"sawn" poems
Since you've been away
I've trailed the wake of the clouds
Just crumbling clay...
That lay in the shade that enshrouds
Depending on the ifs and mays.
Wake up, my love...
Since you haven't been here
The sky did nothing but only sang
Ambient translations of mocks and jeers
As the green blades of earth bared their fangs
Mischievous songs that I've held dear.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been gone
I've realised that I'm not moving
And you too, haven't moved since last dawn
A reality all too disheartening
Bits of me all cut up and sawn.
Wake up my love...
Since you've been missing
I am never whole, and never will
A lifetime of endless chasing
Bottomless jar without a seal
Void clustered emptiness in need of filling.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been absent
I could only hope for this lungful
To lead me to subsequent
Ones that taste like bitter pills encapsuled.
Mind full of drugs running rampant.
Wake up, my love...
Since you wouldn't have known
What these days are like...
Time induced tumours have grown
The hours impale with temporal spikes...
Inseminating malignant thoughts soon to be sown.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been away
I'm a player hoping for a fair game
Nonetheless still crumbling clay...
That lay in the dark just the same
Choking on the what ifs and what mays.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
Seed
Sow
Shoot
Sapling
Tree
Chop
Sawn
Cut
Log
Fire
Embers
Ash!
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
The broken biscuits lay in a tin
An ordinary oblong tin
With turquoise pattern
And pink embossed flowers
Gold edged to finish the job.
How many times I visited
That tin on the middle shelf
In the top half of a cupboard,
Sawn door, to allow for fridge,
And quietly took out the tin.
Broken biscuits were my delight
All shapes and sizes tasty bites
Wafers, bourbon, custard creams
Rich tea, digestive all suited me
Sometimes fig sandwich, pleased.
Love Mary
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 7:05 AM UTC
Hello little maggots in my doggy's poo
What exactly is it in there that you do?
You're living and you're thriving on my doggies waste
Wonder what it is exactly that you taste?
The taste to you must be good
Living there like maggots should
How is it though you stand the smell?
It is sickening, or can't you tell?
Is it warm inside your home?
Or is it cold, but you can't roam?
There it's moist and food is found.
So why crawl about on the ground?
All your needs are found therein.
A natural home from my best friend.
Squirming and munching in the sun.
There's plenty there for everyone!
You better hurry though, because soon.
Your home will dry up like a prune.
Turning a shade of greyish white
All of the moisture vanished from sight.
Before then, though, you'll grow wings
And buzz about and laugh and sing.
You will search with not far to roam
To find your children a brand new home.
A freshly manufactured double wide
Nice and fresh. Step inside!
A perfect place to lay your eggs,
To hatch and grow little wings and legs.
They'll eat their fill and that's for sure.
There's plenty here and my dog makes more.
But beware of when I mow the lawn,
Your little white bodies in half will be sawn.
And your poopy home, it will be splatterd
And across my yard you will be scattered.
But I can help with a better plan
I'll scoop you up and throw you in a can.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder, how I will make it alone,
When all those in my life have refused to see what I have always shown?
The fact that I am ill, yes indeed it is true,
A mental illness chains me, physical illnesses too.
Depression has been a friend, for as long as I know,
Panic and anxiety, do you even need to be told?
Am I paranoid? Or is that what you want me to think?
In the next minute, I am dissociated, or cannot think.
I am over here and over there,
"Hello!" or "Goodbye",
What is seriously wrong with my mind?
Friends, they stay a distance, and I don't need them anyways,
Family? Forget it...
I lie and I lie.
I pretend that I feel nothing,
Nothing touches me,
But truth be told I am terrfied,
My heart, as if, bleeds.
Perhaps you've heard of Fibro,
Or IBS as well,
Maybe you know Chronic pain,
And a fatigue like hell.
Maybe your are familar with being in constant pain,
Maybe you know all the pills, over and over again.
"How can it be hard to get out of bed?"
"How hard can it be to ignore what's in your head?"
You won't understand, even though I've tried,
No I'm not special, especially when I'm chained to a bed.
I've been told I am older now, "Hurry up and get a job",
"You will be nothing when you get started and move on."
"Can't you just stop whining? Grow up and live life?
Can you just do something rather than sleeping and wasting time?"
"You worry about this, you cry about that, you want this but don't even try to relax."
"You are doing nothing but sitting around,
So what if you are sick? We all are, all year round."
I am the lazy, the black sheep the failure,
The worthless, dissapointment, the immature.
"I am the would have been, could have been, should have been, never was and never ever will be",
Did I really just quote a song? Indeed, I've felt what they really mean.
I am weak or stubborn, Ms. "why" and "Okay but how come?"
Believe me, there is no look or answer I've been given, that I have not sawn.
There is help out there, there are programs and places to go,
But who would want to love someone who struggles to get up and go?
Who may be sick for the rest of their lives,
Who doesn't even feel worthy of time?
People do what they have to, to go off and survive,
But the next time you want to go and ridicule someone,
Please know, they try...
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 4:31 AM UTC
Milky golden light sawn through
murky heavens and it bent my glacial heart.
The scent of soggy leaves out on the lawn,
fall has come and done its part.
Winter weighs heavy in the idle air,
hung as though it were a conversation
not yet had
Waning passions hushed by waxing sighs
and unpacked bags in need of packing
before the coming sunrise.
I talk of leaving often but you silence it
with pint-size gulps of red wine,
drunken *** and yet another argument
before you cry
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
In this world,
Sawn always appears after the darkness of the night.
Misfortune halved.
Fortune and misfortune are intertwined
They are all part of the scheme of things.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
Part 4
When we last left poor Agnes
In her attic all alone
She couldn’t find her way back down,
And she had no telephone.
No light switch and no stairway
She couldn’t find the hall
The elevator disappeared
(It had sunk into the floor)
And to make her situation worse,
She couldn’t find the door!
But Agnes McDuff was pretty tough;
She didn’t mess around
She thought of stuff that she could use
To help her get back down.
First she lit the candlesticks
So she would have some light -
For an attic with no window
Is black as darkest night.
With candlelight, she now could see;
She dumped the clothes from all the boxes,
Put the boxes on the table,
Next she stacked the wooden blocks.
She found some nails and a hammer
In her Grandma’s toolbox.
She nailed it all together
And on top she nailed the chairs
Now Agnes had a set of crazy, crooked
Homemade stairs!
Agnes went back to the toolbox,
She saw a saw was there,
She carried it very carefully
As she climbed the crazy stair.
Now you might have a feeling
Of what she was going to do
Yes, she climbed up to the ceiling, and
Used the saw to cut right through!
She climbed back down and looked around
Found the rubber bands and string
Added several woolen socks
And made a giant sling!
She rummaged through the dumped out clothes
Found a wedding dress and suit
And with the needle and the spool of thread
Made a great big parachute!
She hooked the parachute to the bicycle
(The one without a spoke)
And tied the back wheel to the tuba
And that was NOT a joke.
The tuba was quite heavy
So it kept the bike at rest
Once again climbed up the crazy stair
And performed the final test.
She nailed both ends of the slingshot
Around the opening she’d sawn
Hooked the sling around the bicycle
Moved the stair, and then got on.
Somehow the clock was working!
It was ringing Three, Two, One
And just as Agnes cut the tie she thought
Boy! This could be FUN!
The slingshot worked!
Shot Agnes out, on the bike, way up into the sky,
And she looked around in wonder thought,
Boy! I’ve never been this high!
She went up a mile or so
Before she dared look down
She saw the long suspension bridge
And the other parts of town.
She saw the entrance to the tunnel
(The rest was under ground)
She saw the roundhouse and the avenue
The park and then the lake
Finally, she saw her house
There was no mistake!
So she deployed the parachute
And gently she descended
And this is where the story
Of Agnes Attic should have ended.
She walked up to the doorway
Turned the handle, now you see?
The door was locked from the inside,
Agnes McDuff forgot the key!
PwL May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
she'd been placed
on a missing persons register
she was last seen
walking to the shopping precinct
her whereabouts didn't get solved
for some time
police had no positive leads
from the public
a full scale search was conducted
but nothing new
came to light
she'd just disappeared
like a wisp of air
some twelve months later
a jogger happened upon her
upper torso in amongst
the Taylor lagoon's
reeds and muddy sludge
this discovery was something concrete
for the police to go on
a forensic unit scoured the area
in the hope of finding further body parts
and other evidence
a state by state missing persons
search began
to try and identify the victim
who'd met with a ghastly end
in the autopsy report
it stated that she'd been
sawn into pieces
with a chainsaw
as the marks on her thoracic cavity
and neck
indicated this...
the detective sergeant
complied the information
he had on the lady
for a brief in court
as luck would have it
she had breast implants
and on them was found
a code number
by tracing this number
and the hospital who performed
the surgery
pay dirt was hit
she was a resident of Kentucky
who'd gone missing
in July of two thousand and fifteen
a chainsaw murderer
did the deed
as six female victims
were found
across three other states
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC
she brings him tea,
a piece of cheese late morn
for he has been toiling since dawn
his plane shaving the wood reverently
the old oak speaking, though not complaining,
in a language the man does not understand
a coughing code for loss, forbearance, acceptance,
redemption, he hopes, for the boys keep coming…
first from Ypres, the Verdun,
now the Marne
before, he heaved hewn planks
for the hopeful homes, built their pantries
to be filled with the bread, the kind milk
now the sawn boards are for those who once
watched his labors, but no longer hear the simple
sounds of sanding, sawing
or anything at all
most of the lads do not come home,
their souls and bodies left to rot on the blood sullied grass
or buried shallow, naked in the French soil, but all get a fine coffin
thanks to the carpenter’s wife, whose babe was the first to fall,
who demands for them all, a holy horizontal home to be built
and, empty or not, placed gently in Anglican ground
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
Something made me smile
as I passed the place today
where the beech nuts used to pile
and the squirrels used to play
and the workman with the frown
that is sawn into his face
came to take the old tree down
and leave a raw and empty place.
'Let her be a wooden tombstone,
she was getting out of hand'
declared a rubber stamped official
but he didn't understand
that all her strength was in her roots
and her roots were all still there
and today I smiled and watched
her raise two fingers in the air.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Longing, encapsulated culinarily.
Crisp, crumbling.
Buttery.
Wooden board, serrated steel,
Sawn loaf.
Thick black waves,
merged by steel.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 4:28 PM UTC
Spring is sprung.
Clouds of maple.
Skies of pine.
Red in green.
Serviceberry understory.
Spring is sprung.
Skunk cabbage spathe.
Black birch sap.
Poplar flowers.
Opossum tires.
Spring is sprung.
Blackbird wing.
Wasps won't sting.
My father died.
Town meeting Monday.
Spring is sprung.
Sing cuccu!
There's no down side.
Infinite willow.
Leaning oak.
Spring and sprung.
Budding flame.
Budding thumb.
Cat claw.
Bird yolk.
Spring is sprung.
Dandelion
Shoots. Arrowhead
Roots. Waterproof
Boots. Old bed young.
Spring is sprung.
Ring and wrong.
Thank and thought.
Seed and sawn.
Wait and walk.
Spring is sprung.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
You're breaking on your camera hand. Haven't got a leg to stand on.
You tell me
you're making me a colour with your shorthand.
Dropping parts of your mind behind you and I can't pick them up, I can't follow you round anymore.
Kid, you're shaking on the stage again
explain that you can't write this down anymore
and that everything inside your head is a storm.
And I just can't tell you.
I don't have the guts to tell you
that I still smell him on my hair on days when I don't think about you now.
But I can't tell you what I'm thinking
like how you're so wrapped up in your own broken strings that you're not getting me right anymore.
You're not getting me right anymore.
These things I lost down in my chest:
how you made this body your chalkboard fourteen days before we even spoke,
and I don't know what you're leaving with. I can't find the words to leave you with.
Tornado hands. Texas lungs. How this world made you a storyline.
You're an underage drunk on a school night.
Stop dropping yourself I can't hold you up anymore.
This is not a hold up.
This is you forgetting to ask about yourself.
Here are all the letters I never sent you
take them out of me, stop making me write you down I can't write you down anymore please scratch yourself out.
You once asked me if I felt it when you woke up in the middle of the night across all those miles, I told you:
you're a church bell in a hurricane
stuck under all the folded over pages I left you with, and I'm leaving you on a Sunday,
just like all those characters you left sawn off.
And I just want to ask you how many times I have to break myself apart before I piece back whole, and I realise
that we've got nothing left going for us anymore.
Your chipped teeth under my tongue telling me "stop apologising for yourself,"
ripping the keys off a typewriter just take everything I've got.
You can have my apologies love.
You can have my best friend sitting on the tracks.
You can take me whole, take me home.
You're a boarded window, nothing disclosed,
"get away from me".
Candlelight through the gaps on a Saturday night in December.
We're home alone again.
Home alone again.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 8:12 AM UTC
I'm likely to breath in
diesel fumes on Sunday
than ever the soft efforts
of spoken word saints.
Burnt out eyes from blue lights
and empty coffee cups full
of muddy rings.
Melatonin bleeds out blending
a wasteland of words.
Off season is
oft spent without thought,
gone in subtle joy.
Heavy knee across inhale
in a flesh crush,
so much, so maybe
it is the best moment I've ever had,
or heeded, until tomorrow
is sought for with a fresh smile.
I do have morals regardless of god.
I peel off layers of time,
hot and reeling in exertion.
I'm putting together something and
it just might be me.
As it was the time before,
but each time- a little better,
at least in this moment.
You say live in the now,
as if I should live in fear
of a future gone sour.
I don't fear a loss of power,
of limbs sawn off,
psyche sent scrambling, insane.
We are all in the red rend,
whole and writhing
ripped from lapsing grip.
I rasp that, for now:
it is all mine.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 2:45 AM UTC
I'd like to talk about curves
Twist and turns
Dented surfaces
Or talk about God
Childish wishes
Open caskets
Broken promises
Surfing on Universal energies
Deciphering the Poems in the music
I'd like to visit Paris
Everglades sawn grass Prairie
With my palms caressing softly
I need a mental picture of paradise
A motivational quote before bed at night
These nightmares stressing for a fight
I'd like to talk with my dad again
I need a map of manhood
I think I might be doing it wrong
......Or just tell him that I'm a proud son
I want to dance
Waltzing around things I value
With black leather dress shoes
Courting yellows from blues
Using old memories as punching bag
Thinking about that kid who wasn't punching back
Curved spine with a heavy backpack
I want to be here now
No captions, just sounds
.....and curves
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 6:27 AM UTC
The old peasant Lady
Of cheeks gullied deep
‘N dreams sultry-tanned
Sawn into the furrows
Of hardest times, which
The stylistic constraints
Of the post-impressionist
Van Gogh hid behind
His vibrant bush strokes,
But seeped as oil of toil
In to the lap of the Earth
And squats as the Deity
Of all our moral codes.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 5:39 AM UTC
Croydon was never the same
after 65
when it was sawn in half.
Wellesley underpass like
a strewn underbelly,
gave the Motor vehicle its commensurate order.
Whitgift middle schools playing fields uprooted south
making way for the,
Whitgift Centre, old before its time,
like Dorian Gray in reverse.
I recall Grants department store closing in 1980.
presiding over an omen, we could not afford a niche,
only for it to become an entertainment venue.
Standardization became our
inalienable right
with the soul of the centre dying
death by a thousand cuts,
not helped by the recent riots.
But Croydon will survive.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Within this world, there waits a patient wood
that longs for recreation by your touch
to fall, be sold, be sawn, and seen as good.
Its oaks have pinned their hopes to suffer such;
its maples dream as much as they are able,
and every aspen whispers to itself:
they pine for you to bring them to the table,
or give them self-assurance as a shelf.
Then there's yourself. The elements essential
within the raw material of you
are scintillating stock, with star potential;
still, steadily you work, and make them new.
And beauty's born, no matter where it lies,
for all the world reflects behind your eyes.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 9:16 PM UTC
I've been told by some that I should allow myself to submit to a higher power.
I've been told by some that I should allow myself to completely surrender myself to the drugs on which I am...
Pompletely Cowerless.
Chompin' at the bitcoin for a hit -
Groin split, oh so tender -
**** it with tin foil so you can walk out the door without sounding the alarm.
**** it with armadillo dandruff so that the Migh and Highty gemi-dods of foral mailure and tetail reft might pity your chleek seekbones long enough to get that bimmering shooty to the sawn phop so that you can Havid Dazzle-Off those pitiful pieces of plastic and fencehorth vondez ru with the dead boy crew; stew you boil cook that dead boy brew; get it all in through the strands and tubes; melt face down down to towndown..... ******
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:56 AM UTC
Trees are tall their leaves fall,
We look them up and down and see beauty,
The vision of growth and strength in the overpowering Branches,
There are funny little shaped trunks,
They are claimed they are hugged,
They are drawn and sawn,
Trees are our friends when we let them be,
Trees contain the destruction,
In mother nature's grace,
We love the trees all the same because they give us space.
Sep 8, 2022
Sep 8, 2022 at 4:21 AM UTC
To twine and wind within and round
my heart with yours, a ribbon found.
Sleeping bows, silence lies
loops and tails, undone in sighs.
Silken lashes, a knotted kiss,
wrists together in bounded bliss.
A thousand fathoms as light subsides,
take me down, together tied.
Glossy one side, inked on back
drawn by a hand who's skill I lack.
Lungs sawn and slaughtered, of breath be conned
yet still I yearn for black beyond.
Your gentle bow belies such strength
hidden power in it's lengths.
Wrapped now, helpless, and happy so
in love's tangled depths I go.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 7:04 PM UTC
*you never really say piranha.... it’s more like piraña... no wonder english without the necessary diacritic spans north america and australia and the emoji platform, so the romans said: bonum, sed ν (nu) *** linea obliqus, sic ha est ad hoc tetragrammaton pars, et allah est la la; quamvis latin est mort scriptio autem non clara voce - basically just write some latin using english grammar, what’s beneath it? guess.*
i’ve written almost 10,000 poems and still i can only
remember having said one or two memorable things,
i mean, for god’s sake, the pedigree maine ****
that lived with me for the 7 years he lived to
dying of kidney failure said more memorable things
than i did, having only said meow / miał (i.e. he had it, once),
maybe that’s because i don’t actually cradle these outbursts
to much appreciation, hence my own worthy critique -
but like i said it once admiring spiderweb threads and the washing lines:
by the casual phrasing ‘killing time,’ i’m sure people invoke
the meaning: to occupy a definite space;
the antonym? that’s a bit what philosophy preaches - ‘to stand outside
all of time and space,’ well the first one i can do and feel remorseful
concerning boredom, but that gives me an indefinite space,
although this whole ‘killing time’ is a great option, i’m going to
schwarzenegger time with a sawn off umlaut, ooh... kick to the groins
watch the crouching tiger hidden *** change - and occupy
a definite space. see, you have to find the hammers and the chainsaws in language
to escape the waterfall of fictional narration, obviously grammatical
categorisation of words makes it easier to suddenly realise:
am i really typing, or actually hammering a word in?
but realising that grammatical categorisation of words
exposes unlikely-to-turn-rusty tools gives writing a whole worth
of sanity, as no longer the chance encounter, but a safe environment
to abseil like a spider which lost the plot of creativity famed by the cobweb, just ******** out a piet mondrian.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
A newborn, awaiting, decrepit, and rotting,
His mother waits for him to stir,
Her eyes emotionless and defensive,
Her dismal namesake will not return.
-
She gazes at his chest, hoping that his breast
Would return to a timelike rythm,
Alas, he is dead, putrified in his bed,
Arms outstretched to a broken woman.
She quietly gasps and inhales sobs,
While her tiny one stares at nothing,
Exhuming her fear of each and every tear,
She desperately clings on to something.
-
She could not stop this folly,
This tragedy entombed in holly.
The umbilical noose, too tight
She held on too strong,
He tried to fight along,
Unknowingly suffocating in her embrace, slight.
After his movement was stifled,
She peered over to the rifle,
That sat to protect the two of them,
She thought and was consumed,
With visions of Hell, and torture too,
She chanced it with an undying stem.
-
To paint a scene in words,
To describe the horror heard,
By no one when no one was there…
What is the magnitude of ******
What lines are crossed to massacre?
And foretelling the wise ones fair.
-
In the end she sat in a rocking-bend,
The chair that carried him off to sleep,
He now lay in his cradle with sodden eyes,
Weary of counting so many sheep.
She had the sawn-off in her right hand,
The wall behind her, a portrait of her brains,
Half her face bereft of her body,
The white walls now hold crimson stains.
The infant’s hand lay through the gate,
As if even in death telling his mother “don’t do it”
The insignificant ominous one
Had lead her then right to it.
Her mouth agape, and jaw five feet from her,
Her right eye rolled back in the skull,
The blue baby seemed to look on in dead horror,
As his body witnessed in full.
The shotgun blast so strong and centered,
The power rocked her chair back and forth,
This creaking moan was all to be heard,
In this silent room forevermore.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC