"rivet" poems
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle)
400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence)
red ant drivers (who can forget those little ******
caked fir needles & feather cone
bug hologram & cedar moss
graffiti crack & cut joist
wheel rut & pick
pike stain (s)
sow bugs
electric
blower
purple
fueled
washer
missing
foul bits
and two of
its former pins
somewhere near
the erratic 9th stroke the
side kick (and his sloppy dullard)
fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter
anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems
lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows
old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes)
all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
The urgent care is the nursery
Where I choose my seeds with thought.
The doctor is the gardener
Who knows how to fix what I’ve wrought.
She sows the seeds inside my skin,
Yet not with a trowel or ***
She uses a needle and surgical thread,
With budding knots lined up in a row.
Then she leaves me with my tidy ground
And some knowledge on how I should care
For the lined up plot she’s left to me,
Whose potential I’m required to bear.
The deep rivet I slashed into my skin
Is where the seedlings take root.
The blood from my veins keeps them moist
As the new blossoms stand resolute.
But when the weather grows dark and dreary,
My sprouts need cover from the cold.
So I bundle them up with jeans and sweats
To protect them and let them take hold.
But despite the layers I pile atop,
The small spiny blooms poke through.
I run my fingers back and forth,
And marvel at how fast they grew.
Then after they’ve grown for fourteen days,
I return to the nursery at last.
The gardener plucks and prunes and picks
‘Til the wounds and the blooms come to pass.
So now the perennials have passed us by,
And the sprouts have been taken to bin.
The wound that watered my seedlings’ through,
Has left but a scar on my skin.
Jan 23, 2022
Jan 23, 2022 at 11:20 AM UTC
_[northern hemisphere: on a beach above the 50th latitude at the end of winter]_
_(Winter-export)_, the beach frosted by fingers of polar constellations. It’s too cold to walk without huddling, but we do it nonetheless, because we only have one more night together. Your frothy hydro-rhythm spears into pith, irradiance; I breathe again, deeply. _(Thick lips; quick still-hunt.)_ I rivet fronds of dependence into the seams of your boreal palms, never planning to return the floating colony of barnacles I promised I’d throw back; you, never planning to catch the sun bored through salt spray, clasping crisp foreheads, stitching on glistered lips and froze-shut lashes. And on a day when you didn’t rise early enough, I was left out in the water until my chest was steeped deep in ice over the thought of losing you. _(Glimmering isle)_; my hair disheveled in sea-foam. Annular light. You pushed me in, and I relented. My isotherm sent chthonically. But you, in your legendary mantle, adapted my eyes to see the light hidden deep within your belt; such pinks and fuchsias I have never seen before, suddenly inverted. At absolute velocity, I cut my foot on sea-glass, bleeding blueshift, aligning to the colours of the zenith. You take me back to the starry house and we struggle with your parallax, a nadir inseminated on the celestial pole. _(Parsecs quaking.)_ You whisper, I’ll heal you. I’ll heal you, only if you let me. Only if… you let me… Over and over and over until it’s as mundane as the crashing coast, and unrivaled, I concede to everything and wake up deep in redshift, the whole universe escaping, warmth-ribbons suffocating the abyss: without you, alone on the ecliptic at last. In the spring-sinking, you order me a silver sword, sharp in starlight; to remember you. You stand a guardian, beyond the sun, flinging tiny ice-hot rocks _(freighting gemstones)_; King of the Heavens. I submerge myself into the bathic depths, skulking in aestival despair, as you trade the night for day. Little do you know, my resurgence is also in your hands.
_[i watched Orion slip from view every night this spring. No doubt he’ll return next winter... it’s sad losing a friend like that, for so long]_
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
Plumped rouge with pigment
her lip fills to graze the ********
intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade
autografted with ocular detachment
should a Marquis wish to harness
the song of the morning
within a bandolier of Seine
to ensnare any bustled Persephone
gilted by discharge of ions
into a ménage of torment
through the Porte des Lions.
Hers is the tincture of doxy
caramelized and debrided of naivety,
empowered by the eve of invention,
swollen to curves and grounded in Paris.
Illumination defies pervasion
down to every gear and pulley
she has hushed through mechanization
and lulled by steam,
swaging a cacophony of flickers
encased in glass by the Lady’s watch,
where every rivet of her plate glisters silken
reverberation in cascade,
elegant, caged, and towering,
outspoken in silence,
ever challenging the Champ de Mars.
"Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
-
Shaping molten sin into wrought iron ******
Rusted rivet's sparks sail down the spiral staircase
and scatters like fireflies on the stone.
Guitars scream as they lead the band to slaughter,
thinking they own the streets like Al Capone.
Molten metallic music with a razors edge
mollifies the faithful like mutton to the ledge.
Mayhem ensues with a sonic boom as
bolts of rock & roll illuminate the room.
We're heading toward a revolution,
we always heard you wanted one.
They bought the lie of evolution,
burnt their skin waiting for the Son.
It's just a heavy metal observation,
you allowed the lyrics to take their toll.
Today we see the damage is done,
the insane have unhinged their soul.
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 11:29 PM UTC
i
Aghast I was in, then an alien nonnative of this planet aroseth,
Her precious stones pierced me, nonjudgementally, I cried;
I bawled, as tis not in a bad way, but because her beautiful glimpse, her standing there, she saved me from the darkly stench.
ii
The kilig she giveth me is overwhelming, Kalinaw is delivering
I shalt Indak with her on the Hill's of her land, an Oriental band;
A queen, and one man, that man me, aforetime's I was lonesome
Tis now I am happy, she maketh mine wing's, flappeth so highly.
iii
She cometh at perfect timing, she assuage's mine hand's hole's,
She taketh the rivet's out from mine feet, she inspires me with her coming goals, mine sensation for her as a backarapper
Cracking to the fireworks glitz, her head on mine shoulder, lip's.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©あある じぇえん
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
All I know is monsters
All I see is a cold world that gets darker as the *** stir's
The future blurs to a point its so obscure it's not yours
Can't seem to stop words from causing me to go backwards
Maybe I need to go back and relearn like toddlers in diapers
There's no cures
All the fibers of my being are withering away like dead flowers
Retreating like cowards
The more I try the worse I fail, a living hell, crunch the numbers
I've done the math, a chalk board full of blunders
Nightmares occurring with my eyes wide shut
It's more then a rut
A candidate to win? Nope, I have a losing ballot
No safety blanket and no bright colors on my pallet
Hollow and cryptic
Revisit the past like I'm stuck to it with a rivet
This isn't just unfortunate it's inadequate
Chew off my arm to be free or just cannibalistic
Can I even resist it?
This dark army that I have enlisted
For to long happy never even existed
And you wonder why I tend go ballistic...
Man, *** this $hit!
©2018
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
187
How many times these low feet staggered—
Only the soldered mouth can tell—
Try—can you stir the awful rivet—
Try—can you lift the hasps of steel!
Stroke the cool forehead—hot so often—
Lift—if you care—the listless hair—
Handle the adamantine fingers
Never a thimble—more—shall wear—
Buzz the dull flies—on the chamber window—
Brave—shines the sun through the freckled pane—
Fearless—the cobweb swings from the ceiling—
Indolent Housewife—in Daisies—lain!
2.3k
109
By a flower—By a letter—
By a nimble love—
If I weld the Rivet faster—
Final fast—above—
Never mind my breathless Anvil!
Never mind Repose!
Never mind the sooty faces
Tugging at the Forge!
2.1k
766
My Faith is larger than the Hills—
So when the Hills decay—
My Faith must take the Purple Wheel
To show the Sun the way—
’Tis first He steps upon the Vane—
And then—upon the Hill—
And then abroad the World He go
To do His Golden Will—
And if His Yellow feet should miss—
The Bird would not arise—
The Flowers would slumber on their Stems—
No Bells have Paradise—
How dare I, therefore, stint a faith
On which so vast depends—
Lest Firmament should fail for me—
The Rivet in the Bands
1.8k
*His eyes rivet on the extravagant evening sun,
in frenzied creation, profusely mixing colors,
applying on the canvas of the horizon,
painting her, his lover with astonishing precision,
--portrait of a girl in love
unmindful of what the world thinks about her
and in total dedication to her man.
Love makes larger than life heroes out of weak mortals,
and creates echoes on the far horizons that keep on reverberating!
She sits quietly holding his hands as if it is all she needs
never thinking, it is obvious, whether this is a fallacy or ultimate truth,
that holds good for all the changing seasons.
With her long chiseled fingers she draws
something beautiful, a motif that emerged in her mind,
in front of them, the seascape, was a lively cyclorama
framed by bright ultramarine.
Like eels just out of water, their bodies gleaming,
bikini clad glam girls, beach soldiers spearheading
an undeclared beauty attack,
on the look out for hidden challenges
while walking past the love pair,
each one stands awhile, scrutinizing her thoroughly
measuring with a scale, hidden in those eyes,
as if she was a **** on parade, even women couldn't help covet.
Though inappropriately dressed, for the beachfront appearance,
she invites more attention, she is amused.
But after a tumultuous love, and eventful elopement
she is in bliss, in her love-land with her prince
she is just ecstatic, no thought could make her shake off her composure.*
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
Lips sealed, forced quite
One rivet, two rivet
There we go, three otta do it
Last step here is to blow both eardrums with a dangerous harmonic
Ah, there we go, perfect
But I forget
This negativity comes from a resident
One living rent free from infancy in my attic
And amidst my constant panic
I barricaded the wrong side of the door by accident
Now help can't get in to stop the punishment
AND
I'm trapped inside my head with a lunatic
Obviously this is problematic
Hear no evil, see no evil but the mind is never silent
A silver tongue tyrant, my downfalls conduit
I know it knows I'm on to it
But a relic like toxic thoughts doesn't give a shiit
I've proven I can't go toe to toe with it
My wins are really just me escaping THE moment
It can return to being a problem at ANY moment
It never fights fair, super over dramatic
Big signs posted, "Bipolar, Beware", looking post apocalyptic
Wait, how many are against me in here? I thought "me Vs the world" was more just symbolic
Ritualistic hunter and the hunted, predator and prey, animalistic
Unapologetic
No one ever sees the bouts, to barbaric to air it
Try to grin and bare it but it's apparent
I can no longer dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge the bombastic rhetoric
And I've literally just locked myself in with the traumatic and away from the public
I don't feel safe in here with myself and don't know what to do about it...
©2024
Jan 11, 2024
Jan 11, 2024 at 5:29 PM UTC
Jerry Singing at his Lathe
Slim and mustached
Jerry sang his heart out
in overalls at his lathe –
the Mario Lanza of Kent-Moore Tools.
Curled metal gathered at his feet
as he cut hard steel into usable parts.
He glanced at the prints,
reset the turret to take a second pass
and belted out another chorus.
Jerry retro-dreamed of New York,
of lessons, certificates, Juilliard
and arias finished with outstretched arms –
visions derailed but unforgotten.
Global madness sent him to France.
With a pack and an M1 in place of scores.
Jerry helped set Paris free
yet never left a song on its stages.
Kent-Moore paid him well
and masked by din of colliding metal
Jerry sang and sang and sang all day
for rivet guns and turret lathes.
His voice would melt your heart.
July, 2006
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
valiantly,
the Ship Fought.
many Days,
she took a pounding
her mighty Hull bracing;
against unforgiving Seas
her thick Armour;
withstanding Bombardment.
the first great Wave
knocked a Rivet loose,
a Steel Plate dented
by the first big Bomb
she didn't Shoot back
ever hoping for peaceful resolve
but the Seas and the Bombs
all took their toll!
the first 3 enemy Ships
packed their Punch
but she stood firm
armour deflecting every Bomb
but the Sea grew Dark;
the very Water
that held her aloft
now threatened her very Existence!
the Sea destroyed Rivets
The Bombs dented armour
and slowly but surely
she took on Water
for it is the small Rivets that hold a Ship together;
small rivets that Bind Metal Plates
and when the Rivets fail
the Ship is lost!
Noble Captain stood on deck
the death of His Ship
a mathematical Certainty
again and again the 3 locust ships fired
again and again the Sea pounded
the Evacuation order needs to come soon
only the Captain to remain with a final solemn Duty
for a captain goes down with his ship
when all others are safe.
the Sea will calm down
the 3 will stop firing
once the Bow of the Ship
slips beneath the Waves
the Charges set,
ready to blow,
scuttle the ship -
Down she will go
Captain salutes Her
a fine Ship she's been
as he presses his Pistol
to his temple
right finger on the trigger
the left on the bomb's fuse,
A solitary tear,
3,2,1...
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
pulse and pump and waterwheel cascade of sparks from a hot iron rivet
bound round with copper sliding down river and parachuting into the blackest of holes dug out for the ounce of gold rumoured to still be somewhere at the bottom while fish jump willingly into the net Jesus encouraged fishermen to cast and a woman gives birth in the taxi ride to the counting house of names and addresses knowing there is no room at the homeless hostel because there is a card game going on in town and every hotel is booked up to the hilt with cowboys thinking my lucky day has come spitting out a ship made of spittle and stinking chewing tobacco that sails around the world full of tourists
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
To Jesus, the crown of my hope,
My soul is in haste to be gone;
O bear me, ye cherubim, up,
And waft me away to His throne!
My Saviour, whom absent I love,
Whom, not having seen I adore;
Whose name is exalted above
All glory, dominion, and power;
Dissolve thou these bonds that detain
My soul from her portion in thee.
Ah! strike off this adamant chain,
And make me eternally free.
When that happy era begins,
When arrayed in Thy glories I shine,
Nor grieve any more, by my sins,
The ***** on which I recline.
Oh then shall the veil be removed,
And round me Thy brightness be pour'd,
I shall meet Him whom absent I loved,
Shall see Him whom unseen I adored.
And then, never more shall the fears,
The trials, temptation, and woes,
Which darken this valley of tears,
Intrude on my blissful repose.
Or, if yet remember'd above,
Remembrance no sadness shall raise,
They will be but new signs of Thy love,
New themes for my wonder and praise.
Thus the strokes which from sin and from pain
Shall set me eternally free,
Will but strengthen and rivet the chain
Which binds me, my Saviour, to Thee.
1.2k
(... she plays with words)
~
like wind she plays with words,
shaped sand upon the beach;
building castles to the sky,
where tide her walls can't breach.
the combinations countless,
she untangles any stumbling lines;
in tapestry-flowing fountains,
her words to us, our sip of wine.
with nary but her hands she crafts,
poetry 'neath the noonday sun;
ceasing not except to watch,
a seabird as it tends its song.
in subtleties she stirs,
her adjectives like riffs;
nuanced dance in every verb,
a song that rises 'cross the drifts.
words that rivet every reader.
lines that wile a way with rhymes;
stanzas frame a photograph,
her free verse plays along in time.
combers rendered speechless,
marvel her poetic ways;
high as terns can fly she reaches,
as with every term she plays.
her muse in song delights
in ev'ry crashing wave she's heard;
her phrasing light takes winged flight,
like wind she plays with words.
on sands that ripple 'long the shore,
like conductor's arms at final score;
**crescendo builds... she stands *****
then fades to black when sun has set.
~
*post script.
today she was my morning muse... a delightfully brilliant poet who knows how to play with words in a most riveting way! i only just found her beautiful.work. please allow me to introduce you to Chelsea Rae in these lines: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1861530/shine-your-love/*
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC
"Help!" she screamed.
"I'm on fire!"
But the blaze was from within
ignited by passion's light
on the way to heavenly sin
Hair a-glow
Eyes sparkling
each chakra lit up
in color
resembling the flash
of neon lights'
reflections upon each other
but this illumination
was much deeper and bright
this kindling of spirit
a vivification set a-light
a mindfire tuned to rivet
Yes she is waking up
after years of deepest slumber
she is finally releasing to the winds
old dreams,
tattered
ripped a-sunder
They flapped on the laundry line
were torn in pieces by the storms
So is it not surprising
That now she is re-born?
