"roofing" poems
Fading Sun...
I was looking at the graying sky.
Trying to chase a fading sun
I peeped above the pointed leaves of the Yucca tree
My eyes were met by little bursts of orange stars
And oblique sunbeams... emitting fading brightness
Through the bushy leaves of the Sampaguita plant.
I was waiting for the moths to appear
Near my lighted candle,
But a gusty wind blew, and made the shell chimes
Sway back and forth...left and right
Round their base and through,
Until all five chimes made pleasant music
With the cool, whirring wind.
I was waiting for the late afternoon sky
To turn to elephant gray
To highlight the yellow glow from the street lamp
So I could test some newly hung Christmas lights
And the capiz lantern outside the french windows
But the rainshowers came all at once
And i found myself wet, from the pouring rain.
I was waiting...and saw a changing sky
The rain, just tip-tapping on the roof
A much cooler air blowing...
Bringing sprays of mist on my face...
Suddenly emerging...the shape of a bat or two,
Flying, crashing, through the dripping red palm tree.
On the horizon, sun was now a dipping balloon
If there's any, i would wait for any kind of moon.
On the garden chair, i sat
And just above me, came a regular stray cat
I heard its paws lightly scratching
The wet surface of the fiberglass roofing.
I still wait...and contemplate on hopes and prayers
I wait...for a lot of dreams to come true
i wait, for this long day to be over
While the night creatures,
In their own tones and tunes
Have started to croon...
Sally
Copyright October 16, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
i'm not proud of nicknames...
but then again,
i find nicknames to be
the archetypal form of
endearment -
a "belittling" with warm
affection...
i didn't have a nickname
in primary school...
the girls tried,
rabbit...
Danielle...
i remember Danielle calling me
rabbit,
why? the way i ran...
jumping in between
running steps...
i like Danielle,a brunette,
with enough freckles to
make her a ***** ginger...
high school?
Goldilocks
named by Graham...
or Chewbacca by Barry..
i was the only man attempting
to grow long hair..
a mullet wast the running
joke, among the Ian crowd...
university?
no nickname...
shitty time...
while industrial roofing took off,
working for my father?
Picasso...
i was meticulous with the tar...
but lately...
my grandmother has
a nickname for me...
because of my beard...
these days i'm know as
Castro...
i'm not proud of nicknames...
but i didn't make them up!
i wish i had...
that being said...
nicknames are
quiet endearing...
i'd love to see Danielle once more...
see how much the freckles took
over her complexion;
Danielle... **** me...
what an ****** name...
like m first love in
the English tongue...
the moment i heard it...
Sam-anth-a(h)...
curly hair,
darkened blonde,
mingling an autumnal-cherry
mahogany with chocolate
cinnamon...
****
i've been so erotically
mobilized / motivated...
from such an early age...
Danielle & Samantha...
nicknames...
and the rest is, history.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 10:04 PM UTC
Clouds are forming layers
The sky is turning gray
Wind is dancing happily
The trees begin to sway
Creatures crawl inside
Fires stoked up to heat
Hatches battened down
Prayers said for the wheat
The ditches might flood
Roofing will be torn apart
But Idaho storms are lovely
Like a beautiful work of art.
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 3:50 PM UTC
walking through the big flea market
off of highway 19 north of Tampa
looking for whatever and something
curious and kitsch or campy
merchants selling in the parking lot
used blenders and old cameras
burnt out or faulty devices
DVD cases and game cartridges
old rednecks shout out opinions
in a cacophony of drawled signifiers
representing visions of despotic rulers
reigning a tyranny of taxes and decline
old glass containers and windshields shine
scattering high afternoon sunlight in the Sunday sky
sitting and resting used and content waiting
waiting for the wear and reduction of time
the market continues into indoor aisles
criss-crossing within a ramshackle structure
plywood walls supporting sheet metal roofing
an aroma of every greasy food wafting into one
people wrapped in worn fashions
whites in Ts and denim
muslim women in headscarves
a black deputy strapped down in uniform
the deputy enforces commerce laws
around the alternative marketplace
a variety of commodities are still available
bongs and e-cigs and incense and **** ****
parakeets cry out down one aisle
a stack of blue aquariums drone a bubbling hum
the stench of cedar and rat **** and hamsters
reptiles basking in the arid glow of heat lamps
all is right in America’s America
the flea market is the floorboard of that promise
an opportunity for anyone to begin
or start again and over and over
a liberal conservatism can be guarded well
with rifles or tazers at bargain rates
a conservative liberalism is applied openly
in the atmosphere of everyone for anything and everything
the dream of the flea market
a black market and a carnival
all of America’s cheap art on display
its people swirled into one
equal in their struggles and desires
reaching for resources and derivatives
buying low and selling higher
stealing and selling short
walking through the big flea market
on a hot and cloudless Sunday afternoon
looking for whatever or something
it’s a fun thing to do
originally posted to my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com on 4/27/2014
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Coming from your humble and holy
houses each morning bringing blessings, your lively and
cheerful "Good Morning!" sounds - all the power and energy
that a good life brings. Living by the light God gives you
every day, eschewing electricity,
and all of the worst that it brings with it,
teaching your children and loving your wives
with gentleness and devotion.
Ruben, Glen David, Marlin... did I spell these right?
I only heard your beautiful, traditional names in your own, clear, grounded voices,
as we began to know each other, while you travelled back
and forth, from bright and early each day, onto our ailing roof.
Tearing into four layers of old, sickly roofing tiles with your
wonderful vim and vigour, a healing began that went deep,
deeper every day, as we absorbed the precious fortune
of having you in our midst. Your chosen, Amish lives inspired
us, and still do, as we still, quite often, hear the echoes
of your footsteps above us, each one a prayer and an affirmation
of lives well-lived.
One fine afternoon, one of you stood straddling the very top of our
steep old roof line, and that image of a man mastering his craft,
invested in a life that blesses everyone he cares for,
and teaches by example, everyone he meets,
will stay with me for all of my days.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 7:11 AM UTC
gallows on the rooftop
where window washers go
to suspend
metal gibbet
quick hinge, raise and lock
secure against the weather
whipped
combed and packed snow
ice crusted dunes
strain the winds over the buildings roofing
an extreme combing exposure
doubtlessly
they'll be no labor done today
On the seventh floor
i watch from behind
an environment sealed window
wolfing my lunch on a short break
in the warm fire escape
i watch
a solitary worker is ejected from a hatch in the exterior wall
cuffed by a spasm of wind
he descends a short bolted ladder
and makes a geared approach
crouching
his weight against the wind
he drags a heavy kit
mummified in protective clothing
passing my spot and he then heads outward
towards the bounds of the rooftop
he mends a stable stance
one foot close to the edge
the rest of him
in a low defensive pose
clips his harness to the gallows
stands to take a confident beating
of the breath stealing
brawling winter gale
he radios for the gantry to be raised
Mar 10, 2022
Mar 10, 2022 at 2:07 PM UTC
The skies hung heavy and black,
casting a somber mood over the world below.
It was as if the heavens themselves were
burdened with the weight of yesterday's sorrows.
The fields, once vibrant and alive, now wore a grey smile,
a reflection of the tears shed in days gone by.
As night fell, the symphony of crickets filled the air,
their chorus echoing through the stillness.
It was a quiet night, interrupted only by the
gentle handover of the sun to the moon.
The air carried a pleasant scent of dew, a reminder
of the rest that awaited all living things.
And amidst it all, the tiny footsteps of rain danced
upon the asbestos roofing, a thief of nature sneaking
into the sounds of peace.
In the midst of this atmospheric symphony,
a wooden kitchen door ticked with the passage of time.
It creaked open and closed, its rusted iron hinges
adding to the melody.
The door seemed hinged in thought,
attached by fears and darkness.
It formed a latch, and night became its key,
locking away the light and welcoming the shadows.
As I stood there, my feet grew cold,
chilled by the ice-like glass of my fragile character.
A towel hung limply from the handle of the cupboard,
a silent witness to my dry mouth and the skeletons
of my past that haunted me, beyond my control.
But amidst the darkness, comfort found
its way to my side, persistently offering solace.
It was a visitor, never truly staying,
but always there when I needed it.
In my mind, I set up a spare room,
a sanctuary for fleeting moments of respite.
And in those rare moments, a sparing thought
would gently grace my mind, offering a glimmer of hope.
Yet, even in the midst of this fragile peace,
a shadow lurked behind me.
She knew my name, intimately aware of
the battles I fought within myself.
The empty room, once a sanctuary, grew heavy
with the weight of my inner demons.
Like a fallen angel, I descended into the depths
of my own despair, the falling rain mirroring
the tears that stained my soul.
And in a whisper, a secret was revealed in my ear:
depression, depression, depression.
And so, my depressing thoughts found me once again,
enveloping me in their suffocating embrace.
The world around me faded into the background
as I became lost in the labyrinth of my own mind.
Oct 21, 2023
Oct 21, 2023 at 1:58 PM UTC
Proclaimed the paper-cutout placard on the table:
Clothless gray plastic-surfaced round.
In this immense faux-stone (concrete?)
Faux-English country house
We escape to the top of the stairs:
The no admittance sign is no deterrent.
The iridescence of your skirt is captivating
But all I can remember is living in a castle like this one
When I was a little blonde nothing
And feeling the way I do now,
As if there's been no transformation, no progress.
Maybe there has,
And this band must be pretty great
To keep this many old white people dancing so enthusiastically
For such a long time:
An ancient one with a Christmas-themed vest
Foxtrots with a once-lady in a polyester pants suit
Thin hair dyed roofing-tar black, suede kitten heels clacking.
The world's a **** strange place.
Even if we feel like we aren't quite awake,
We'll adjust our stockings and fill our plates
With that mystery-shrouded gelatinous citrus dessert
And our plastic cups with apple cider, light beer, 7-Up.
Endure a few more minutes on this rented dancefloor with me
Because they're playing love shack
And who doesn't smile at the mere notion of the B-52s?
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 3:10 PM UTC
Bass rattles the roofing of the warehouse
Tonight we are truly alive
The alcohol and synthetic drugs course through our blood
Three people stuffed in a cubicle
Snorting lines of coke and adderall from the screen of a smartphone
A truly modern menagerie
The image of a woman confined to my mind
Searching desperately though eternal chasms
Tunnel vision and weary eyes
I don't know when the nights end
or begin
It's a psychosis that developed within me many years previous
The product of a generation with no forethought
Each pill popped was one less worry of the future
Synapses destroyed with such nonchalance
Enjoy the looming sadness
We, doomed to repeat
You, doomed to relive
Each shot to the arm takes it's toll
The toll may not be obvious now but in your twilight...
The wrinkles shall show and the scars continue to glow,
punctures in your flesh allow me to know.
I saw your mind decay before my eyes
Your body emaciated, your legs so fragile
I wish you hadn't experienced life to such a degree
I wish you had stopped me.
But alas, I stand here with my company
Another line
Another
One more
Level the score
One more pill and another tab
One more drag before I pass it back
To replicate my Mother and my father.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
once you claim to not have not experienced
all the fooling with women in youth
and exhausted the libido...
you never really want to claim a need
for their company while ageing and
growing jealous when her stories emerge
over drunken conversations when her
friends get invited -
i mean, it's almost like you have a *****
stitched to your forehead that
is a reminiscence of youth not claimed -
indeed old age is hell for women...
and youth the hell for men -
in between there are children...
feminism is an odd-ball... it's this rebellion
against an ageing patriarchy...
men who sway power...
what a weird and wired fetish of thinking...
why would i claim companionship with a woman
if she experienced all the sensual freedoms
in her youth... while all i got is a freedom
of a range of professions? exertion of one muscle
here, exertion of another muscle there...
had i stuck to full-time industrial roofing i'd
probably write one poem a week...
oh please, let's not obstruct with too much consciousness
of how poetry is defined, that's for english teachers
to rekindle hopes of a Shakespeare resurfacing
while ignoring Milton in the curriculum ante-vitae...
no, when youth is not allowed mutual pleasures...
the following concerns for life suddenly disappear...
there's no acidity relevant to it, no abhorrence,
no need to testify a revenge...
it's all a matter of comfort... and it's more comfortable
to be without a woman than with one,
considering the pelvic-pivot-of-sex was not strained
well enough to settle down into a friendship
with women... since my own sensuality was barely
scraped to consider a friendship...
instilled in me, the idea of two potential flints
scratched for a spark... but nonetheless remaining
two rounded marble spheres
that dimmed the lights... i felt it too opposing
to consider a half measured sensuality forced into
a platonic love... i might as well have been born a homosexual.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 6:39 PM UTC
.*oh i've seen the face of horror, on the face of strangers i've encountered in the middle of the night, governing the scenario with a puritanical good will... no... the look on their faces is hardly bemused... people face the mask they're about to wear, that of παρηγοριά (Parigoria - **** along with Skia... that's two demigods in one afternoon's worth of sitting), unorthodox parrot demigods, **** no, i've seen their faces, when i volunteered to steer a van through a speed barrier, just up the road... whoever jumped out of the car to counter my initial claim: to help... photographic memory... he looked like he was about to **** himself... i've seen the face of fear, but not an indicative fear, of per se... more... a confused, fear... the huh? approach... i never thought in a million years that goodness, selflessness could be so terrorizing; guess there's always a place and time, to be proven wrong.*
and when the ape became
man, where did it look?
it domesticated tigers,
shrunk them into cats...
and figured:
**** it... let's have a mentality
of a lion...
after all...
the females of the species
do all the hunting,
the males are nothing more
than a ***** bank...
whenever useful...
although:
i'm pretty sure...
that the construction
industry will not be infiltrated,
quiet as much,
or not at all,
as the army has been...
**** what a sexist
environment... no women
carrying bricks,
or buckets of hot roofing tar...
WE SHOULD DO
SOMETHING ABOUT IT!
sense the ridicule?
i hope you do...
because i'm far from,
giving into the giggles.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:55 AM UTC
I watch the loping invalids in the courtyard
nil by nil by nil feet
How to describe a sensation such as heat
to them? The interminable sun and so on
I wonder if they understand that
Light itself is not heat
whereupon the bell sounds
their minds divide and fog in the somnolent air
I look at a Dupuytren in the room
Cord around the chair
His clothes hanging off him
Trying to move his remarkable shock of hair
From his eyes
My room looks out beyond the yard
It is high up - precarious
Through that picturewindow, the world without
is framed, beyond the walls the oldtown
spires and roofing
I see my own sadness, my impotence
In every inch of the heights
the girls come back, propping black bikes against
the gate;
my legs are wrapped in a blanket
and I feel nothing below my waist
Through a system of cables and consent
my companion molls in Bergonic poise
each day the room behind his eyes receded, the heart
lessening
the birds gathered around the bathroom doors to be fed
He read about Escher in bed
waiting to be plugged
unbeknownst rigours of treatment, and
unbeknownst methods
until he forgot those days in Margate
the sound of his nieces
and everything he read about Escher –
the light makes dull
the precision of the thorn
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
My roommate is vacuuming the apartment
I'm thinking about distances
past to present,
empty to overflowing,
shattered to whole
doctor your wounds are bleeding again
and I don't have the proper training
we toil and toil beneath the gaze of an oblivion
too much sweat on the brow to take the time to ask why
my heart is a runaway train
my brain the penny on the tracks
there's no such thing as non-civilian casualties
hungry is as hungry does
it's just the nature of these lives
our carrot on a string
I thought I caught a taste once
only to bite my own finger
It hurts, but the pain is just motivation
to keep on living
and all of those lessons and truths
she whispered in your ear on dreaming nights
are still the reason your heart beats the way it now does
wake the hell up
perfect does not exist
and you are going to be fine
fix the roof
you are going to be fine
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
As a resident of hope village be very thankful -
If for breakfast you have just a cup of water,
Say a big prayer to Baba and be very grateful.
Know ye that someday things will get better!
When stock in Hope Village, be very grateful!
I once lived there and boy, life wasn't so easy,
I remember how I would look so very sorrowful,
Using a bowl of water to shave, that's crazy!
Especially when I used old T-shirt as towel,
And rotated an umbrella as part of my roofing
life was hard but hope was on another level,
I knew that answer to my prayers was coming.
Despite the fact that I lived in abject poverty-
Hope made my condition seemed less pathetic -
All my situation was under God's own authority,
And my goals and objectives were authentic.
Never give up, hardship is only a transit camp.
One day your rescue Angel will come souring,
With solutions illuminated with a bright lamp-
Lights you'll always need as you go hustling!
To the residents of Hope village, never despair-
If wind of change is yet to blow in your direction,
Stay strong Hope village, real rescue is in the air,
It surely will if the Almighty is your connection.
I see you are a resilient bunch, so be very strong!
Though trials will come, hold on and be resolute,
Blessing for those with deep hope never goes wrong,
From a veteran of the movement, I say a big salute!
I pray you will keep to the fundamentals of hustle -
Know that on that very special day of God's reckoning,
Your stars will dance to success' beat, not struggle,
And the village's talking drums will echo your blessing.
Everyone far and near will know reward time has come.
People of hope village, come get your reward for courage,
Say goodbye to yesterday and say to tomorrow, welcome!
Soon, your last sight of the mango trees in your village-
Will be a breathtaking thirty five thousand feet far below.
As the white magic bird climbs hosting your dusty heels,
Sad faces will say bye and friendly faces will say hello.
There you'll know how the answers to your prayers feels!
Someday you will return as a great hero to your village,
To lament on the audacity of hope and your very own story -
With motivational messages to give everyone some courage,
Poverty will no longer be the main topic, it'll be history !
#Vanguard-poetry23
twitter @ivanclappers
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
Gusts, pushing and pulling,
tearing at the roofing,
rattling the window panes,
howling down the chimney, screeching around the corners of the house --
the house that always stands on number five,
no matter what the combination, the co-ordinates
nor which way the chicken feet turn,
keeping me awake at night,
lamenting La Mort . . .
But after the seventh year,
the wind and I
came to an agreement:
Crowing at fifty-two tantras an hour
was far too slow.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
peaceful
quiet
things you can only get
when sitting on your roof.
relaxing alone with the breeze
in my hair
stars fighting above me
with the city lights below
trying to be the brightest
horns honking on A street
people greeting
and cursing eachother
at 11 pm
dogs bark and howl
but my head still is calm
my thoughts are able
to find meaning and logic
now that I'm away
from children hiding in my closet
or stomping on my stairs
or mom popping in my room
and asking broken record questions
like 'how are you?'
and 'did you finish your homework?'
I just want to stay up on my roof
watching the stars fight forever.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
I've been touched by....
the morning symphony orchestra of birds,
rain tickles dancing on asbestos roofing,
calm winds; of one gentle breeze plunging mangoes,
brown leaves rustling away for new to follow,
the sounds of life in the cheers of children's play,
oh—touching experiences of a beautiful day.
So as I speak...
I say to you—not to bite words of expression,
let the voice of life in your lungs be lively,
out a loud in the quieting despairs of often,
to the ears open to the sounds of hope acclaimed,
teach the young, and so too teach the old of extra portion,
the spirit of worth within us, echoes out in action,
letting those words you speak be in the physical,
in conscious, guided by Spirit—becomes lyrical.
_And all in all, do it all with love._
Jul 16, 2022
Jul 16, 2022 at 6:42 AM UTC
*understand my misogyny, what sort of woman would force a child upon a man when she secures a belief in the man's knowledge that she's taking anti-contraceptive pills while he was content to adorning a ****** given his lack of ****** ferocity of agonising the ******** as the owner of ********
strange to create laws worthy of society
and civilisation by unlawfully trying
to bind man with such expectations
that could come to pass with time and deliberation,
to imagine binding man to pavement
and street-lamps within nomadic thinking?
what sort of woman does that?!
a rich one, i am assured, one who bemoans
travelling to Edinburgh from St. Petersburg
because of a love affair,
the same one who wouldn't travel to London
from Edinburgh because the man had to become
a roofing prodigy and not a chemist...
well adorned ***** of the deep...
two apartments in St. Petersburg and apparently
one in Moscow... farewell dear pearl...
hello a purse of moths - now hear how my heart flutters
for anyone but you, you the aurelian sadist
to my butterfly heart:
- real men do not cry.
- but to music, what other compliment is there
if not for man to cry and not
go mad like Odysseus' jealousy
of being the sole interpreter of the sirens's wails
waxing shut the ears of fellow sailors?
if man cannot cry for music
then woman is in debt of crying for cannon
fire! vide cor meum!
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
A Key, an Envelope, and a Mouse
I had just gone to the mail box, to pick up the mail
riding in my golf cart, with my mouse by my side
the key was in my left hand, when I tried dodging a snail
I tipped to the left, then to the right, everything I tried
the key flew away, I grabbed my mouse by the tail
but it was no use, watched a pole and my cart collide
the envelope squirted the other way, reaching to no avail
I bounced out the other side, and landed right on my pride
I was lying flat on my back , with my arms I did flail
I hurt my neck, no my arm, no, I think I might have died
maybe I had to much to drink, just one too many ale
maybe it was actually more, my brain was pretty fried
people were now starting to gather, wondered if I needed bail
they were gasping, and yelling, help him up somebody cried
the mouse was licking my face, I heard someone mention jail
could not get my *** to budge, no matter how hard I tried
the envelope was stuck to my head, so was a roofing nail
think I must have wet myself, an idiot, this can't be denied
the key was found up my **** when removed I started to wail
holy mama mia I yelled, it was stuck and had to be pryed
tipped my cart back on its wheels, the engine sang a funny scale
you sure that you're ok, I'm just fine, you know I lied
grabbed my key, my envelope and mouse, and outa there I hi-tail
pretended nothing had happend, and continued on my ride
Gomer LePoet...
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC
It is eight o'clock, after dinner...
Only distant stars adorn a blue-black moonless sky
Quiet evening, no voices screaming,
No vendors calling...
Not one nocturnal sound, to prove the night's existence
I hear numbered footfalls above,
A slightly, heavy weight, presses on the fiberglass roofing
Silently informing,
Very careful not to startle me with the roof creaking
I am not scared of its presence, for it knows...
This is me...I do not fuss, I do not bellow
There is no one else, it is only me it always follows,
Hidden in the dark, on me it never lurks...
A welcome cloaked friend, this stray cat in the shadows...
}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
*oh, what glorious things the canadians and americans think of the british, in their set narrative when a tragedy plagues these isles; mainly stressing the british concept of tolerance. well... perhaps the morbid politeness toward muslims, that the hindus didn't get, back in the 1960s? hmm... or the bourgeois media class... with their affectionate portrayal eastern european builders... well... **** me, are all my brethren builders? we all seem to be builders all of a sudden, like that's something to demean people of skill. you know how degenerate english builders are? how unskillful they are, in the roofing trade? my father can show me roofers with 20 years worth of "experience", and the photographs are worth a good long pause, and lament... they were changing the tiles on my roof, and one night, with heavy rain pouring down, water was seeping through my ceiling... scots were known to be the best roofers in the 1990s... replaced by poles.*
anyway, talk of graphemes...
polish has, in all honesty,
four potentials to become graphemes,
i don't know how, but they could become
unique script elements...
alas
sz cz rz dz
are in their own category, distinct from
the category of grapheme...
it's almost a shame,
the four being digraphs...
oh... and you know that there's a trigraph
in the english language?
you know it, i'm sure...
y = why,
but no one will tell you that that is a trigraph,
even the dictionary won't tell you it's a trigraph,
it'll tell you why is either an adverb and exclamation
or a noun... but never that it's also a trigraph
of what is also a monograph, represented by
y... and perhaps, just perhaps,
this is just one of those mysteries
worth excavating from the tombs of the tetragrammaton,
and set against a rosetta stone of the modern
era... in what becomes of
the hebrew serif י...
perhaps, well, only possible
in english the trigraph why...
encompassed in the monograph that's y;
and that's only one h short to complete the equation.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
The tinge of secondhand cigarettes fill the air,
Meshing with the scent of a stale motel.
The waft of solitary *** lingers on the unmade beds.
The dilapidated roofing, cracked and chipped,
Threatens to fall on its ghostly residents,
Who care little for the subpar shielding,
Which lets in the acid rain and crumbs of insulation.
The outside, which was once filled with children
Blowing bubbles, filling the moving air with floating life,
Now rests as a statue grey, unnerving in stasis.
Behind the front desk stands the concierge-
As timeless as the cobwebs in the corners and
Dust on the grandfather clock, long since unmoving.
"He was once a great man, as tall as Yggdrasil itself"
Residents were once told.
Now he stands grey and hunched,
As his residents lay sedated and soft.
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 6:20 PM UTC
the sun beats on my shoulders.
the autumn breeze ruffles my hair.
i walk happily.
the path is laid clearly.
the destination is near.
i near your location.
the house is in front of me.
the siding and roofing is deteriorating.
i knock on the weakened door.
the door blows down.
the house is too worn down.
i barely recognize it.
the color is different.
the memories are gone.
i am without a childhood home.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
I read your comments
I do agree
That you are you
And I am me
I don't tell fibs
My poems are true
I fell off a roof before
Have you ever fell too
Roofing is a dangerous job
As are some other jobs too
And I,d just got two words 4 the spellcheck
Thank you
I,m not as bright as others
As you already know by a mile
So I really got to ask you
What is a pluviophile??
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC