"risers" poems
~
spontaneous men,
they say, are hard to find,
but me,
not in 100% agree
men-t
~
we, the early risers,
i.e. before she bestirs,
eyes still closed we shave,
with magic mouth wash green,
breathe dragon flames pepper-minty
go deep into planning-surprise mode,
so soon to be proving
ourselves in plenty
possession of
spontaneity
which, shockingly is just
the way she likes it...
~
P.S. Oh, what webs we weave when first we need
to get
laid...
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
She may not have been your prototype teen or hiree.
Or of the masses. Or herd.
However, she did walk into a McDonald's
approach the counter
emit an esoteric exchange for help with the cashier
and with knowing eyes
the cashier directed her to the starting gate.
Now
with application in hand
and blue ribbons in her eyes
she was off to the horse races,
nervousness riding on her shoulders.
In my eyes, she was a longshot to win,
where I could see her shoes falling off
before the race started.
And her imaginary jockey falling off her horse
from laughing so hard,
for she presented herself through the restaurant
and a job interview with a Starbucks frappe,
totally oblivious of her unwrapping.
It would be like turning up for a Yankee's job
in a Red Sox outfit.
Who would do this?
As the rubberneckers, I looked on.
Incredulous.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
complimentary.
But those jeans, high risers, with holes in the knees
with a white Bebe shirt that hugged her shape
shouted trendy but not job interview.
Oh, my.
She continued the procession
extracting info from her phone
and filling out her application.
No doubt with votive candles at her side
and prayers on her lips.
And perhaps blue ribbons awaiting.
After all, this was her foot in the door.
It was at this time
I had an epiphany moment
tears welling in my eyes
as I slipped on hamburger choices
and sipped on past life on a teether,
totally oblivious, too.
It was like looking in the mirror.
Her youth and awkwardness and my growing decadence
towards the light.
When the manager came in and summoned her
to the interview table,
which was located in the dining room,
I saw a little kitten purr inside of her,
where her eyes nervously checked her surroundings.
At first introduction,
the reddening blush on her face and Adam's apple
stood pronounced
but her low voice was choked.
Almost inaudible.
As the manager put her calming hands
into hers
the light turned on
all foreboding escaping.
All misplaces and tense faces replaced with aces.
This was a defining moment for her,
as the golden arches braced her feet,
making all the rubberneckers, me, proud.
Logan Robertson
6/6/2018
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
it's you.
i would have never known
unless i saw
the light meet your face
that morning.
neither of us are early risers,
but i couldn't waste
a second.
above me,
at 6:40 in the morning,
a perfect blend of
blue, gray, and sincerity,
which was born
on the rising sun,
peered through an ivory curtain,
and landed on a gentle face.
infinity soaked gaze,
honey coated touch,
your color was
the crisp mountain air
through a rolled down
Jeep window.
your color was
a John Prine record
and local barbeque
your color was serene.
it was the light's reflection of
a summer enveloped
by two people
in love with
right now.
-Anna Blake
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
(Cheritas)
1)
At 4am, serenity surrenders to the rooster.
Early risers snap from their slumber,
thinking, the world is on their shoulders.
Eyes close...thoughts for the day gather,
strength is renewed...mind gets sharper
while under the lukewarm shower.
:::::::
2)
Aromatic moments stir the cold sleepy air.
there's hot coffee, frittata and fried frankfurters,
day starts with good food, whatever the weather.
Between work and breaks, we count the hours
of an unpredictable day, til 9-5 pressure is over.
coffee, gardening or wine, undo the day's fetters.
:::::::
sally b
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 16, 2022
May 16, 2022 at 7:12 PM UTC
Vision
You & I get ready in the morning,
Go to office & work to exhaustion,
A 9 to 6 job at our office is tiring,
I & you meet in the lunch breaks,
Discuss work in middle of lunch,
Facing the obstacles in our work,
Busy in the various experiments,
Catching a look at the same time,
X-ray crystalograph is prepared,
Dizzying velocities of centrifuge,
Early risers - late runners to bed,
Heavy eyelids call us out for rest,
Reaching back to the home tired,
Junkies of love we'll stay awake,
Kissing we start the game of love,
Tickling yours body - you nibble,
Loving the foreplay we carry on,
Making love is a second priority,
Not always so energetic for love,
Over the edge we push ourselves,
Putting an extra effort as always,
Queen guides the King into cave,
Slow but steady our expression,
Zooming the oozing nectars out,
Under-relaxed we need a break,
Vacations are a really good idea.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
My favorite juxtaposition
Is when a city goes totally silent
When the widest streets are empty
And the only sounds are quiet
The bustling stores are still closed
And no one else is walking around
The city looks amazingly different
With only a few men in the ground
The buildings stand tall and silent
While those up late tuck in for the night
And the earliest risers have yet to awake
To meet the ever blinking lights
The signs are as bright as ever
And the lights still work 'round the clock
But not a single bike, car, or man
Can be seen on the city block
I stand on the silent street corner
Feeling the moment rush through me
For stunningly empty cities
Are some of my favorite places to be
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
I was strong.
I was strong when my preschool teacher told me that I was never going to be an artist because I wasn't talented enough.
I was strong when I told my first crush that I liked him and he told me he would never like someone like me because I was fat and ugly.
I was strong as I was bullied severely for 6 years in elementary school.
I was strong when a kid wrapped swing chains around my neck and tried to choke me.
I was strong when I was told by the school counselor that no one would ever want to be my friend in middle school.
I was strong when on the first day of junior high I was pushed off of the risers and onto the floor by fellow classmates.
I was strong when my parents got a divorce.
I was strong when I had my first panic attack.
I was strong after I attempted suicide.
I was strong when I was officially diagnosed with anxiety and depression.
I was strong when my father kicked me out.
I was strong when my brother beat me in my car.
I was strong when I had to act as hospice care for one of my grandfathers.
I was strong when my grandfathers died.
I was strong when my dad's wife tried to convince me that I was worthless and unworthy of love.
I was strong when my entire family abandoned me fight over only my brother in a custody battle.
I was strong when I failed my first class ever and almost lost all of my scholarships.
I was strong when my mom told me "whatever" when she was mad and I talked about killing myself.
I was strong when I wanted to drop out of college and relapse into my suicidal thoughts.
If I can be strong through all of that, I can be strong again.
I am strong.
Even if I don't always feel that way.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
A staircase to seemingly nowhere.
I grasp the railing with my mind
And struggle upwards to somewhere.
Misshapen and misbegotten words plague me.
Keep your eyes straight ahead and upwards
Do not look back! Do not look down!
Lest I plunge again into the darkness.
God and love stand at the top and beckon.
Struggle on! Struggle on!
In your writing you will be set free.
In my writing I have indeed done so.
A staircase is only a temporary brother.
Fodder for the pen and mind.
But nothing to be feared,
It's risers raises me upwards.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
Puffing profoundly on an old bone pipe.sat the old woman on rickety stool. A white tendril seeking altitude from schorching embers.
A wafting spirit casting errant admonishment.
Dusty footpath of a million footfalls all on missions of redemption lovelorn weeping allotments of anguish,pain and hope.FULLSTOP.
At sunbeaten,rainbleached risers three in number.
Splitpea fragrance wafting to greet.
Maybe collards too.
"What can I do for ?" But having asked,she already.knew.
To.walk.out to.the.shack.was.a.profound procession.
Made by many,owned by.few
Seeking solace from.the.witches brew.
"You need.a.poultace ?
Cast a spell for.you. ?
Fix it so.she.never leave you ?
Aint nothin.much.that.I.cant do.
Gonna fix.it.for.you.
Ramshackle rundown house of dreams,nightmares and stalking horses.
Beads and potions.come back lotions. Love notions out the window.like startled ratbats.
The little shack of sorrows.
Old time mystic.sitting on a stool.
Jingle pennies in pockets.
Yonder comes nother fool
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC
I still remember the feeling
Of how heavy my arms weighed
As I curled up to the risers of the stairs
I couldn't pick myself up from
After collapsing from the news.
I remember eyes staring at me,
Unsure of how to respond
To the usually stoic and strong me
Bawling uncontrollably
And heaving sobs wracking my body.
I remember cautious hands
Lifting my shoulders
And dragging me to bed
Where I stayed for three straight days.
I remember haziness setting in
And the following days and weeks
All blending into one.
I remember all that
But I don't remember your face.
Funny, isn't it?
What gets seared into our brains,
And what we lose because for so long
We took its presence for granted
Until it was too late
To remember.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Archery pro and just hit the target of poverty,
And probably,
I'll be out of here before the cops notice I'm vandalizing,
Painting a picture for the up risers,
Better take a seat,
Almost like first class,
Most airlines don't have phobias for flyers,
Keep an open mind,
Your negativities closed,
Your eyes open,
Letting suspense unfold,
And unravel,
And somehow collapse,
I may have had bad experiences,
But human beings are futile at that,
But now let's rewind it back,
I remember you said you'd never be like them,
Would not talk their language,
Or do drugs with them,
Keep following them and you'll end up dead or walking with a limp.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Summer doldrums,
Morning heat risers
On the sky,
High nubile towers
In the distance,
Freshwater fountains
To slowly refresh,
Washing over
Water and land,
Beating down
The soaking rains,
Their tall images
Standing there,
Thunder sounds
Barely echo there,
All puffed-up
And neatly draped,
Hung like white
Formal tablecloths
Across the everglades.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
Waves, cutting snow, soaring star beams incomplete
From the ocean lows to the burning hot asphalt sharp beneath
And in running these risers with both fire and ferocity shown
Burn brighter than moons and more fervently than fires
Over a misty river breath breathed out all at once alone
Just as rings of power are now deadened by time
I cannot even begin to describe
These feelings of mine
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 8:12 PM UTC
It's as if they forget the rest of the world
The computers, the telephones, the policies
Each in their own never-changing world
Then it gets even worse than them
You look around and begin to notice things
The officials, these people "In-Charge"
With fat wallets and hollow brains
How the **** did you do that?
Half of them can't sharpen a pencil
And they get filled with hot air
So they think they're doing the job right
It eats at them knowing the real truth,
That there's mother ******* out there
Who will eat them alive at any given chance
The hard workers, earlier risers
Those who earned their keep
And you can feel their warmth as they walk
You know when they've entered a room
I like those beasts, those warriors
Those not being destroyed into robots
Keeping their creativity a float
Letting everyone know, that they are watching
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:32 PM UTC
Beep. Beep. The alarm, taking me out of bed.
I slowly, reluctantly raise my head.
My stupor is so great that I fear
Mona Lisa’s eyebrows would soon appear.
Oh Muse! Give me the strength to wake!
I cannot stand another minute drowning in this groggy state!
So my dear old desperate muse,
Drowning in his desperate blues,
Called on Zeus to set me free.
There came dear old wonderful Zeus,
And took some of his lightning juice,
And rained it down on me.
Oh! The pain and agony!
But it was the only thing that could set me free
From the unyielding grasp of sleep
Get up! I say!
It’s time to start your pitiful day!
I stumble to the floor,
Grasping desperately for the door,
Triumphant! The gods exclaim!
Your name shall be put up in the morning-risers hall of fame!
To the showers!
I go, with all due speed,
For a shower, a shower is all that I need.
I wash my hair till it resembles a great lion’s mane,
Shiningly shimmering in the shower-induced rain.
The soap, I capture, with a swipe of the wrist,
While it slips and slides in my strong iron fist.
Out of the shower, I sprint to get dressed.
I struggle with myself to pick out what’s best.
Pants or a skirt? I must make my choice.
No! I scream, with a desperate voice
Alas, it was gone, what I wanted to wear!
It was gone with my friends, when I decided to share!
Melancholy I was, but I did not fret.
On with the skirt I said,
And the turtleneck.
All fresh a clean, I realized my real pain.
Oh the hunger!
Oh the ravenous, unforgiving hunger.
I then set out for my next quest.
Food.
I searched in vein for some Froot-Loops.
The were gone last week along with the fruit juice.
Oh hunger! I say.
I must have food now!
But the question is, how?
Pancakes, I know not how to bake,
Oatmeal, I do not know how to make,
Boil, I do not know how to water,
(Or is it water I do not know how to boil? One can never tell)
Eggs, I know not how to create.
“Gram!” I scream with desperation,
“Please, for god’s sake, give me some satiation!”
In she comes, steadfast and true,
With some bacon, and eggs,
For her granddaughter-pooh.
“For me!” I exclaim, with honest delight,
And experience great ecstasy in each and every bite.
Off to school I say, and run to my doom,
Hoping each day, that it would me summer soon.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 8:25 PM UTC
not a morning person
she’s content to hide in leafy shadows
wildly overgrown purple and green vines
surround and ensnare her
beneath a canopy of pink antique tea roses
she stands inside a maple platform
designed and handcrafted with care
three asymmetrically positioned 2 by 4 risers raise her
about a foot off the ground
two golden plaster cherubs hover above her on either side
fine grayish wood grain, like carpenter’s fingerprints
peek out through faded cerulean backboards
a painted backdrop made translucent by exposure
fresh cut miniature roses in miniature vases
brighten the stage like foot lights
behind the platform, at the back of the cave
clumps of ferns intermittently reveal
mud swirls splashed on a mint colored wall
up front, a row of marigolds and strawberry plants
embank a retaining wall border
of cabana-like sculpted brick
glistening white quartz stream before her
like a river of rocks at her feet
completing the grotto
she comes alive as the afternoon sun
brings out the color in her cheeks
she steps out from the shadows
and stretches her arms out close by her sides
palms facing outward
fingers pointing down
as if something were emanating from her hands
while she blesses us with peaceful contemplation
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
It is black always black,
It is black in the light,
Tis void you and I black,
****** deeply void,
Alone in black am I
Shadows creak loomed the darkness,
Eyes bleed crimson slithers,
Mind filled with pungent aromas,
Rotting flesh smells I
Reaching twisting they move of the night,
Corridors screaming, laughing, buzzing,
Feeding, ticking thoughts thinks I
Doors bang and lock clutched temples,
pain stabbing fire,
blood pounds and pours dead are they,
ebony risers of the night
Shush shush sweeping blood slippers slide,
Shush shush sounds the old hag with broom
Pouring bloods,
tis perfumed I smell
Clanging keys black rooms screaming,
iced breath swirls, old cold hand brushes by,
Ever cold is water here electric red I see,
blood red nails screaming blackboards,
Screeching Seething and howling pierced am I
Writhing pain restrained jacket and I,
— Beseech me oh dead in white,
Locked away bathed in blood lonely heart,
Polished broken window moon eyes,
Mortal hell chained to die—
© Arnay Rumens /A Sol Poet 2012
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 10:30 AM UTC
We're the New Levites:
We're the early risers and cable layers,
sound checkers and coffee makers.
We're the greeters, the good to see-yers,
the washer-uppers, the kids' teachers.
We qualify by turning up,
with willing hands and open hearts.
We're the New Levites and refuse no-one
so step up today, the rota's open.
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
The snow leopard
A snow leopard is walking down snow covered streets.
In these empty streets, she walks alone, a vision to be seen.
With skyscraper buildings on either side,
All the cars are silent,
The apartments only have a few lights on,
As she walks outside in the night-time.
With every stride the snow leopard creeps along,
These empty streets with her eyes fixed upon,
Her destination; the local fountain has become an ice rink.
She needs a place where she can sit and think
And the frozen water is calling.
The scratches on the surface from skaters earlier in the eve,
Are sliced crisscross by fur-covered shoes;
Her claws dig in deep.
With perfect balance she moves along;
Tail flat, she is relaxed, no pressure is on.
No need to flee, no-one to be seen.
The snow leopard lies down to relax; her cub inside is heavy.
Before dawn has arisen, the snow leopard has awoken.
Her ears pointed skyward to listen to distant sirens.
From early risers, phone calls have been made;
The zoo keeper is on his way…
But with a flash of her silhouette, the snow leopard is gone;
She was only seen close up for a second,
Before she disappeared into the thick winter’s fog.
Never to be seen again, but the lights in the skyscrapers remember.
The snow leopard stood here, on this cold night mid-December.
From where she came, nobody ever truly knew;
Some people say she was here simply looking for food.
She had been hiding a long time in a snow cave;
Her footprints were filled by the snow and her tracks began to fade.
She never was found and never again did she return.
The snow leopard was just passing through, her image just a blur.
Like a wind through a narrow street,
A piece of ice falling through a cloud;
A memory of a snowflake that disappears as soon as it is found.
There was no sign that the snow leopard had ever been around
And there was no way to know why,
The snow leopard ever came walking through this town.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
The old man groans as he gets up,
Rising from the chair is a job.
He notices now he is getting older
His head is developing a bob.
Not quite Katharine Hepburn,
Not a nod as much as a bounce.
It’s not a palsy, more of a tic.
It’s not really that pronounced.
And stairs seem to be an enemy
They don’t match the cadence.
Between the risers and his feet
There just too much distance.
Or other times, they are too short
And rise up as an ugly surprise
Not coinciding with what he sees
With his own aging naked eyes.
The man complains about TV
How they are mumbling too much.
They seem to be whispering
Or using foreign words and such.
And when he turns the sound up
The action scenes hurt his ears.
A ***** trick to play on people
Who are a bit advanced in years.
The old man gets disgruntled
When people outside make noise
Like they are some kind of teenagers;
But they’re adults, not girls and boys.
Here it is ten o’clock at night
When decent people are asleep.
What kind of schedule is this
For decent people to have to keep?
What is he to make of the music
These young people like to play?
It has to be some kind of abuse
To use a guitar in that way.
In his day there was melody
And words you could understand.
The noise they make is like a collision
Between a dump truck and a sedan.
The old man grumbles in frustration
That things have not stayed the same.
He would write a letter to the President
If he could figure out who to blame.
But one thing sure, he always insists,
It didn’t use to be this way before.
Now a kind of anarchy seems to exist.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
"I came across a lonesome face,
among the figures stuck in traffic,
Someone there, somewhere,
Longs for a distant place...
A place, of dreams and magic.
This ageing scent, of dying breath,
And history, is just too tragic!
The wandering braids,
Scout the town,
Hoping, things will come around,
And as early risers greet their way,
Their faces Pass, and fade away!
The stones and old homes,
Fill space Between,
fiction, And the stories we tell!
They reek through the alleyways,
With reflections keen,
Mixed with an old familiar smell...
Of Passages dusty and features a-print,
The smiling pales of concrete mint,
And the fellow grin, by the local inn,
Who's never had a tonic and gin,
Unlike those of London...
This,
I can barely define,
stories-high, as we go by,
simply left behind!
But passenger light,
Drops in flight,
In the hours of eight 'till five,
I caught the melody sung in sun,
In our hour or so long drive...
Still I couldn't tell,
Of this old scent and smell,
and all that it's not,
why This raging ravel still, seems so forgot.
Although they've bettered it,
in some sort of a way...
Today, I think...
With all hopes a-still,
there's little much left,
and less be will...
Little still floats, and little is wet!"
A.r. Bazian
Jan 14th, 2012
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
*Cat tails upon swamps daring the devil to thrive
A joyous symphony parade
Shells basking on black ice fearing the suns ray
Amongst lucid angels
Cults domain, a dreadful playground offering demise
Early risers oblige
Judgments come free, offering scorched missing graphs
Ultimate sacrifice, lie motionless staring through deaf ears
Wading anxiously among moss, disfiguring disguise
Red is a lovely colour, lathering whims you plant along dead sea's
Lovely with distance, diluted by view*
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
Early risers begin their morning commute in the cool fresh air
As I jog and listen to the soft silence of Bangalore
Packs of dogs argue and shout at each other at night
During the day they bask in the warmth by an open door
Red brick and greenery adorn the dream school
The walls speak the chatter of foreign female tongues
I’m confident that even when we leave
These girls will leave no song left unsung
Group dinners, all 17 of us packed inside
Laughter, jokes and great food to eat
Paneer, gobi, mango lassi for dessert
Relaxing, sometimes weird, conversations with Jaspreet
Constant noise, horns, chanting and drums
That once were so prominent have now faded away
The longer you are here, the less you notice
Until in the background these sounds will forever stay
I lay back in the auto, the brilliant stars stare into my soul
The cool breeze of Hampi whistles through my ears
Where would I be right now, without India?
Without my wonderful, supportive peers?
And just then my eyes struggle back tears
Because despite my many problems and my many fears
I will remember this trip for years and years
And for that I am so grateful,
Because of that, I will truly treasure these moments.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 11:16 AM UTC
The doors open.
Engines roar and wind howls
The smell of exhaust fills the space
Here stand, weighted down, with clenched bowels
The line moves forward at a dizzying pace
I make eye contact with JM and hand him my line
I pivot and jump and for a moment I'm flying
All I see is blue sky, my feet feet point at the horizon
One thousand, two thousand, three thous.....ahhh!
The chute opens with a thundering snap
Check the risers, check the canopy, watch the plane fly away
Look down at the world, spread out below like a map
Taste the air, feel the wind, get control of my sway
Undo the ties holding the weapon case on my side
Give a whoop!
No, be quiet
Professional pride
Look at how the sun reflects off the stream below me in the woods and turns it into a molten golden serpent.
Right now, if someone saw my eyes tear up I'd blame it on the wind
Oh, how long until I can do this again?
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 1:55 AM UTC