Is it not to be expected
That she weaves a brand new
song
made from her inner fabric
and soon it won’t be long
that those fine-spun silks
start twirling up
dancing in the air
as her fire keeps on burning
and passion rides
her flare
"
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
You are
A Starburst
All **** and vinegar
Making a muck of things
You cry
When i sing
To me
Its beautiful
I am
The watcher
Waiting for my move
Always
Darker
When
You
Lose
You
Were harder
On yourself
Than the fists
You felt
In the lights
Of broken dreams
Where we
Kissed
And i
Pulled you
Into
This
Rivet
Of my
Space
Where i
Make my place
In fates
Not mine
So we
Can be
Nothing
Together
Under
Sunless skies
Feeding
Flies
To lift us
To paradise
As we
Cry
The world away
I am
Always
One
Unto
you
Into
Me
You
Are
The fractured me
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
She's got lips like spice
Eyes rolling like dice
We find common ground
From the heavens on down
Her dance strikes a fire
An essence that will not tire
Shes got a laugh so nimble
That stirs away sickness
Kissing the world with a love shy
But not simple
Starstruck, I stay rivet on her
Reluctant to wind her hand within my own
Holding firm, drifting across the sea I've grown
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
Move as though on castors
Swept in to subdued void
Pierrot lacking puppet master
Shrunken waxwork melting
I rivet in two eyes black blue
For a scrap of validation
Mirrored tunnel dark chute
Deep abysmal contemplation
Blether. Prattle. Jabber on
Deaf ears nescient; inattentive
Blithely callous their indifference
Never yet shall be emotive
A flashlight glare. A glint?
Volt? Amp; electric neuron
No never see; pulse, or breathe
Frigid flesh left life extinct.
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:20 AM UTC
Her Secret Womb
Spring comes clashing into Winter's taproom
Slender Sun rays leak old man cold's pivot
Carrying us all in her secret womb
Winter refutes Spring's trespass wind vacuum
Sleet slaps pedals, an angry exhibit
Don't let us slip into the darkened doom
Delusion wears reality's perfume
A juncture of Seasons, can you feel it
Carrying us all in her secret womb
Sprinkled by Spring, cold wishes to resume
New plants and minds held up by one rivet
Don't let us slip into the darkened doom
Dormant meets new energy, brought by whom
Nature's divinity knows no limit
Carrying us all in her secret womb
Dancing and skipping, we shine and we bloom
Trusting in the Universal Spirit
Carrying us in her secret womb
Don't let us slip into the darkened doom
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 11:32 AM UTC
Trust me when I say it
There’s no other way to play it
You’re a purentee bigot
There’s no other place to lay it
You might as well admit it.
It’s your shoe and you fit it.
I believe in the point and hit it.
You are a **** ******* bigot.
Now this won’t hurt much, did it?
It was your own tongue and you bit it;
Showed the world and all in it
That you are nearly an idiot
And a race-bating creep along with it.
So, instead of swallowing, you spit it.
You are a callow and traitorous bigot
Who would deny to others in a minute
The rights of citizenship along with it.
The Liberty Bell? You’ll pit it
With the sticks and stones. You did it
Every time you parrot a Fox News tidbit
As there are little but lies within it.
So, there is the door, why not hit it?
Because your illness? No one can mend it.
It’s a blow to your brain, and within it
The lack of anything more than a divot
Where your compassion should be if it
Had even the tiniest solid rivet.
Instead you are a peanut butter widget,
Not much more than stuff found in a privet.
And not much smarter than a piglet.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
she set a polish to the brass pipes
with a careful hand she worried them
hours like a silent moving contemplation
she worked her way from one end of
the massive machine to the other
knowing every rivet
every dent and scratch
the hot steam leaving a sheen of sweat on her
the machines labored breathing filled her ears
alive to her she spoke to it
in a loving soft whisper
she felt the gauges and levers
with the familiarity of mother and child
knew its every creak and groan
with the heart of unconditional loving care
a steam engine is a living thing
a breathing feeling entity
a life of brass for bone
coal fire for a heart
powerful
deep
living
it loved her as much as she loved it
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC