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CK Baker Jan 2017
I can’t wait
to be a hundred
turning over the thoughts
and plots
of Caledon
floating
on Zimmer inserts
and dusted Florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon

Through the
barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes
and goes

You can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
from Allis Chalmers
to combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
to shallow carp fields
the patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(on ripped and rolled
frontier seats)

it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
both peeking their way
through
the rusted
grinders wheel
Lisetta May 2019
Through creaking doors
walk my ideas of people.
Cracked frames, bent and sullen.
Groaning hinges, bones
bruised and rusted.
ᗺᗷ Nov 2013
The air your lips used to warm
as you'd breathe into mine,
has become too cold
from the space
you left between us.


Now,
I warm my own air
with flames
set from the peelings
of a burning heart
you threw away
in a rusted can.


I don't remember winter ever being so cold.
King Panda Apr 2016
I was born on this
back porch
I was born
with a lion in my
brain
I was born with
you, dear sister
300 years ago
in a little town
on the Italian
coast
we played
in the arms of
the Mediterranean
reaching to the light
we saw in each other
never clawing
sometimes crying
always found in the eyes
it was called
a miracle
it was called
unusual
it was thrown into
the fountain
like a rusted penny
dormant joy
buried in a wish
to find you again
and now
here we are
the breeze that died
300 years ago
warm
calm
and smelling of lilacs
Aparna Sep 2013
Handcuffed to a post, body chained to death.
Rusted irons pulling his spirit towards Hell.

Shackled souls who cry in hope.
His name in blood on white-washed walls.
Saint Audrey Jul 2018
Casualty: my interest fading
Once waxing moon now seen waning
And I did concede your irksome warning
And watched as the rest played out

So let bygones be gone, fallen out by the side
Of this road, worn down, still restless, keeping straight
Eyes glinting off token little bits of hospitality
Mother nature being so inclined at times

The stress so unnerving, I hardly doubt it
But tension is eased once it comes to acceptance
And I accept in full, finding time to unwind
Winding stretch of lonely road, dotted here and there by
An occasional landmark
Or a lonely tractor pulling behind it
Iron bars, old and rusted
Found in their hold
Bales of hay or
A small little pond
With a bench beside it
Holding initials carved against the grain

With a heart surrounding

As mine beats slower

At last, the sun begins going down

And the moon grows brighter
Even in its state
And my feet move faster
Though my body is withering
I feel this separation growing
As my mind takes flight and leaves me

Behind, in the twisting twilight
And alone, I walk along
L B Oct 2016
Behind the barn in late afternoon
Uncle Ray lifts my brother
to the seat of a harrower
abandoned now
and rusted to this field of family
tilted and monumental
plunging its tines into memory
of broken earth
behind this life of the workhorses they were
My father and my Uncle Ray—talking
Scattered conversation
in hushed tones

...as skyscraping thunderheads
slashed through their heights
by arrows of fire
light the pumpkins
between hay bundles
of time golden
One of my early memories.  I was three.  Between my first and second year,  memory begins for me-- mostly impressions and strong symbols that seem to float without time.  
My grandparents were gone, but my Uncle Ray still worked their small farm in Hatfield, Massachusetts, and we would drive up from the city on Sunday afternoons.  The house itself, was one of the oldest in New England, with the barn attached by a distinctive enclosure, to allow easy access to the animals in heavy snow, like the house described in Ethan Frome.
CK Baker Nov 2018
Covenant park central
parallel, east-side west
waiting on the
print defender
(and Lichaten queen)
he appears randomly
and distorted
with a broken smile
shuffling down
the Smithright trail
in his Mac Tack
and cinnamon shades
(sun bags and thrift ware
stacked three high
on a rusted rat trap)

An open ended
panel van
crashes the curb
as a long-boarder
dodges the tail
and kicks up some dirt ~
the plumb tree
and sunbeam double wide
hold steady in the fish eye
as the warehouse carny
and tire-less 510
shine brilliantly
on the dull and
dripping scene
L B Apr 2017
They would have given a lot
those paste-skinned kids
with straw for hair
and knobby knees
Not that frail— it seems

Beneath grayish strings
through black rims
one cracked lens screams—
Gets nothing!
Changes nothing!
Ritual words fall—
a rusted refrigerator
shoved over a railing from the second floor

Barking dogs tied to the radiator of misery
fed on rough-house excuses for kindness

Why do people keep children?

Larger than average eyes
huge foreheads of genetic wrong
******* childhood downstairs
while mother is sleeping
I can get used to the smell of cats
Human ***** is not so—
different?
and if I didn’t change my clothes for a week

What do children know?

Jenny cuddles a starving kitten
then releases it to where
they disappear...
one generation after another
Famished eyes
devour anything offered
words...food...***...God

Screams from the mats of string and gray
Scald the frantic instant badly
I watch her bolt beyond explanation
Night gives no reason to let her live....

My faith went the way the kittens go
Hope and a small girl
blend beyond blackness
harlee kae Oct 2014
give me your secrets.
the ones behind the closed door,
with the rusted on lock,
because its been a long time since anyone has entered.
spread me open and lick my wounds
until i've muttered your name so many times i'll never be able to forget it.
show me something that will make me forget the hours i've spent crying.
and love me.
just love me.
as if i were a sailboat,
and you were the sea,
and all we needed was each other.
Tammy M Darby Jul 2013
Pitter
Patter
Fall the rain
The dwelling
Bedlam of London
Residence of the insane

Behind metal rusted bars
Shall they forever remain
Raving madmen  
With minds chaos they lay

How many poets
Are in the echoing screams
The artists visions
In lifeless eyes
A vacant being

The sculptor
Genius hands
Frozen into stone
Frightened into psychosis
For fear being alone

Pitter Patter
The maniacs clatter
Lightly fall the rain
Upon the dark roof
As the lunatics howl

Pitter Patter



This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base.  All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby
Alysia Marie Apr 2015
The devils foot soldier;
That's what you turned to be.
The one I thought that I could trust;
Confuses my memory.
You water the flower to feed the roots;
Thus only to pluck the petals.
It reminds me of how strong you are;
Strong like crimson metal.

But that metal rusts, and the flower dies after you've shed them limb by limb.
Stripping them down to their naked cores;
And exposing their deadly sins.

We're all like flowers, but don't water the roots if you'll only pluck our petals.
It'll show the ugly truth inside;
Like rusted crimson metal.

                                        Alysia Marie 2015 ©
Io Jul 2019
Io
The rocks
My blood, red flow
Behind my veil ash
stars lie obscure
An eye
Rusted white
Swirling in it’s spite
It gave me life
Is it that which I abhor?
At my behest
In vacuo
Upon an inky sea
Put my burnt soul to rest
written as Io, a moon of jupiter
It’s pretty edgy, but I think it’s funny to think of planets as edgy
SassyJ Apr 2019
Halfway through the year time crept
Days seemed to flash like thunder
each vanishing by to its paradise
Sometimes I wonder about the days
If they will reappear above the mirage
far beyond the ever breathing skies
above the unreachable starry skies
above what is unfathomable and unattainable
and if these days sat on a mountain?
would it ever sink or be weighed down?
submerging below the strata and volcanic tension

aren’t we all stuck in a driven world
where souls are trying, prying, crying
each trying to find a place, some freedom
a resolution above all the substitutions

Yet as she sat at the fountains of love
all she could find was second class crowns
rusted copper coins sunk at the bottom
and all their wishes echoed eons ago
articulated with tainted rosy promises
pardoned within a series of mysteries
as if happenstance as delicacy was outpoured
and as she sailed, willowing voices unfolded
and all she could visualise was the future ahead
Inspired by a day out at Wagga Wagga, NSW AU
L B Oct 2017
Behind the barn in late afternoon
Uncle Ray lifts my brother
to the seat of a harrower
abandoned now
and rusted to this field of family
tilted and monumental
plunging its tines into memory
of broken earth
behind this life of the workhorses they were
My father and my Uncle Ray—talking
Scattered conversation
in hushed tones

...as skyscraping thunderheads
slashed through their heights
by arrows of fire
light the pumpkins
between hay bundles
of time golden
One of my early memories.  I was three.  Between my first and second year,  memory begins for me-- mostly impressions and strong symbols that seem to float without time.  
My grandparents were gone, but my Uncle Ray still worked their small farm in Hatfield, Massachusetts, and we would drive up from the city on Sunday afternoons.  The house itself, was one of the oldest in New England, with the barn attached by a distinctive enclosure, to allow easy access to the animals in heavy snow, like the house described in Ethan Frome.

What's left of the farm is abandoned now. :(
The buildings cannot be torn down-- National Historic Site
There is a marker on the property: "Balise Family Homestead."
Chris Thomas Nov 2017
Metallic heart,
Savor what you can
While you can
And rest where you lie

Rain.

Sanguine flesh,
I will pierce thee
To feverishly rip, and tear
At these rusted-over heartstrings

Rust.

Sluggish pulse,
Hand over calloused hand
Wipe the luster from her brow
And drown me in the clamor

Pain.

Dangerous dreams,
I smell the rain from years away
I recede, and believe
That time won't repair this erosion

Lust.

.
lila Mar 2019
did you know
1 in 5 women
will be ***** during her lifetime
but every 1 has a name
and every name has a story
and no one story
is ever the same
mine isn’t any exception

it didn’t happen at all
like u think it did
there were no shadowy figures
reaching out rough hands
to pull me into an empty alley
as i walked the streets alone at night
8 out of 10 rapes are by someone you know

my body wasn’t a rag doll
to be thrown against a brick wall
while ****** objections flew
from my mouth like cannonballs

it was just us
in a space that was ours
a hushed no living and dying on my lips
the scary sweet nothings
whispered in my ear
must have drowned out the tides
rolling in and streaming
down my cheeks
because your hand never once left my throat
and you didn’t stop

i was nothing more than a shiny object
laid out on a dingy sheet
for you to devour
made to please

but when i rusted
i was abandoned
right where u took me
a corpse to rot
amongst the flowers
but if u squint hard
i may be pretty enough
to use again
3/28/2018
Ajit Saigal Aug 2018
~~PASSIVE PASSION~~
Endures & Binds,
when
Provocations Looseth the Soul.
How
Submissive & Impulsive,
Yet so Very
Paradoxical a Paranoid !

~~RUSTED TRUST~~
Forges & Sharpens,
when
Life's Brunts Maketh the Soul.
How
Ironic & Caustic,
Yet so Very
Powerful a Predominance !

~~VANQUISHED VANITY~~
Fosters & Transcends,
when
Identity Forageth the Soul.
How
Narcissistic & Intransitive,
Yet so Very
Surreal a Sacrifice !
Tried to spell out the mind-games many of us play in our everyday lives while struggling to maintain the ethical equilibrium.
We tend to go passive in passion when it comes to self imposed restraint, but we also fret about lost opportunities.
We cling onto trust levels gained from the heat & hammering's of our own long term past experience's and thereon it starts dominating our lives.
Many a times we willfully thaw the heights of our egoistic vanity and rise above material frenzy to witness the never before experienced bits of ecstatic brilliance.
Anthony Perry Mar 2016
Creatures crawl from under the roots of trees and bugs scatter from the pockets of the lost to the cadence of sprinkling rain

Silence in the woods of missused life brings out the sounds of wind screaming past the tightened ropes and rusted knives

Those who walk through the aokigahara forest hear a symphony of life that persists through the maimed, a festival of tents and people strung up like decorations as if it was meant for a parade

Nature reclaimed the unused death of unwanted bodies and the rain drained flesh from bones, simulated hell and suicide is what's found soon after passing the warning signs in red and white marked zones.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2015
(I love) Dignity

tearing words apart,
a part
of  a joy I cannot
explain or share exactly


knew a man once,
forty two years gone,
died too soon enough,
soon enough,
he and I will be
the same age

this man
a duck out of water,
a stranger in an adopted land,
trouble-stooped, a hard life, well lived,
never bent,
dignified in every step

I cannot remember him
ever kissing me, tousling my hair,
holding my hand, loving me in
a manner I wanted beyond  desperately

yet here I am, 5:22 am
weeping tears recalling him
in glimpses long ago seen,
adding them all up to get a
single sum

Dignity.

tearing words apart,
a part
of a joy I cannot/explain,
share precisely


dig
in
to
my
chambered memory storage units,
unlocking those rusted locks with freshly oiled
tears
and loving the dignity he exampled

to the son he could not kiss, hand hold,
but taught him the one lesson, digging deep
to respect life and stand apart,
stand with dignity.

all else will follow

the son kissed his children plenty,
in a vain attempt to make up his missed
homework

now the grandfather,
now the grandfather
is still kissing
his last hope, his newest babes,
rolling on the floor,
so silly kissing belly buttons,
smelling their skin repeatedly,

in a manner most
undignified

still weeping
the son,
he tries to sort it out

and forgives and does not forget
the man that taught dignity
in everything,
even, especially,
in slow dying,

forty two years is a long time to wait
to weep.

it takes two hands in the dark
repeatedly
to collect all the waiting patiently
wetness and the
accompanied sniffles,
so undignified,
the son smiles at himself
declaring unabashedly,
digging out from himself
a poem, a self-reflection
on time tarnished reflections
clear enough to make him
sob,
believing

I love dignity.
for my father...
Noel Billiter Jul 2018
I tricked you into being here
Practiced words that weren’t sincere
Concocted a truly deceitful tale
Crafted And worded not to fail
Wrapped you tightly with sharp barbwire
To keep you still and somewhat quiet
Patiently weaved a rusted web
So when you move it stings your skin
Squirm and fight this all you want
Resisting just makes this more fun
The belief in the goodness of mankind
Consider this a warning sign
Evil consists in a opposite form
The sweetest smile can do you harm
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage
Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
Aditi Jan 2018
My petals were withering,
The butterflies turned into wasps.
An oppressive silence-
Weighing down on my conscience
And the fingertips - used to drawing sunrises
-compelled  to write eulogies instead.
Of Chapped lips and vacant eyes.
And how the autumn had caught up to us.


And I remembered,
With an aching guilt-
How I had not even played in the rain,
Not much, not at all.

My words had rusted,
My voice- cracked, and unfamiliar
Even to my own ears.
The summer long poems that I wrote in love
Were set ablaze,
To help me survive a winter
without you.
Oh, when I said our love would keep us warm
This is not exactly how i had it planned.

And you did not get to read even a word.
One always thinks they have time.
But we did not.
Not then, and definitely not now.

As a child, I grew up wanting a lot from myself
-even the world, if I were to be honest.
Somewhere along the line,
All I wanted was for this all to not hurt.
And somehow the polar opposites are more alike
Than I'd have thought.
'Cause you see, people who want a bit of everything
Are very close to wanting nothing in particular, not much.

And I wish I had learnt to differentiate
Of when to sharpen my sword and when to use my pen
Cause now I'm down to my last petal
And all you have is a blue splotch on your shirt.
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