"saltless" poems
I found me heart in the sea
surrounded by corral that's rust red
locked in a chest with shiny cents
So heavy it never rose
not even when given a good laugh
pearls and black diamond tears
The fish cry saltless tears
and no one I know can see
They only know my joyous laugh
and the things they wrote, I read
blooming like a rose
I was this made more sense
But alas, I waste my two cents
soaking in salty tears
I wish that chest had rose
from the sand beneath the sea
****** heart beating red
god I need a laugh
The octopi around me laugh
for they have a humorous sense
and don't know the things I read
standing in the theater tiers
Their big, old eyes can see
the locked chest that never rose
They gather in pews and rows
eager for another laugh
They don't understand, they belong in the sea
but my heart down here makes no sense
so I still have salty tears
mixing with each pump of red
The octopi never read
sorting coral into rows
They never had to cry tears
They only know how to laugh
because to them this all makes sense
Their hearts belong in the sea
They cannot see, for they have not read
They have no cents, they don't know the rose
all they do is laugh, ignoring human tears
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
Like toast without butter was the saltless bowl of curry
This indeed caused the unhappy cook to worry
"What shall I tell 'master', the only member of the jury?
For nothing but utter distaste the bowl does carry"
As reader, by now, you'd think there's the solution
Of simply adding salt to the saltless infusion
But please just wait before you arrive at conclusions
And let me guide you through the motions leading to the cook's final resolution
Had the cook some salt, this tale would have met it's end as soon as it begun
But given that that isn't the case, in our hands we have a miserable man
Who, though down-trodden, still believed in the strength of a simple "I can"
So off he went in search of salt, his journey 'has' just begun...
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
Sweet and saltless riptides running forth from rusting fire hydrants
Cooling the dirt ridden skin of boys and girls fresh from the tumult of life in our dying city
Who are
No more different than those who were willingly whitewashed whistling gingerly behind the white picket fences that to me are reminiscent
Of crucifixes
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 2:12 AM UTC
That pitched dark night comes back to my mind,
I somehow had managed to return from the gallows of death
A body, cold wrenched and tired
A food saltless seemed very tasty
Losing houses, money and property
Hugging my brothers happily we were
People black, white, hindu and muslim
Believers of one god brothers all today
Fear of death is such a force of cohesion
Humanity everyone's religion became to be
The elation of being alive
Of meeting relatives once again
An overcrowded bed, a cold autumn night
How peacefully and warm I slept
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC
You gotta like love
Like a good cold warm dish
Losing a chance on one wish
A saltless main meal
A genuine touch you can’t feel
Like lukewarm coffee
Ants stuck in toffee
Warm soft watermelon in summer
Shrivelled cold fries the day after
A delivered bitten slice of pizza
Uber, two hours later
A flat glass of Coca Cola
A wet cold doona
A missing piece at the end of a puzzle
A resentful bitter cuddle
Matchsticks with wet strikes
Your best poem with no likes
Oil stains on a monopoly board game
A long conversation with a forgotten name
You gotta like it, to love it
Just like, we like loving
Sep 6, 2021
Sep 6, 2021 at 5:10 PM UTC
Don’t let anybody tell you your scars
still itching, as if they were
filled with electricity,
gives them power.
Let them scream for
attention, deeper wounds do not matter any more.
Though
they carve their love into
you, you are not stone: know
you are earth, a flowerbed,
saltless, rich, ready to bloom anew:
seeds sown, all sewn up, you
tend red rows of rosebuds.
All the thin shadows in
your skin mean is that
you are healing: remember
digging fingernails under scabs
will always make you weep.
Some people take
stitches to undo: do not
trap them
in your flesh like inflammation,
wash away the static shock,
pull out the shards of
glass. Your hard heart
will turn to snow,
to blue tac, soft but greyed. Warm
yourself in your own hands.
Write names in condensation,
let them fade until
your reflection smiles back at you.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
Catholics
Believe
They're characters in a book
God is writing
And that the ending
Is predetermined
And inherently pure
If they follow the script
What they don't realize
However
Is that God is a **** author
Smoking cigarettes
Over a blank page
That their book will end
Far before the plot
Thins
Because he can't finish
Anything
He started
Because you wasted
Everything He supposedly gave you
On your knees
For a piece of
Saltless
Bread
It can not fill
Your holiness
It can not fill
The space you've cleared
For Him
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 7:10 PM UTC
i cry.
i weep.
i shed tears.
endless flows of water that produce my heartbroken reflection.
i exist.
not live.
i belong to this world full of sweet melancholy opportunities.
i hurt.
i ache.
i struggle.
i bleed saltless tears in hopes i will save myself one day.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 1:15 PM UTC
The music plays softly,
but only in your eyes.
We have not heard what you know,
we do not know where you go.
You tell me you are glad I am here,
that you know I do good things,
then you leave.
Your delicate gait,
and your thousand yard stare speak volumes to me.
You leave, slowly,
a disappointed raincloud that had not the strength to spill one single drop.
All the while your inner monologue is burbling out,
a storm drain that has given up its fight with the deluge,
" and then you came home,
on the 5th of November,
and that was the day,
and you left the sea,
and I made your bed,
and the radio broke"
every word autonomous,
a programming error,
a glitch,
static that will not ground.
Your eyes scream of a child imprisoned within their glassy walls.
Then,
like a child at a party,
you are led away,
vice like grip
softly takes your arm.
This party food is soft,
easily digested,
and saltless.
There are no balloons,
there is no cake,
but...
there is music.
The music of your eyes finds me again,
singing of yesteryears and dried up tears,
and all the gaps found inbetween.
You force me to fill in the blanks of you,
of all you were,
of all you will ever be.
I reduce you to a name on a door,
a pattern in a bed,
a product of a battle not won.
I have come to do good things,
I have come to let you break my heart.
When my future imprisons my youth,
when I break this moments heart,
it is then,
it is there,
where the beat goes on
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 6:38 PM UTC