"rys" poems
Is there anything as special
As a sister's love?
They are right there with you
When push comes to shove!
They fight for you
Have light for you
To show you that they care
They grow with you
And sow with you
The mem'rys you both share
Sometimes they may not agree
Sometimes even fight
But that's because they want the best
And they know what's right!
It's my sister's birthday
And I want her to see
She is near and she is dear
In my memory
So here is a story
I remember from her past
It tells of her character
She's a fighter to the last!
~~<♡>~~
When my sister was still going to the University of Arizona here in Tucson, she had a motorcycle. Which had a proclivity for breaking down. Well, it was getting on toward summer. And the bike broke down many miles from where her mechanic was located. She had no money to get it towed. So my hundred and twenty pound sister pushed that heavy motorcycle all the way to the dealership! The mechanic was agog!
He couldn't believe she had lugged that motorcycle all that way! He told her, "Honey, you have some *****
This is the way my sister is. Beautiful, brilliant, and brave!
I am very proud of her, and I'm honored to be her sister!
♡ Catherine
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
*** praat jy met 'n nagmerrie stem
waar jou uitroeptekens soos 'n slu foks-stem
in 'n koue marmer gaap besterf?
*** druk ek my ore toe
as my hande agter my rug gebind is
met drade van sielsdiep verse?
7 biljoen stemme , maar joune rys uit:
'n metaal orkes in 'n wereld van vyandlike vriende
en godslasterlike psalm-gesange.
*** droom ek stukke van jou op
in al die gifte van 'n barmhartige maan
wat my geliefde aan die bitterbessie bosse hang?
Ek probeer verwoed om my monsters
soos silwer gekwaste honde te verdrink
, maar selfs in die beursie-tapper lawaai water
is hul swem tegniek onverbeterlik.
Vergewe my stilswye en klapperwoorde
, maar ek sukkel om my drome te deel
met klaasvakie kerels wat hulle
voetspore ongeskonde laat
en liederlike drome aandra.
Ek bevraagteken soms die vraagtekens
en die puntlose stellings wat
tenstrydig die onbeperkte moontlikhede kortknip...
Soms wonder ek...
soms droom ek...
soms hoop ek...
-maar ek skrik altyd wakker
, altyd.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
Drome is gemaak om n lang nag interesant te maak.
Dis n sprokies verhaal van goeie dinge of selfs die slegte.
Van kastele en weelde, n lewe vele meer voor sal soek of selfs drome van cowboys en crooks met perde wat gallop op en af die berge, opsoek na diamante en gewere.
Dan is daar die nagmerries wat mens se hare laat rys, n skrik en n gesnik en wakker voor die wekker en n gewonder wat sopas gebeur het!
n Droom kan beloon, n droom kan verloon, n droom kan waarheid word dit hang af *** jy voel.
Egter klein bietjie raad van n nuwe jaar se digter… droom n droom, leef die oomblik met of sonder die donker nag, want n ware droom is oomblik van waarheid waaruit jy jou kastele kan bou in n ware sprokiesland vandag. 2016/01/26
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
~~~^€^~~~
thought i saw
a bird on high
all glory in his bright array
he didn't stop
i had to sigh
i will not be a friend today
many's the time
that he would land
brilliant plumage on the wing
perch there boldly
on my hand
such a strange resplendant thing
peacock blue streaks
'round the eyes
breast as red as sealing wax
wings like
orange leaves i prized
and pressed in books
in mem'rys cracks
he would warm me
with his breath
with wings to flap
and feathers fan
now he leaves me to my death
i only a small woman
so now he's but
a memory
likened to remembered dream
now a part of history
I can't recall his song
his gleam
all about me
darkness falls
it's a black and dreary day
his beautiful eyes
i can't recall
and so
the bright bird
flew away
soulsurvivor
(c) 6/17/2015
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 6:14 AM UTC
The dawn is blank
like the paper on my desk,
nauseous from the night before,
frozen like the ink in my hand.
Blank sheets all over the floor,
poetry is my mad lover,
blankness is betrayal,
a war lost,
unsung heroics of failure,
bittersweet kiss of defeat by my rhymes.
I pile up the blankness of the paper,
words echo through the gaps between them,
I look close, there's still poetry.
On a page, third from the top,
there's an ocean of yellow paint,
Van Gogh swims merrily on the surface
with both his lips glued.
after a dozen pages, on a paper not so yellow,
a doctor walks the street
with a suitcase full of gifts,
and a dog called death.
I wrote of a woman who
was burned by every man she loved,
wrote about each piece of her heart
thrown in the depth of space,
next to the moon and far apart.
I wrote of Plath on a coffee-stained paper,
of how intensely she held
the lips of death under the gas oven,
of how the smudged ink of Ariel cried
on the table,
screaming and roaring for her.
On some papers, blank and inked,
I wrote myself,
blankness isn't defeat.
blankness is the longest chapter of my life,
it's a legend.
RYS
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
~~~
spindles filled with tattered thread
looms of rusty wood
a shuttle made of ochre
sheds stains of finger's blood.
dusty from their constant use
mem'rys make their mark
pain that succors the abuse
creating shadows stark.
time with distance weavings
all snarled with great care
i sit the loom a'weaving
the woof and warp...
despair
(c) soulsurvivor
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
As time goes on, an’ days turn t’ years,
Though my eyes soon f’get your gorgeous face,
your beautiful hair,
your wonderful smile.
As time goes on, an’ days turn t’ years,
Though my ears soon f’get
your voice so sweet,
your cute laugh,
of an angel.
As time goes on, an’ days turn t’ years,
Though my skin soon f’get
your tend’r touch,
so kind, .so gentle.
As time goes on, an’ days turn t' years,
Though my mind with age an’ time be dimm’d,
you’ll be there still
as vivid col’r mem’rys fade t’ black an’ gray,
rememb’rs in only thoughts, how great would’a been, th’dance.
As time goes on, an’ days turn t’ years,
My heart’ll nev’r f’get ya',
b’cause he nev’r f’gets
th’ ones who touch him,
th’ ones who’s touch leaves an impression,
‘specially th’ one who’s touch left an impression so deep,
that th’ impression can only be fill’d,
by th’ one who made it.
As time goes on, an’ days turn t’ years,
I’ll nev’r f’get ya’,
please, nev’r f’get me.
th’ one who loved ya’ from firs’ glance,
an’ nev’r had his chance t’ dance.
I love ya’.
1/08/04 © 2/20/2013
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
tu nie stanie islam... nawet jako stańczyk,
na jednej nodze;
tu nie stanie islam... nie na tej glebie...
tu nie stanie islam;
poczekam: z pamięcią
zwana turk;
ja... ja! ja tu man pierw: rys! i prawo aby
tak było! czy nie! i by tak zostało dotrzymane!
tu islam powie: o kurwa... spierdalam!
tu mi islam tańcem może fiołfki w figle
zamienić...
tu! mi! ißlam! nie da ani jednego kolejnego
kroku!
tak... no tak... wpraszam w siebie
"nieczyste" i najbardziej czarne serce...
huj im w dupe! i ten lament kobiet
o warszawskich obyczajach -
sławne powiedzenie: jak kurwa warszawska...
po chodniku... tu it tam...
czy kurwa pingwin wtarł sie do twej pizdy?
no to co mi tu gawędzisz o:
ah... ale to dobry syryjczyk...
czy ja naprawde wyglądam
jak by to mnie, tak naprawde obchodziło?
spierdalaj! bo inaczej dam ci w ryja!
owszem, spytaj siostre Cologne...
sto-dwa i tym
namaluje ci: gwałt...
a wtedy powiesz sobie...
to mi sie... podoba?
mokra pizda? chyba tak! ha ha!
tu! ißlam! nie stanie nawet na jednej nodze!
nawet by to był tanieć à la pirouette
tu! mi! żaden dziń, kurwa, nie zatańczy!
smród pustynny, koci stolec, i ta
pierdolona mina wgrana w kontemplacie
genezy zaparcia.
- o! pats! mysleli ze ty niet gawari!
- no kurwa... psecies odkryli h'ameryke
w puszcze sardynek
na kresach!
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC
-
in
my mind
I soar in flight
to the islands
of the light
in between is
blackest night
my heart's eyes
have second sight
on I fly in
mem'rys
kite
islands
emerge
from numdness' mist
there flowers spring
remembered bliss
perfumed air
a lover's kiss
out of an ocean
dark bruising fist
there lies the
Scylla
and
Charybdis
the
seas are
stormy
charcoal
black
suffering
and
hunger's
lack
but within
the sparkling isles!
treasures
for a little
child...
a mother
with her little girl
takes her to
another world
through reading stories
thus
unfurled
a
time of
triumph.
awards at school
breezes blowing
soft and cool
thru
time
the sands of
beaches sift
a race is won
your feet
are swift
these memories
are such
a
gift
on such
a beach
my feet touch down
Christmas' sights
and laughter's
sounds
I am safely
on
the
ground
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/5/2016
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
When I see you,
I see nothing.
Not the stars,
neither the moon.
Are there clouds?
Any blue?
I can hardly say.
You're made of nothingness,
in my head.
Just a huge hollow void
of absolute emptiness.
In person, you were pretty.
But I do not remember,
neither the skin
nor the words,
but I do remember
calling you beautiful,
in my head.
In my head, though
you're more beautiful,
the sheer nothingness.
All over me like
a starless sky
on a drunken night,
when the woods stumble,
and the chair can't hold still.
All over my floor,
like crumbled pieces
of blank pages,
that scream dead poems.
You remind me of a diary,
that stinks in my closet.
so beautiful,
I was afraid to touch.
I never scribbled a word,
not even a smudge of ink,
untouched and flawless
and pointless.
In person, you aren't
that beautiful.
I do not want to touch you,
so maybe
I'll leave us undone,
because if I don't,
I'll lose the nothingness in you,
in my head
I'll have a face and a voice,
an image, a lady,
and maybe love
but mortality.
-RYS
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 10:03 AM UTC
I forgive the mere mosquito that bites me on the neck
Consider if we didn't we'd be a puddled wreck
They come in crowds of thousands in an aerial assault
The energy to hold a grudge – well, we forgive them by default
I forgive the ones that get me, that drink at my expense
I forgive the ones that, mercy me, I **** in self defense
Of course I don't dislike the little beggers any less
Forgiving them won't serve to stem a subsequent transgress
It's not something we have to learn - from birth until our death
We know how to forgive one as we know to take a breath
There was an awfully bad assault when I was just a boy
With rising welts across my back like grisly corduroy
My profound embarrassment forced me to camouflage
Even now my mem'rys just an indistinct montage
That time I did not forgive. Mortified and angry
It took me years to realize – the forgiveness was for me
I forgive the ones that get me, that drink at my expense
I forgive the ones that, mercy me, I **** in self defense
RC
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 2:48 PM UTC