go join the dire parades of craven weakness.
Admire reagents calculated to the T,
brewed and created for playfully degrading,
and raising heart rate, lying to you,
and prying from your fingers.
When they ask you why you're dying be facetious.
Just sew the mask on to your face and make it seamless.
Breath it in.
Smell the plastic and bone.
Relax enraptured in what half of us know.
We drink the rumors from a chalice,
sink in fallacies of balance,
humor actuates the patterns,
and its harder to battle the tumor after it's grown.
Then we're just grass on the road,
and we can laugh as we go,
and we can act as if inaction
ain't the crack in the stone.
And we'll be baffled alone.
We'll be the practical applicants
of a graph of a lung,
hung in a school.
Drooling hospital drones.
Stool in a bag on his side.
Try to hide the agony in seeing lagging behind
tank of life on a chain.
Banking his breath on a check,
and when it bounces he dies.
It ends faster than you think it might.
Don't even start.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
what do you say in a traditional wedding toast?
I’m not a traditionalist
I’m a poet
I’m not too good at structured, sentimental texts
i speak in chopped verses so
here’s my non-traditional, non-structured, sentimental wedding toast
in verse
my memories
flash and fade quickly like lights flicker on and off
i'm toddling around the house right behind you
where are you going?
can i come too?
i'm barefoot in the driveway washing your car
you took pictures, no doubt laughing at the streaks we left on the windows because, shortness
i'm sitting on the bus rifling through your purse like the nosy little kid I am
you're chaperoning one of my school field trips
one of the aids asks if you're my mother
you chuckle and say "nope, i'm her sister"
i roll my eyes because isn't it obvious we're sisters?
okay, it wasn't obvious we're sisters
i'm bouncing down the hallway to your room
stopping suddenly at the sight of packing boxes
college
you're leaving me
"we'll be okay" you said
i believed you even though i could have sworn
i was losing my sister to the big city for good
we wrote letters
we skyped
we emailed
and i called you
so many times
we were okay
fifth grade, you bring a guy home
but not just any guy
i think we all knew this one was different
i saw it in your eyes
i was only 11 but i knew what love looked like
b, you always told me i was the wind beneath your wings
you can't break the bond of sisterhood
you just can't
but maybe the bonds will loosen
i thank you for the memories
they were fantastic and i'm looking forward to seeing what the future has in store for us
i'm thinking
babies would be nice
In time...
so my dear sister,
tell me how married life is
i hope this night was everything you always dreamed of
nick, you've got to be
the happiest guy in the world right now
i'm only 16 but i know what love looks like
it looks like his gaze on her glowing beauty
it looks like a promise of forevers proclaimed in front of loved ones
it looks like my sister
finding her other half
and my brother in law
finding his.
-rgp
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Pluviophile
(n) a lover of rain;
someone who finds joy and peace of mind
during rainy days.
Its raining again, I smile
The shadows of the droplets
Flickering in the window are juxtaposed upon my face.
I watch the delicate lines run down along my skin
Two of them parallel with eachother form a tic-tac-toe board
Between the shadows and the scars along my wrist
I chuckle with the morbid humor of carving in my first move. X. Bottom right corner
It's a smart move. I can move many ways to leave my opponent helpless
Distracted, I look again out the window.
I think about how as a child I watched
Wide eyed with ecstasy as two drops
One right next to the other
Edging
Edging
Edging forward.
One racing the other
Both eager to reach the window pain where they will finally be free of my unforgiving gaze
Last time I watched two drops race like that they were red.
The poor wood floor was stained with their bitter victory
I think now about that race.
Breaking my trance my eyes shutter over to the throw rug that I hide my sins under
I walk over and stand upon it.
I can just barely see the window from this angle.
I see the cold white tongue of lighting
Flickering it's serpents tongue in the distance
I remember a cold tongue.
The same one that degraded me
Told me nasty things
I remember walking threw the halls of school and hearing people muttering being me
'Look at her!'
'Hey guys who let the cattle out the barn?'
'Does she even own a shower?'
I felt spit sting the side of my face.
The crack of thunder brings me back,
I'm dizzy with displeasure
My blood has gone colder than before
Colder than the knife that cut me.
The rain intensifies as if it sees what I'm doing
What chaos I'm bestowing on myself
The smooth grip of my Father's 44 fits elegantly in my hand,
It feels like it's just an extension of myself,
As if it belongs there as much as my fingers do.
The chrome lined rifling grids out the direction of my bronze freedom fighter to fly
I look at the back of the barrel,
It reminds me of a toy spyglass I had when I was young,
**** the hammer
The thunder rumbles over the screams of my family...
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
Self censored
I bite my own tongue
Till it bleeds
And small seeds
Of doubt and worry
Scurry
From my throat
Down down down
To my stomach.
Can’t breathe for the
Stifling
Can’t speak for the thoughts
Rifling through my heart
Tearing apart the layersI have sewn.
Ripping at seams
And spilling through the gaps
Fears planted
Enchanted
All I can do is gag.
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 7:25 PM UTC
The lines bleed onto the paper
Aligning themselves into words and pictures
Masterpieces standing ignorant
of their own beauty.
Pastels sitting on canvas
Being pushed around with a brush.
They form many different hues.
Mixing with deep purples and vivid blues
Painting such a sad story.
That whispers of pain and vain glory
The edges are tattered and torn to pieces
The canvas is severely moth eaten
But the artist loved it,
It is his life's work.
for many years it had been lost
Rotting and fading and falling apart
But He searched relentlessly
Turning over and rifling through everything.
Until he found it
His eyes brightened up
Despite its dismal look
It had lost hope of ever being beautiful
Of being dignified
Of ever bringing hope to somebody's eyes
But the artist whispered to that tattered canvas
You are so much more than all of these
you are my masterpiece
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
In silence
I find
Myself.
Imagine,
Medusa's head
Snakes tamed.
A snake charmer
Hypnotising
Crazed carcophonous
Vermin.
In my silence
The rhythmic
Tick tock
Over working
Body clock.
A man,
A wandering
Existence.
He seeps into
My nights
Seeking fights
To waver the
War.
A war in
Which,
Silence is my
Saviour.
In silence
I find
Myself.
The charmer
Within me
Calms those
Rattling snakes
Rifling through
& through.
In silence
I find
Myself.
© Sia Jane
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
Shifting eyes, the last bird flies
When she tip toes out the door
To a world she knows holds so much more
Then a night that ends on the floor
But she's up to her skirt in gin and juice
And her lung's are calling for a truce
Cause you can only get so far with cheap cigars and perfume
A witch can only get so far without her broom
She's been rifling through her purse
Digging for something to make her cauldron bubble and burst
She used jump and jive to put me under a curse
Looks like i'm leaving in the back of her hearse
And now we're both playing dead
Pretending to be asleep in her bed
So I gently kissed her on the top of her head
Watching her sleeping cheeks blush red
With my shifting eyes, the last bird flies
When I tip toed out the door
To a world I know holds so much more
Than a night that ends on the floor
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:35 AM UTC
you walk on a tightrope,
laugh at me, at
all the little people on the ground.
you sing like the first to,
every time, and the rest of us are
echoes of your sound.
yet even you are not immune
to the stricter facts of life-
even you will cut your tongue
when you eat off the
edge of a knife.
*flinging open windows,
rifling through drawers,
searching for a costume to
wear beneath your smile-*
(you are that missed call feeling, dear,
with fingers fumbling for the dial)
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
swirling through the crisp December air
snowflakes glisten in the light
streaming from windows that showcase trees
adorned will sparkling ornaments
and shimmering stars.
twinkling in the distance
from the peaceful, stoic cathedral
are the bells that sit high in the steeple.
i discern the haunting, glorious tune of
o holy night.
a song that is captivating and overwhelming
with its understated power
hidden in an almost melancholy key
that leaves me frozen in awe,
though i've heard this song before.
i startle as a child and her father stride
swiftly by me on the icy sidewalk.
she slips, but he gracefully scoops her up
and places her gently on his strong shoulders.
her contagious giggles blend with
his easy laugh - a sound as stunning
as the exhilarating chorus of the bells
this laughter now harmonizes with.
i'm lost in the melody of happiness
until the two disappear into the warmth of their home
and i'm again alone on the street.
memories brim and sparkle in my eyes,
simultaneously flooding my cheeks and my mind
and for a fleeting moment, i sense him.
his strong hand is in my small one,
squeezing, so i'm aware of his loving presence.
but a cold gust of harsh winter sweeps in
and he is gone and it is only me.
my mittens wipe away the memories
as i dazedly continue on my way
to my house
breathless from the emotion of yet another
blessed Christmas season
filled with the tragic beauty
of days spent rifling through distant,
yet starkly distinct memories
of the loving embrace of my guardian angel.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
There's not a single taste that will ever compare
To the strawberries we picked down the bank near the birch tree grove.
Remember how small they were?
Squishy in our hands, staining them red.
Resembled the red bloodstains that adorn our palms now.
Everything's slowing fading to black, and all I can see is the sun refracting off the broken glass strewn around us.
That must be what the pinpricks of pain smattered across the back of my body is.
Glass shards carving into me.
Do you feel those too?
Or are you occupied by the gaping hole in your chest?
Look, I have one too.
Now we're twins.
Feel their fingers rifling through my pockets, searching for diamonds and gold but coming up with gum wrappers and lint.
Was that you coughing up liquid?
I can't quite see anymore.
But I can still feel.
I think.
I don't know.
I think it's cold.
Can you feel it too?
But it's not like the chill you feel when the shower suddenly goes cold.
This cold creeps, undetected, from your toes up.
Crawling through your veins to your heart.
And your brain.
Not quite sure which one it reaches first.
I'll tell you when it happens.
Or you tell me.
Whoever has it happen first should warn the other, ok?
Baby?
Can you hear me?
Do you feel cold?
Hello?
Answer me!
Wait.
I feel it now.
It's your heart.
It's the heart it reaches first.
I feel like someone's ripped it out and replaced it with a clump of snow.
Baby, please warm it like you warmed my hands that night we got lost out in the woods.
Because this doesn't feel right.
I don't think we were made to live like this.
I don't think I can keep....
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 11:42 PM UTC
Winter amassed his victories
With cold clear spears,
Lined along eaves;
Cannon clouds hurling
Swirling whiteouts,
Blades of wind rifling
Body armor.
But battles aren't wars.
Spring's cavalry
Comes charging.
We're flipping suns,
Pouring golden sweet rays,
And fattening-up
For the final on-slaught
Of a battle weary warrior.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
I want to be the sun,
dancing on grass so green
and dappled through leaves.
The dreams you've never dreamed to dream
whilst sitting by rivers and roaming through trees.
The thoughts you've never thought to think
whilst drawing on foggy windows or walking up stairs.
I want to be the wind,
dancing on waves so blue
and whistling through masts of boats.
The songs you've never sang just to sing
whilst running through darkness of forests and leaves.
The dances you've never dared to dance
whilst squeezing through crowds and moving to music.
I want to be the rain,
dancing on fields so golden
and spattering down on cobbled roads.
The sentences you've never thought to write
whilst staring through windows and rifling through papers.
The words you've never thought to say
whilst running through storms and perching under branches.
I want to be the thunder,
bursting through skies so red
and rumbling across blackened horizons.
The plans you've never planned to plan
whilst crouching in doorways and rubbing your hands.
The walks you've never taken or walked
whilst breathing out fog and sheltering cigarettes.
I want to be the hail,
rolling down hills so steep
and freezing the water that falls from the air.
The hands you've never braved to hold
whilst wrapped up in towels and dripping in warmth.
The hearts you've never dared to love
whilst sitting by fires and colouring cheeks.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
seminal squirt didst sanctify
an anonymous boulder
when mercury dipped below
hashtag mark registering colder
than usual temperatures circa
winter of year 2000 in proximity
to the sacred chapel
at Valley Forge, Pennsylvania
(house zing carillon player)
rifling thru manilla folder
first inn search of apropos
mailer daemon ***** muse sic,
thence finely pitted secretly riddled with holes
encoded sheet threaded thru bell jar contrivance
sans, handy dandy mechanical holder
to accompany prurient powerful ******* pang
bubbling (like the **** kens), and didst smolder
especially, cuz a free ranging
NON GMO, **** in boots
hello kitty sauntered
(emanating pheromone heat
hand dill lee pronouncing feral passe faux foots),
dripping, seething with hormonal secretion
uttered via vow welled roots
gluten and monosodiumglutinate free *****
hapt tabby on the prowl ready
for par laid view ****** piqued Saint Peter
to enter heavenly labial shoots
rather than suffer frost bite
the above mew wing tigress attempted
to keep toasty warm
('thru minuscule tunnel
lacked add **** quit light)
prickly endowment fired
raging testosterone
with braggadocio, brio, bravura and might
owing pretentiously pusillanimous feline
fur reed black as night
hood hit attempt to cap cha moxie ********
thus ensuing a mutually satisfactory plight
until a park ranger back his utility truck
than gregarious, felicitous, erogenous
then quick as greased lightening
***** creatures disappeared out ta sight.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC
Nationwide Insurance twas on my side yay
cuz, earlier this July forth
two thousand eighteen ja way
windows closed, doors locked, and
car keys visibly splayed
on driver seat oye vay
feel free to call me a horse's *** today
utter anxiety compounded,
plus unable to locate master key,
thence fodder for poem and more to say
rifling thru boxes without success,
an impulse arose to call road
upon learning policy
doth include locksmith service,
ah felt less doggone snappish,
and uttered hoo ray
though modest aye,
congratulated awesome,
fulsome, and handsome
self on quick thinking,
and automatically became less tiresome
pondering for no particular rhyme nor reason
(as a getaway) Panama or Paraguay
then immediate decided,
sans ditto explanation,
but no how and nay
yet honest to dog suddenly felt
like a young lovestruck lad
during month of May
and without further delay
a compulsion arose
to putter along, though
momentarily gazing heavenward
and counting (just beak caws)
glistening black crows
plus painfully aware
a spike in recurrent
"senior" moment of forgetfulness grows,
thus starkly aware significant rustiness
increasingly, frightfully,
and chokingly coats
lix spit tillage harrows
resuming schlepping dishabille
crotchety bedeviled aching
body electric irksome
with fringe benefit (such as
momentary lapse of reason)
quite aware mettlesome
ness of youth nonrefundable,
non-reliable, and non-retrievable,
and guaranteed continued
pricking, viz nettlesome
degenerating aging telomeres,
sensate perspicuity, and oxysomes
leaving a once robust person some
what discombobulated
and easily toilsome.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 7:39 PM UTC
It's clear that I have lost friends
That's what fire in your soul and the resulting fearlessness brings
I don't have a lot of intelligent open minded people rifling through my works or giving them the attending or attention they deserve. They might overlook the irony sarcasm, wit or inherent fairness that is so carefully crafted into endless themes. Sometimes a social leveler, others a defensive maneuver of a wounded animal or all out aggressive neutralizing campaign. Regardless, I never wrote for any of them, I wrote for me.
They were just lucky I let them see.
- The SS
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 7:39 PM UTC
The morning after is strangely calm.
"Morning is blissful because it has
no memories."
says the sylph, rifling through her satchel.
"It only thinks about the
future, what it wants to do,
where it wants to go.
"Then the evening comes,
who remembers
the weight of
the world.
Sometimes it hides behind clouds and
cries."
"And of the night?"
"The night, knowing the sorrows of her siblings,
casts a veil over
everyone else.
She gathers all the suffering she can and swallows it
whole."
"Does it hurt?"
"Sometimes."
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 1:52 AM UTC
I'm sitting on the sidewalk and it starts to rain
I like the rain
it's romantic
Flashback to a different sidewalk walk to my car arm in arm in the streetlights of the passing cars dancing through our eyes
we kissed
and the rain tracked teardrops down our cheeks
because god knew we wouldn't do it ourselves
through the storm in our eyes
lines blurred between object and malice
problems rose up from the primordial goo of my personality
evaporating into lust and distrust
my insecurities manifest like rainclouds in her independent sky
I'm sitting on the sidewalk and it starts to rain
I like the rain
it's romantic
numb phone plastered against my face
I told her she was ready to pull the trigger from date one
Her stalwart no's were a pressure like her fingers, rifling through the hair on the back of my head
I'm sitting on a sidewalk
the rain tracks teardrops down my cheeks.
because god knew i wouldn't do it myself.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 4:58 PM UTC
My mouth is full of words that are not my own
Labeled with my name, but not my own.
Left in a room of hungry cannibals,
Who consume the weak skins
Who consume the broken souls
My words have escaped,
they have left me alone
I and even though
I have my fists,
I still feel my tongue,
against the roof of my mouth
rifling through pages of pointless vocabulary
blank pages, full of empty spaces,
except for a few:
I'm sorry.
I don't know.
Please, don't hurt me.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
A Toast
Holding up a ***** gimlet
Told the bartender how to make it
Most will give you a look before rifling
Through the book
Their are really just two points of view
External Influence
And reality as you see it
I know a balance of both is closer to true
But sometimes the external leaves you
with a horrible feeling deep in your personal hells
You don't feel the way you should
Some people waste their time absorbing Everyone Else
I will take my chances and be more like Ed Wood
I will take another ***** Gimlet please.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
You’d like to think such work was done by stolid, silent monks
Quilling ancient parchment in some great hall,
Stilted shafts of sunlight filtered by primordial dust,
Incense wafting on unseen breezes as only incense can,
Time measured in the tap of finger cymbals, the odd table-top gong,
But the reality was, as reality is wont to be,
The very essence of mundane:
An unprepossessing warehouse in an unremarkable neighborhood
In a better-days-gone-by northeastern city
All high ceilings, fluorescent lighting, owlish men and women
Hunched over not-quite-obsolescent Macs,
Rifling through squat, square metal cabinets
Filled to overflow with sundry clippings and clip-art,
Fighting deadlines and technical demons
In order to have camera-ready copy done in time
To meet the narrow print window of the small newspaper
Which committed these noble teachings to paper
(The pressmen watching them quick-step the plates in,
Bemused to an extent, but a print job is a print job is a print job.)
All of this in the past of course,
Certain things being pedestrian yet inexorable,
The newspaper falling victim to the nuances of readership and ROI,
The improbability of top-line growth, the inevitability of retrenchment,
Its press operations shut down and moved elsewhere,
The old press bay converted to the most micro of micro-business,
A concern selling chocolates and other sweets
(One assumes His Holiness is unaware of such events,
Although you’d hope that he would, upon hearing the tale,
Smile that particular smile, thousand-watt yet somewhat inscrutable,
And golf-clap his hands and chuckle, Sweeeet. Ah, sweet.)
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 9:44 AM UTC
i can’t close the deal
it’s never more than maybes
i don’t know what you feel
it’s never more than vapours
and your deciding
is wrenching inside me
just like you want it to
rifling through my drawers
absent minded
pointless fumbling
tossing out
flipping and flopping
like a desperate child
take this piece away
it doesn’t belong
death covered windows
the vision all wrong
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC