"rummage" poems
The city spearheads the futures we sincerely sold,
As it pluckers your pennies and your coins of gold.
I felt poor amid the auras of their fearsome metals,
Cowering in the clothes of our daily struggles.
I am destitute enough
To bleach out the interests of my cards,
To shatter your savings for a disabled future,
To rummage the stock markets for apertures.
Yet within you exhales tentacles of the color Yellow.
Yellow as in,
The scattered stars that scorch the injured sky,
The mellowing voices of neon artificial lights,
The apex of fire alight in frostbitten nights,
And the yolk of hope my cheers rely.
So while you chase the sun
with your copper-clad hands,
remember but this:
all that glitters is not gold,
It’s the color Yellow in these eyes I behold.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
Civilized life is rigged, O land-dwellers!
With landmines hidden
in trails of Society's doctrine,
'Too often is it stepped on,
Too often does it explode.'
Blowing constitutions to smithereens,
Where you then rummage within your nucleus
to piece together your scattered jigsaw,
Misplacing your natural elements,
Overcasting your ability to side with beauteous aspects in simplicity—
Of those ethereal-resplendent butterflies.
Disillusioned on land thus is you (the complex you).
Let go—
Rise above your materialistic graves—
Walk on air!
My kindred wisps
Walk on air!
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
I blare my conscious mind
but stay mute
Im a forest sunset with a fading glare
Rummage through my thorns tear apart my roots
in the center a void is there
Playing aloud is the devils flute
And it will strip me bare
From the top of my hair
To the tip of my boot
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:48 AM UTC
I knew there was something wrong with her when I was 10
I found a magazine report about borderline personality disorder
I was reading in the school library and I started crying
I could never have put a word on what was different about my mother
But there it was, plain as day
The way she could stay in bed till 3 in the afternoon with the blinds closed
The way some days we would laugh as she asked me if I wanted to play hooky and skip out on school
We would go grab frappucinos at Starbucks and rummage through countless thrift store shelves
But some days, some days I would be screamed at until I cried
Some days I would lock myself in the bedroom until I needed to come out
Some days I would stay at school extra long and just put off going home altogether
Some days my brother and I were burdens
Some nights we would get to order pizzas and drink Coke and some nights we were told to find food for ourselves
Always with the paranoia and the headaches and the inability to do anything
Consistent with the anger and the depression
Consistent with the exhaustion and the impulsive natures
The pills never helped, the pills never made things better
Fourteen years later and things are no better, things are no easier
Things have made no progression
Fourteen years later and we don’t speak
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC
I wake up
Each morning,
Head to my closet,
And arm myself
With clothes
Thick as brick walls.
I rummage
Through various
Pairs of greeve-like
Pants
Looking for
The right foundation
On which I
Will build
The day's
Exoskeleton.
Fix my hair
Like the rest
Of mankind.
Hair that
Acts as the cloak
That ascribes me
To anonimity.
Before I leave
I put on the
Weight of
My outer person,
The one which
I have carefully
Built out of
Various yous
And none of me.
The skin
That I Have worn
To see my soul
Forlorn.
I go, parade myself
Like a sentinel
Emblazoned
With all the
Merits;
Look and behold
A hero that
Beckons to all who pass
A hero who
Hides all the dross
Of the Inside.
The inside
of whatever is left
Of my
Dying kingdom.
I go as a bastion
With jutted spears
And sharpened pikes
Wounding those
Who advance
Whether in peace
Or in strife.
No, I will not
Let anyone
Through the gates
Of my starving
King.
All my life
I was being
Built as a
Stronghold.
Father, as a mason,
Taught me
That strength
Is measured
Through how
Much pressure
My structure
Can endure.
Mother, as an artisan,
Raised me
As a dam
That will not break.
Taught me
That my worth
Is measured in the
Volumes that I can keep.
Suffering be now
The mortar
That binds all my griefs
Together.
Pain, *****
Barricades
Around my thirsting
Prince.
Comrade,
Stay as a facade;
Hide the muck
That have accumulated
Throughout
The years.
Lover,
break me down.
Strip me of all
My armor,
Break down the walls.
Turn my spears
Into soft dandelion *****
Wade through the tar
And see
Through the veil.
Unseam
All my scars;
Bleed me dry
Until you reach my core.
See me for
Who I am.
Witness the king
That I have
deprived.
Caress the face
Of the prince
That I have denied.
Satiate my famished spirit,
Oh, you, lover of my soul.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
I've never had luck with blondes.
Well,
I've had lots of luck
falling ever so
deeply
in love with them.
With their eyes
of bright hues in
blue, green, and greys.
Going head over heels
for their charming smiles
that make your eyes linger a little longer
that what's permitted.
Dying
to feel their
godlike
comforting
powerful
touch.
That was easy.
Horribly easy.
But what surprised me,
kicked the backs of my knees
and made me crumble to the pavement
were that those handsome
heavenly faced blondes,
have no soul.
And I am sure of it,
because every
single
******* time,
they leave me...
Alone in the dark,
confused,
disoriented,
with not a single word.
Which leaves my thoughts
to echo in the emptiness,
rummage around inside my skull,
looking in the hollow cabinets
searching for clues
and slowly growing
frustrated
and angry,
angrier,
angriest.
But not at the blonde boys.
At myself.
As of what I did wrong?
Why did they go?
How could I let this happen again?
And every time,
I can never find the reason.
Those blonde boys
just appear in the rays of the summertime
with their golden locks of hair
and leave with their icy dark souls
in the cold breeze of the fall.
And I know,
they will be back next year.
With the sun,
and happiness
and my stupidity.
Until then though
I'm stuck with the abusive markings and stabbing aches.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
i scroll through
the symptoms;
the signs once more
finally screen-shotting them
only so i do not have to keep
looking and re-looking
them up
i rummage through the very
personal box of writings
hidden under my bed
i find the paper
with the heading of:
How I See Me, How I Am
following the undepthed title
is a list of short, spiked written words,
words that, all though so very short, mean so much
and ache even worse
down to the bottom of the list my finger skims
my eyes scattered throughout the words
and my tears scarring the paper
finally at the the bottom
i grab the pen and finish the list
with one simple word
depressed
(a.b)
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
Look in the mirror
What do you see?
Imperfection
As you reach left for
The tan crumbs to cover your uneven skin
And reaching right for
The black
Toxic
Goo
To give the impression that your stubby eyelashes
Aren't incapable of growing
You step back and look at yourself once more
Its not enough
You rummage for the crayon to
Smear across your eyelids
In hopes that it will make your
Dull
Brown eyes
Pop
Your face feels pounds heavier
Yet, are you really done so soon?
Aren't you forgetting something
You dig deep into the drawer
To find a
Burning
Red paint to drown your thin pale lips in
Longing for the look of that
Photoshopped
Supermodel you saw in that magazine
You come downstairs
Dad says you look like a clown
Mom says you're still a kid
Society says its not enough
What do you say
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
The Secret of Her Clothes
by Michael R. Burch
The secret of her clothes
is that they whisper a little mysteriously
of things unseen
in the language of nylon and cotton,
so that when she walks
to her amorous drawers
to rummage among the embroidered hearts
and rumors of pastel slips
for a white wisp of Victorian lace,
the delicate rustle of fabric on fabric,
the slightest whisper of telltale static,
electrifies me.
Published by Erosha, Velvet Avalanche (Anthology) and Poetry Life & Times
Keywords/Tags: clothes, lingerie, nylon, cotton, amorous, drawers, slips, lace, static, electricity, mystery, mysterious
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 5:16 AM UTC
Come every morning you're up with the sun
with hundreds of questions before breakfasts done
like what is a rainbow and where is the dark?
what's that? and why's? can we go to the park?
the beach? the woods? as I sit here and dream
must we have cereal? I want ice cream!
You sit at the table, eyes wide, mine half shut
and chat to the cat about dinosaur stuff
how you like pterodactyls but school, not so much
you rummage through cereal in hope of a toy
one way to amuse such a curious boy
the cat swipes the box, makes it fall to the floor
"there goes our breakfast!" as sweet laughter roars
you slurp at your juice as I sip at my tea
so it's ice cream for breakfast for you and for me.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Out my kitchen window
I see the barrier surrounding my backyard.
And the backyard after that.
And the one after that.
And the one after that.
And so on...
Wanting to keep people out.
Guarding our things
and guarding ourselves.
I see your barrier.
It's made of the thickest stone.
There are barely any cracks or breaks
just signs that someone tried to get inside
and holes patched
from their effort.
I wish I could make all the hurt go away.
I wish I could provide the comfort you need.
I wish I could tear down that stone divider.
I wish I could shatter your wall.
I stand at your barricade
my hands placed on the cold, thick stone.
Projecting all my love and warmth into the tips of my fingers.
I want nothing more
than to rummage through this rubble
so that I can find you
and hold you.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
I traipse along fractured slabs
to get away,
away from worn floors
to a place
of haunting silence -
just cope with it I say.
From the cavern
to the cave,
beneath ***** dishcloth clouds,
a monochrome Rubik's cube
of a mind,
sluggish and masses
of ******* ideas,
there
then forgotten.
Rummage around
in the green sack,
pick out a dream
to dream
tonight
before it melts
like Red Leicester on brown bread
into an image
hard to decipher,
a TV dotted with white spots -
smack me on the back
'til a picture returns.
Blindfold me
until I cannot see,
give me another sliver
of suspect perfection.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
it's dusty, i swipe grime off my skin
my memories piled up in stacks of
knick-knacks, yellowed notebook pages,
and drawings from when i was twelve
i haven't cleaned my room in a year
too scared, anxious
to touch anything
the fear of breaking my fragile sense of identity
that i've clung to
it's desperate, lonely
sleeping in a dusty room
i wipe the sweat from my forehead
cobwebs weave through my strands
clinging in clumps as i
rummage through my belongings
i hadn't seen these things in a while
remnants of when i was
happier, even though i said i wasn't
i'm a year older again
and soon i will be years and years older
and i will leave this room behind
for now,
as i stay for
a little bit longer
let me revert back into
the child i was.
May 26, 2023
May 26, 2023 at 6:54 AM UTC
sacred
silent season
wrapped in silk
in your tall towers
imposed
with the
ambling sense
of reason
and ripe blossoms
bathed in ***** milk
never again
left to wonder
the aimless
riches of yesterday
and the golden
hopes of tomorrow
such are the joys
of a Norseman
pillage and plunder
I will rummage
your sweet gardens
let your woven path
lead my feet
free of chains
to your doorway;
and the Viking
stirs and hardens
alpha breath
against moist
misty white skin
my cobalt aquas
revel in the seas
of your chastity
now ablaze with
nordic sweat and
archaic sin
Let the games begin
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
There are monsters under my bed, I swear it’s true
If you don’t believe me take a peak, but I wouldn’t if I were you
They are more terrifying then any alien, vampire or werewolf pack
Even though they wouldn’t eat you as a snack
They don’t have three heads, green skin or multiple eyeballs
But bones can be seen through brittle orange skin and sleek hair, skyscraper tall
The heaving chest of a Grinch size heart can be seen, beating almost too slowly
Their beady bloodshot eyes stare at my pale skin, knowingly
I hear their long nails violently scraping on my floor, haunting the room in which I slumber
Those bloodshot eyes and glowing nails wish to tear me from limb to limb, with a plunger
I prevent this terrible pretense by giving them what they desire the most
Dishes of raw meat, garnished with flies, are found under my bed; since they infatuate the gross
So they will not touch a pretty little hair on my head
But, it is so that they glare with jealous revenge, under my bed
They rely on me, and I must keep them satisfied, for my safety
They have a fear of being not alluring, very desperately they rummage through food, even if it isn’t tasty
These scrawny creatures reflect a zombie, who was once radiant with beauty
Demanding statements and propelling attitudes falsify their faces, simply they are snooty.
Their beauty would entice many girls, I know
Maybe others would see the reflection of their ugly souls, and realize what their future may in toe
These creatures are after me, because I’m not like them
In this twisted universe, I am the alien
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
Day one,
Hour three
I don’t know you
You don’t know me
But I already have a question.
It went downhill from there
Questions coming as fast as the seconds passed leading up to my parents
Departure.
You didn’t know what you were getting yourself into when you said I could count on you
And then you let me follow you home
Like the lost puppy I was.
I didn’t know what I was getting myself into
When I said
Let’s be friends.
Because now all I want to do is trust you
When all my head says is keep it to myself,
Baby, I came here with more than just clothes in my baggage.
But I can’t keep myself from saying too much
And I can’t keep you from saying too little
And I can’t keep myself from wanting to save you.
When I need to save myself.
Because I can’t do this
Again.
I’m supposed to forget my past
But her words were dragons that continue to rear their heads
At inopportune moments.
For every question I ask you, I ask myself fifteen more
And the answers?
Well they’re with the slippers I forgot to pack.
I’m in love with a bunch of letters.
Little pieces of paper that make me nauseous just to look at.
Words that used to mean the world are now just contradictions.
So please don’t ever write me a letter
Because I’ll take that to mean you’re leaving me too.
I know her actions don’t have anything to do with you
But my past isn’t gone
It’s just been put on a shelf
Somewhere else.
And I’m trying so hard to forget where.
You deserve more than this.
You deserve more than the cheesy clichés and the useless words.
You deserve more than the part of my past I won’t tell you
And the rubble that I’m left with.
And for you I want to be more.
I’ve given you my heart on paper multiple times before
I want you to know
That for you, there is no door.
Forget my shoulder,
Let my lend you my spine.
And please if you ever need it,
Let our fingers intertwine.
Friend,
I want to be your windowsill.
I want you to know I’ll always be there,
For you to put your crap on.
I want you to know you can open up my head and look inside and rummage around for a while
If for some bizarre reason you would ever want to that.
I don’t know why you would ever want to do that…
But anyway.
I want to be the notebook that you can write your secrets in
And know no one will ever find them.
I want to be the magic eight ball that you turn to for help
And that has the courage to tell you what you don’t want to hear
Because I know you need to hear it.
I want to be that sticker you put on your wall.
You don’t always look at it,
But you know it’s always there.
Most importantly though,
I want you to think of me as a bottle of glue.
It doesn’t matter what you throw at me,
I’ll always stick with you.
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 3:13 AM UTC
When I feel the world is moving way too fast,
When the stars disappear and reappear over the horizon in what feels like seconds,
When the moon's gentle crescent curve consumes the black around it and expands in the span of a night -
We’re moving so fast, you and I, we’re falling through space and time
The universe is expanding and we’re falling into the sun
Flying through space at a thousand miles an hour
With the sun hitting us at the speed of light
Life here is infinite, stretching out forever
So when I feel we’re going too fast
I rummage in my accumulated possessions and pull out the most valuable piece
I set up my still forest of ticking trees and clockwork animals
Plant the swaying grass within the everlasting soil
I'll sit in my unmoving meadow
And watch the world stay still
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
We can be different, you know. We do not have to stand behind society’s shoulder, figurative mascara staining our cheeks; cowering away from the world—we can be different. We can shine like a billion snowflakes on pavement, melting in the wind perhaps but immaculate all the same. We can stand up against the hurricane of second choices and broken opinions; we can diverge from the neon path of shattered hearts and clichés and we can go to sleep and let ourselves heal and sometimes we can decide that 24 hours is far too long to be conscious of our mistakes. We can be different. We do not have to write about wars or dragons or space we can write about the freckles on our palms, or the blue of a stranger’s eyes. We can skip all we want and we can breathe through our hearts; we can pull the lilies from our garden and water the weeds ‘til they bloom and we can watch Barney until we turn seventeen because it’s okay to be different. We are allowed to bury everything we have ever been told and learn things for ourselves because if “seeing is believing” then experiencing must be a gold star and a half—don’t tell me I’m wrong. We can be different. The only people who have ever said otherwise are hiding among us and the reason we have listened for so long is because we’re afraid that we are one of them. We are afraid to step out of the crowd of painted souls and rummage in the future for a color of our own. And we don’t understand that if the brushes are all taken, and the watercolors of individuality are dried up or used we can mix our own or use our fingers or stain our reality with melted crayons—it doesn’t really matter. Because it’s okay to be different. And every time we cut off our own voices, or burn our love letters we are encouraging the wind to whisk away the snowflakes plastered to the pavement, crushed under feet of people determined to be the same. -Me
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 8:17 PM UTC
"Get out!"
He yells; orders
"Get out of the car!"
I sit.
"NOW!"
I look around
sorry faces gawk at me
they should be sorry
letting me fend for myself
walking into the desert battlefield with me
then stealing my bags and running away
with sorry snickers
sorry
**** well should be.
"I'M SERIOUS! GET OUT NOW! OR I'LL PULL YOU OUT!"
I gaze out the window
barren deserts,
mossy, sandy mountains,
endless stretches of hard, dead highway
The lock unlocks,
my belongings gather,
my shoes go on,
the handle moves,
the door opens,
my foot ventures to the sandy ground
the door closes
the engine starts
the car moves away
Sorry hands wave at me
my body is still
My face holds steady; a deathly glare of dementia
The car disappears
Realization slaps me dead in the face with its stone hard fingers.
Did that really just happen?
Am I truly all alone?
I look around.
NO people.
NO cars.
Just an endless stretch of highway
Epiphany strokes me with fire warm palms.
I'm alone!
I'm alone!
Sweet freedom!
Sweet, sticky, horrid freedom!
I hurl
I cough and spit wheeze
I wipe my mouth
the saccharine taste of bile still fresh.
I thirst.
I grab my camel back and take a small, deliberate swig.
I put on my backpack and stalk away from the speck of dust car.
I grimace.
I rummage through my never-ending pockets.
I count out five dollars and seventy five cents worth of change.
I grunt.
I hike up the dusty trail.
All ahead of me is sand and dust, sickness and deluging concepts of freedom.
I march on.
I feel the earth echo beneath me as each grain of sand separates.
With each trudging movement my feet slip backward.
With nowhere left to go and nothing left to do
I walk on
with my smile of freedom and my baggage of
Desertion
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 4:12 PM UTC
I thought of you today and felt resentment.
Rather than pretend like everything was okay,
I let myself feel pain for being abandoned.
Because I opened my mental cabinet and let you rummage around.
I left it open after you left, believing that you might want to come back to it later.
But you never came back.
And you left everything a mess.
The contents of the drawer started falling out, and I was left alone to pick it all up.
Items shattered on the floor and I cut my hands trying to pick them up.
I wish I didn't let you in
Mar 17, 2022
Mar 17, 2022 at 4:35 PM UTC
Do you find it
boring
to spell out the word
"subconscious"?
Not the way I spell it.
Many step onto the first "S"
as if it were
a ***** rain puddle,
but I'm sufficiently alert
and can see that one must dive
into the word's application,
nimbly rummage through the
annals of its history
before conducting one word
in or against its favor.
Glide downward
through the
rhythmically breathing curves
of the voluptuous prefix,
"sub-",
as you begin
dreaming
further
down
towards the comatose
of the rickety construction
that is your superego,
to the "you"
no one knows about
in clear daylight
(even the mirror).
Minor turbulence
may occur
within the rest,
"-conscious",
just a few jagged rocks
stirred into Cloud Nine
to alter your perceptions
like a face hit by a bus.
This is the meat of your matter,
the acidic ruptures
that only the most cunning
infiltrators
can identify and nudge
with their index fingers
using a painful precision,
the ***** band of undergarments
that always seem to loiter behind
in the town laundromat.
But a jagged rock
is a jagged rock,
never eternally bordering
the outline of the planet,
just lodged within the corners
of your comfort zone,
their presence
a necessary evil
for the times you must steer
through the swarms of cataracts
and endure the exrcuciating agony
of becoming a better human being.
You launch yourself
from your adolescent crutches
like the roots of teeth
erupting from the base of the jaw
and prevent single definition,
hack away the tentacles
of emotional paralysis,
by remembering to mend
the tear between
two polar halves,
"sub
conscious."
Under your false promises,
your Freudian timeline,
your ever-quivering Id...
every single one of you.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
I meekly rummage through my purse
Looking for my tangled earpHones
The sweet sounds of guitar and synth fill my ear
As we pass Eglinton West
I wait for the last minute of the song
Where I maximize the volume
Just to hear the faint bass in the ocean of noise
Like my pastel jelly fish amongst navy blue
Stinging my tearducts with poison
Is your bass
That romantic tune forever ringing in my ears
Like your breathe down my back
Like your eyelash on my cheek
Like your fingers in my hair
The same that pluck that bass
Cascading ******** sound waves through my tired mind, romantic heart
I put your bass away, back in my purse
And walk the streets of my city
Where I see you everywhere
You can't be put away neatly in my subconscious
You're their bassist,
But most of all,
You're my front man.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
Budapest
It’s an odd hour in Budapest,
that time when one finds themselves all alone,
passing vagrants who rummage through the trash,
searching for scraps of whatever and possibly some salvation,
I’d been drinking,
which I guess is good and bad,
coming fresh off of a philosophical conversation,
with an ideological Kiwi,
I couldn’t crush her ideological exuberance,
with my aged cynicism,
even if I’d wanted to,
because I respected her passionate optimism too much,
or not enough,
either way,
I was as alone now,
as I was before I met her,
except I felt lonelier,
because we all feel lonelier,
after having had the company of a friend,
or a stranger,
whatever,
it doesn’t matter now,
I’m several drinks in,
and I’m back at my rooftop apartment,
across from The Dohany Street Synagogue,
retreating into my writing which is where I find myself now,
at this odd hour in Budapest,
that time when one finds themselves all alone,
passing vagrants who rummage through the trash,
searching for scraps of whatever and possibly some salvation…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
author of The Poetry Trilogy
author of The H Trilogy
∆ ∆ ∆ ∆ ∆
∆ ∆ ∆
∆
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
Glowing Windows embedded into mouldy brick walls
Ivy climbing the gutters of neighbourhood roofs
Skies becoming burnt out like charred blackened fields
Tall spiny trees project shadows onto the road below
Leaves curl up to receive some weakening light from above
A formation of sputtering cars cling to each turn they decide to make
Cloudy milky light bounces off faulty windows that exhale the aroma of somebodies impending supper
A heavy truck manoeuvres itself into the blistered bitumen horizon
Dry deflated branches make obscene gestures towards passers-by
Gardeners rummage through their bags as they near the end of their working day
Their faces filled with an expired enthusiasm for breathing
Parked hunks of metal pelted with dead itchy leaves
Windscreen wipers hold fragile twigs down against grotty neglected glass
Chain-link fences link disparate housing and the sleeping people within
Some dispirited unsatisfied psychos gaze up as they catch a moving bus
Smoky Incense billows down from some apartment balcony
The air becomes cold and sharply fills these ordinary streets
Engine sounds try to supress the divine quietness
They only merge into it
Now the stars are out and about
Bright specks waddling in an aerial pool of dark blue
You turn the key and walk through the front door
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 11:24 AM UTC
I want a lazy kind of love
Sleeping until noon you can rummage my mind
I'll unfold the sunlight for you
My fractured eyelids have dreamcatcher eyes
I'll carry the moon in my pocket, the lightening in my core
My poetic mouth will get us through the nights
Unbound lips gather the earth
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 3:15 AM UTC