Ropy poems on Hello Poetry

Cripp May 2013

with fangs prepared
we wait
by stepping out cavern of blue thoughts
and into

night sky
lit by glow of stick-end
night sky
carried on the back of an ant
night sky
begs remorse's end

night sky
brings out unsuspecting fools
to dither aimless
to seek nocturnal sweets
yet hunger dangles in ropy clots
undissolved
only to find acrid wind.

Ever heard that 'joke' about the guy who.....

lying down, peaceful
relaxing in curls of smoke
looking up at the brilliant night sky
seeing flying stars over dipping moon
pondering the meaning of life and its beauty

and then, suddenly wondered:
well, just where in the the hell is my roof ???

Robert Frost

The Bonfire

“Oh, let’s go up the hill and scare ourselves,
As reckless as the best of them to-night,
By setting fire to all the brush we piled
With pitchy hands to wait for rain or snow.
Oh, let’s not wait for rain to make it safe.
The pile is ours: we dragged it bough on bough
Down dark converging paths between the pines.
Let’s not care what we do with it to-night.
Divide it? No! But burn it as one pile
The way we piled it. And let’s be the talk
Of people brought to windows by a light
Thrown from somewhere against their wall-paper.
Rouse them all, both the free and not so free
With saying what they’d like to do to us
For what they’d better wait till we have done.
Let’s all but bring to life this old volcano,
If that is what the mountain ever was—
And scare ourselves. Let wild fire loose we will…”

“And scare you too?” the children said together.

“Why wouldn’t it scare me to have a fire
Begin in smudge with ropy smoke and know
That still, if I repent, I may recall it,
But in a moment not: a little spurt
Of burning fatness, and then nothing but
The fire itself can put it out, and that
By burning out, and before it burns out
It will have roared first and mixed sparks with stars,
And sweeping round it with a flaming sword,
Made the dim trees stand back in wider circle—
Done so much and I know not how much more
I mean it shall not do if I can bind it.
Well if it doesn’t with its draft bring on
A wind to blow in earnest from some quarter,
As once it did with me upon an April.
The breezes were so spent with winter blowing
They seemed to fail the bluebirds under them
Short of the perch their languid flight was toward;
And my flame made a pinnacle to heaven
As I walked once round it in possession.
But the wind out of doors—you know the saying.
There came a gust. You used to think the trees
Made wind by fanning since you never knew
It blow but that you saw the trees in motion.
Something or someone watching made that gust.
It put the flame tip-down and dabbed the grass
Of over-winter with the least tip-touch
Your tongue gives salt or sugar in your hand.
The place it reached to blackened instantly.
The black was all there was by day-light,
That and the merest curl of cigarette smoke—
And a flame slender as the hepaticas,
Blood-root, and violets so soon to be now.
But the black spread like black death on the ground,
And I think the sky darkened with a cloud
Like winter and evening coming on together.
There were enough things to be thought of then.
Where the field stretches toward the north
And setting sun to Hyla brook, I gave it
To flames without twice thinking, where it verges
Upon the road, to flames too, though in fear
They might find fuel there, in withered brake,
Grass its full length, old silver golden-rod,
And alder and grape vine entanglement,
To leap the dusty deadline. For my own
I took what front there was beside. I knelt
And ****** hands in and held my face away.
Fight such a fire by rubbing not by beating.
A board is the best weapon if you have it.
I had my coat. And oh, I knew, I knew,
And said out loud, I couldn’t bide the smother
And heat so close in; but the thought of all
The woods and town on fire by me, and all
The town turned out to fight for me—that held me.
I trusted the brook barrier, but feared
The road would fail; and on that side the fire
Died not without a noise of crackling wood—
Of something more than tinder-grass and ****—
That brought me to my feet to hold it back
By leaning back myself, as if the reins
Were round my neck and I was at the plough.
I won! But I’m sure no one ever spread
Another color over a tenth the space
That I spread coal-black over in the time
It took me. Neighbors coming home from town
Couldn’t believe that so much black had come there
While they had backs turned, that it hadn’t been there
When they had passed an hour or so before
Going the other way and they not seen it.
They looked about for someone to have done it.
But there was no one. I was somewhere wondering
Where all my weariness had gone and why
I walked so light on air in heavy shoes
In spite of a scorched Fourth-of-July feeling.
Why wouldn’t I be scared remembering that?”

“If it scares you, what will it do to us?”

“Scare you. But if you shrink from being scared,
What would you say to war if it should come?
That’s what for reasons I should like to know—
If you can comfort me by any answer.”

“Oh, but war’s not for children—it’s for men.”

“Now we are digging almost down to China.
My dears, my dears, you thought that—we all thought it.
So your mistake was ours. Haven’t you heard, though,
About the ships where war has found them out
At sea, about the towns where war has come
Through opening clouds at night with droning speed
Further o’erhead than all but stars and angels,—
And children in the ships and in the towns?
Haven’t you heard what we have lived to learn?
Nothing so new—something we had forgotten:
War is for everyone, for children too.
I wasn’t going to tell you and I mustn’t.
The best way is to come up hill with me
And have our fire and laugh and be afraid.”

Holly Salvatore Apr 2014

Jumped the Fence

The world is raw
And reeling
You are kneeling
On the cold side of the
Road pulling grass out of her
Downy fur feeling the still-
warm blood soak into the
Knees of your skirt and
You are feeling the hurt of
Intestines that are
Not your own Ropy, Uncoiling,
Stretched like homecoming banners yet
Homeless in the dirt
Your lips are bitten
Raw in the fury of the heartache
And your head is
Reeling drunk and there are mudslides
Rolling from your eyes taking your mascara,
Motherhood with them
And pooling at the bottom of your chin
Dissipating in drips
Her blue eyes rest like
Heavy-lidded sea glass and you
Remember a time when they rolled
Like waves full of new worlds
And you choke on the past
And you choke on her fur
You feel the crush of a
Starched and polished night
Falling fast
And you choke on the headlights as they pass
On down the highway
And you fall asleep holding her hoping
Your body will be enough to bless and
Keep her warm Hoping that your
Breath will be infectious as a cold
Until jarring hands pull you out of
Highway grass and flashing lights
Drive you back down the road
And you lay her body in the yard
On a red blanket
Soft fleece like blood and loose guts
You're alone now and you lay your body in the
Seeds, the pool of blanket
And you fall asleep holding her Whispering
Pleasedon'tbedeadPleasedon'tbedeadPleasedon'tbedead
Like a stuck record

God writes "No." inside your swollen eyelids
With a ( . ) it's final
**Pause for breath

#i #my #miss #baby #lulu

Chauntelle Laflen Jul 2014

Scars

These scars
on my arm
remind me
that I am not the person I was before.
Ropy and twisted,
they are scraped across my skin
in memory of all the pains I suffered-
heartache,
betrayal,
torture,
abuse.
They will never leave me,
a permanent discovery of self
that should never be forgotten.
I used to wish I could make them go away,
ashamed of my tainted appearance,
ashamed of my frailty exposed in public.
But, now,
they are like a map to me-
crossroads etched across my skin
in purpling reds and browns;
a timeline that reminds me of how far I have come,
and what I have gone through to get here.
Sometimes, I look at them
and can see where I need to go next-
for each scar has its own story,
and its own lesson.
So, if you see me
on the streets,
arms bared and waving in the wind-
just know that these scars are mine,
my journey,
my burden to bear;
be happy for me-
not sad for the person you think I am-
I know where I've been,
and I know where i'm going.

#love #life #home #pain #friend #lover #woman #suffering #scars #house

matthew scott harris Oct 2017

Pro full lactic milked poem.

Exposure Therapy

     A figurative light shines on me (courtesy of Pink Floyd), no matter I live on the dark side of the moon like another brick in the wall, and rarely present thyself stark naked sans emotionally. The metier viz modus operandi of writing (poetry seems to edge ahead of other structures) allows, enables and provides with utmost exhiliration, infatuation, lumination, et cetera an opportunity to test (dis)comfort zones. Hence carefree foray induces loosing oppressive repressed unvented xanax albatross drugged gewgaws, jetisonned (via Jetson propelled Segway) means producint resplendent unfettered x2c.

      I became habituated, insulated, jackknifed with non-healthy, destructive behavior cultivated detrimental habits disallowing natural maturation of body, mind, and spirit, which this middle aged mwm now more fervently revisits, remonstrates, and recapitulates when attempting to explain to thyself or another, how bing figuratively tethered to the apron strings o' me late mum promulgated, narrated, and licensed to avast quantity of active listeners, the self made parent trap (albeit synonymous with an invisible umbilical cord that well nigh strangled satisfactory quality of life.

     Thus culled from me lately (countless decades when within fledgling offspring, the progeny evince metamorphosis that display heavenly lottery phenomenal tinder phase linkedin DNA when processes of puberty per purring prestidigitation when mine deus darling daughters developed into divine dames) instilled, jolted, kickstarted personal quest to broach me interpersonal/ social comfort zones.

     The presence of generalized anxiety (with attendant debilitating panic attacks) ******, foiled, highjacked journey to experience ordinary sensate human bonding never took place.

     I copiously deprived, emotionally fleeced, gamely hocked innumerable joyous kissably leavening male natural ordinary processes qua ramping sundry transitions ushering vital wings yodeling zen attainment. emotional, physical, social discoveries visa vis via blockaded, deprived, forfeited, hamstrung inoculated je nais sais quois electric kool aid acid test disallowing, barring,

depressing, forsaking growing **** Sapiens trajectory toward autonomy free self destructive hermetically sealed reign.

     Otherwise, thru avoidance behavior, clamped down eponymous flapping gums, this now middle aged baby boomer believes he cheated himself, injuriously jarred kidnapped legendary manifold noble savage traits ushering vital willpower yawping zealous adulthood.

Said physiological, integral, hormonal, germinal, fantastical, external, developmental, capitalone entourage fumbled mine kempf outlook predicated unanimously withheld Mortal Kombat from finagled grim-faced hoodlums, whence thine smarting, roiling, quivering psyche broke LivingSocial will power to remain alive, thus surrendering StarWars shield, essentially via nixed invisible IdentityGuard, undermined re: self defeatedly favorable growth, when thy prepubescent self firmly believed he hermetically sealed, guarded, buffered, himself against nasty, meanly lampooning, cruelly brutal bullies when in truth he merely annihilated, boobytrapped, bolloxed against learning to deal with dangerous enfilades fired, and essentially a uselessly futile coping mechanism.

     Quest diagnostic codified by yours truly incorporates initiating, kibitzing, and making odious quirkiness stamping utterly worthless yikyaks axed. Courageousness employed grappling ingeniously

kickstarting my nifty operation quintessentially rallying strength to utter verbal warbling, especially when espying a guy or gal donned with dreadlocks.

     Inexplicable to myself why a plethora of persons (constituting various generations) attire themselves with the lengthy process to braid, maintain, and wear follicles in such a fashion most attribute to Rastafarians.

     No matter what the reason or rhyme (whether with or without sense and sensibility, yet inculcated with pride without prejudice), a fascination with curiosity asper men, women, and/or children sporting a headful sprouting knotted ropy plaits sets the impetus sans this non establishmentarian chap to inquire what influenced him/her to impress the trademark dreadlocks. Each person usually offers little objection asper what influenced such a predilection.

     Upon conniving, daring, egging, et cetera this quintessentially respectable son, the unsuspecting gal or guy ruminating about some purchase, I nonchalantly assay, foray, sashay...and issue a positive comment about their snake like confection of locked tresses.

     Most interaction with persons previously unbeknownst to me launch into a harried styled and swiftly tailored explanation.

     Poetic and/or prosaic concoctions, confections, coiled connotations configuring confusing confabulations representative of mine unsettled psychological state, which (aking to purging) oft times erupts without any sense nor sensibility, neither pridefulness, though prejudice against victorious vanquished wicked yoked zealousness toward unhealthy behavious linkedin with a nada so good and plenti outlook.

#haven #healing #house

betterdays Apr 2016

beefsteak and oxheart

my granfather cultivated
beefsteak and ox heart tomatoes

great big red things
bigger than his
gnarled and ropy fist

smelling of acid and
sun shine and deep rich
goodness

he would sit at the table
and seperate the seeds
out of the pink granular flesh
like a surgeon
and they would sit like pink red sago
on cut pieces of yesterdays news
set upon the window ledge
gross yet compelling
there they dried out
in the sun
and were sorted for planting
some discarded as not good enough
some set aside for the "prize winning" bed
the plot of soil that got the best sun
the best compost, and some watered concoction
that smelt of things dead and rotting

I once asked what made a good tomato seed
his reply," you just know girlie....
you know the ones that are going to be great"

tomato growing was serious business to my grandpa

These tomatoes were the staple of our summer salads, **** and juicy.....nothing like the insipid tomatoes found in grocery stores today...
My grandfather won numerous prizes at country shows for these tommies....he grew them with great love and dedication.....

#napowrimo2016bd

Mateuš Conrad Apr 2017

while in england, be sure to buy a paddigton bear maskot

and this is what they say, honestly, this is what
they say:
mają burdel w gębie,
               a tu im fiołek zorem: jakby mowa
o pałacu Wersal!

     what's that translated as?
              you have to try harder, cutting out my mother
tongue will be as hard as your concept of
revising me writing with my right hand,
forcing me to write with my left hand...

they have a brothel in their gobs,
   lo! they are deluded that their tongues are violets:
as if they were talking about the palace of Versailles.

    europe is europe...

tym całusem swą matke?
    with such a kiss your own mother?

                                nic mnie już nie dziwi
                    (nothing bewilders me right now)
serio
        (seriously).

              starałem i starałem mieć cierpliwość
z angolem... ale po dwu-dziestu lat:
                straciłem, czy też zapomniałem
                   tą niby cierpliwość?
     bo mnie kurwa wkurwił po szczyt gdzie moja
krew zaczeła wrzeć!
             ohyda! pfu! jakby we mnie mongoł!

ubierz swój zór w coś podobnego do u'ropy -
          eh?
                     tyś nagi jakby proto mit adam'ah;
ale tyś nie on: bo sam gawędzisz: nie istniał...
                  no, prawie - jak ty.

i shudder to think what the next defence of capitalism
will reveal itself as:
                why haven't they noticed cultural darwinism
just after they identified cultural marxism?
                 no one is even keen to acknowledge
cultural darwinism... the whole concept has left
the realm of science... a long time ago...
             it's a cultural motif...
                                                but it's not acknowledged
as such... why?
                                   why is no one i'm listening
to throwing the term about: cultural darwinism,
cultural darwinism... cultural darwinism...
                     oh believe me: we have the infrastructure,
we can open auschwitz the moment you say: go!
            so what happened? some cut your ***** / tongue
                                                                           off?
the west is effectively talking into its own *** -
              the russian doping scandal?
did you follow up on the bradley wiggins scandal that
was hushed to the point where they all turned
seagull and tried hushing that scandal with
                   mer... mer (finding nemo... marp)?
             eh? hear that one?
                                the west is nothing but a
claustrophobic globalisation agenda... and some weird
**** about a transgender movement that
                  tried to **** around with the laws of grammar
so that when i speak this western language:
   i'm speaking siamese, while trying to run a marathon.

David Ephraim Bellinger May 2017

Carrion

Crimson sheen considers an orb of golden beaming
upon its dust-flecked surface;
Ropy drippings welcomed into its totality, save for the tails
plucked by a soft breeze.
*****, ivory half-arches splotched with blackened patterns
cast their slivered shadows onto the pooling;
Raggedly are they covered by dried out leather slightly caved-in
from the weight of those this gift has come to nourish.

Jemia de Blondeville May 2021

The America Ground

A hamlet of one thousand, living on the foreshore
A hubbub of humanity, survival at its core
A cocktail of life, oft shaken, and stirred
A ropy undignified indifference, regularly heard
A taste of saltwater, fish, and a melancholic gin
Gnarled hands, and weathered faces, with an accompanying din
A thriving populace, some occasionally amorous
Seagull artists, painting Union flags, uncolourful, and unglamorous
Sunken ships, recycled, and usurped, in which to dwell
Smugglers, thieves, and vagabonds, sometimes made it hell
A whole host of personalities, were readily found
Living on a non Bermudan Triangle, known as the America Ground
by Jemia

𝗦𝘂𝘇𝘆 𝗕𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗸𝘆 Dec 2017

America “righteously” aborts

If you do not follow the script the script-writer will have to **** you
He will play the lonely broad-hating nut, but really it will be a coup
as unborn infants, burdensome babes, America “righteously” aborts
Fear not witches as aborticide is a mother's right invented by courts
The fiction is that the impregnation of our women needs no cohorts
as it's the natural law law of land, that bench law inevitably distorts
Photography elongates legs & entirely removes battle scars & warts
Chickies 9-heads tall prove truth in advertisin' ain't what it purports
The ropy trails spanning blue horizons ain't what the media reports,
Query not Jax aerosolized army tanker jets 'cause T.V. offers sports
Most of the stuff Sam's Walmart peddles is ****** ***** imports,
as China builds factories in Wyoming, who'll be manning the forts?
Respectful people used to refer to constipation as being out of sorts

𝗦𝘂𝘇𝘆 𝗕𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗸𝘆 Jan 2018

EACH SUCCESSFUL ROMANTIC COUPLING must survive its ******/suicide phase, whereat, she murders you and commits suicide.

If you do not follow the script the script-writer will have to **** you
He will play the lonely broad-hating nut, but really it will be a coup
as unborn infants, burdensome babes, America “righteously” aborts
Fear not witches as aborticide is a mother's right invented by courts
The fiction is that the impregnation of our women needs no cohorts
as it's the natural law law of land, that bench law inevitably distorts
Photography elongates legs & entirely removes battle scars & warts
Chickies 9-heads tall prove truth in advertisin' ain't what it purports
The ropy trails spanning blue horizons ain't what the media reports,
Query not Jax aerosolized army tanker jets 'cause T.V. offers sports
Most of the stuff Sam's Walmart peddles is ****** ***** imports,
as China builds factories in Wyoming, who'll be manning the forts?
Respectful people used to refer to constipation as being out of sorts

𝗦𝘂𝘇𝘆 𝗕𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗸𝘆 Aug 2017

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ The most painful place to get a tattoo is Ormond Beach, Florida. Don't touch me! I just had Japanese breast implants.

If you do not follow the script the script-writer will have to **** you
He will play the lonely broad-hating nut, but really it will be a coup
as unborn infants, burdensome babes, America “righteously” aborts
Fear not witches as aborticide is a mother's right invented by courts
The fiction is that the impregnation of our women needs no cohorts
as it's the natural law law of land, that bench law inevitably distorts
Photography elongates legs & entirely removes battle scars & warts
Chickies 9-heads tall prove truth in advertisin' ain't what it purports
The ropy trails spanning blue horizons ain't what the media reports,
Query not Jax aerosolized army tanker jets 'cause T.V. offers sports
Most of the stuff Sam's Walmart peddles is ****** ***** imports,
as China builds factories in Wyoming, who'll be manning the forts?
Respectful people used to refer to constipation as being out of sorts

— The End —