"screened" poems
Imagine that
I could write a salve,
compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal,
even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh,
just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our
fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far
another bruise joining the cast like a floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability
imagine that
where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction,
borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years
from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters,
children,
return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain
imagine that
the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be
imagine that
a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in,
in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up
and the stony chest is breathing lungs free
imagine that
and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing,
knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken,
they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver
sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed
imagine that
you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical,
cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret
I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins
when
we imagine that
for this how new healthy cells are born
quiet-now, go, imagine-that, now*
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
It was shallow water, rippling
a watery moon quivering
on the surface seen
It was night fire
burning water into steam
gray smoke screened
It was willful drowning
upon a lily bed of lies
parched a wilted garden
slowly withers, dies
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
#*Ugh!
they cut
half my tree down
the one closest to me
where the birds made their nest
which became my shelter too
screened and swaddled by boughs
so i'm mourning a myrtle today
as Jonah once grieved for a vine
appointed by God to grow up
and ordered by Him to
go to remind
us there are
things more
important
than plants
like poetry
and people
and maybe
its one of those
i'm really missing anyway*#
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
Across the ocean, you meant nothing to me.
You were a destination, a photograph, a wish.
You plagued my winter woes with your heatwaves,
jumping into creeks in your underwear while I wrapped myself in another blanket, cold Canadian ice princess.
You slept under stars in close contact with beautiful nature, beautiful life, beautiful people, while I stared at them, upside down, from my window.
And then the big dipper dumped you into my lap, head on my chest so you could feel my heart beat and I could tangle my fingers in your hair.
Photographs aren't supposed to come to life.
Beautiful smiles and messy blonde hair are for fantasies and dreaming and rainy days, and not for my bed or my guitar or my lips
But there you were.
For two weeks I thought and rethought and plagued my heart with goodbye is coming. He will fly away from me. We are not birds meant to be caged
We are wanderers, nomads, free-spirits who need no tying down or tying knots,
And I want to tie myself to your bed post with barbed wire because it hurts that much to leave you anyway.
But you leave me.
And there you weren't.
There you weren't as I made up my mind that it's okay to love a nomad, as long as you're one too.
And it's okay to love a bird of flight, just build yourself some wings and follow
But I was mistaken, I was wrong and I was three steps behind you.
Because when you said "I'll see you later" you didn't mean later
You meant get out.
And I still don't know if you're scared or if you just don't want me,
You don't ******* want me.
High as the plane that brought you here to leave me, I stand lace clad, smoke screened and alone.
High enough to feel my lungs contracting with each breath that made my tongue taste less and less like yours,
High enough to feel my knees click where you held them once,
One time,
Because that was all it took.
I couldn't get high enough to stop retracing the lines that your fingers made up and down my sides as you felt the curve of my body for the first time.
My limbs were barren, cold, antarctic as you left them when you took your warm, summer hand away.
So I turned the shower up all the way, until it burned enough to feel like I was boiling my skin, baptizing your sinful touch off of my innocent body.
I burned my arms and legs until they cracked.
They cracked from dryness, even after I wet them with my tears,
And my first,
fourth,
tenth glass of wine.
And I threw the bottle against my bedroom door.
Watched it smash,
Wished it was me.
I'll clean it up later.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
Summer nights are my favorite...
To be able to sit on a hammock
Or in a rocking chair
Feet bare, shorts barely peering through
The edges of my long tank top
And not have a worry in my mind
On a night like that
Some would have a beer
or wine by their side
But I am a southern girl
So sweet tea will do just fine
As I peer through a screened in porch
I see the sky on fire
Scorching red and orange and pink
As if to emphasize the condition
of the world around me
As I sit there
in the silence of the evening
I feel a slight breeze
Like a gentle smile
Or comforting arms around me
Reminding me there can be
Simplicity
Beauty
Peace
No matter how young I was
Or how old I will be
I will never forget the feeling attached
To the profound subtlety
Of a summer wind
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 1:22 PM UTC
In my childhood rumors ran
Of a world beyond our door—
Terrors to the life of man
That the highroad held in store.
Of mermaids' doleful game
In deep water I heard tell,
Of lofty dragons belching flame,
Of the hornèd fiend of Hell.
Tales like these were too absurd
For my laughter-loving ear:
Soon I mocked at all I heard,
Though with cause indeed for fear.
Now I know the mermaid kin
I find them bound by natural laws:
They have neither tail nor fin,
But are deadlier for that cause.
Dragons have no darting tongues,
Teeth saw-edged, nor rattling scales;
No fire issues from their lungs,
No black poison from their tails:
For they are creatures of dark air,
Unsubstantial tossing forms,
Thunderclaps of man's despair
In mid-whirl of mental storms.
And there's a true and only fiend
Worse than prophets prophesy,
Whose full powers to hurt are screened
Lest the race of man should die.
Ever in vain will courage plot
The dragon's death, in coat of proof;
Or love abjure the mermaid grot;
Or faith denounce the cloven hoof.
Mermaids will not be denied
The last bubbles of our shame,
The Dragon flaunts an unpierced hide,
The true fiend governs in God's name.
4.3k
I might have told you some of these things,
If you were alive.
You had an amazing body from the moment we hit seventh grade.
Your ***** just sat, round and high,
Your ******* pointed straight outward,
Like a freak of nature, or an action figure.
Cheering at football games
Girls hated standing next to you because
You peeled their boyfriend’s eyes from their skirts to yours.
One summer night on Garrett’s roof,
After making turkey sandwiches at two in the morning,
******* the fumes in your thin lips,
Watching the smoke twist in the air
In front of your ice blue eyes,
And your white blonde hair,
We talked about ***
About how it’s ****** up
how it is so much harder
For girls to have *******
Then I dated Jesse,
After you.
We were 16.
Sometimes I think about the night I told you I was sorry,
In the parking lot by the river.
Your breath smelled like Doritos and cherry *****
You fooled around with your pink shirt
Telling me it was ok.
We talked about our secret handshake.
We talked about how you used to want to be nicknamed cupcake,
We talked about the time we had a séance.
Age eleven bringing back ******
On your screened-in porch,
Warm air swayed the candle flames,
Crickets in the darkness around us,
Suddenly,
A biker knocked over your trashcan in the ally.
You are dead now.
But you did it.
Sometimes I’ll eat too much,
Or *****
Or smoke half a pack of cigarettes,
When I think about you.
One night last summer I ate an entire half-gallon of vanilla ice cream,
Alone in my kitchen.
My stomach felt sick for three days.
I walk the trail behind your house,
The one where you think you started your period.
The first place we ever smoked ***
I talk to the trees about you.
When the wind blows the branches
And the dry leaves sound,
In that gentle shudder,
Along the cold ground,
My skin prickles,
And the hair on my arms rises towards the sky.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
(A Reminiscence, 1893)
She wore a ‘terra-cotta’ dress,
And we stayed, because of the pelting storm,
Within the hansom’s dry recess,
Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless
We sat on, snug and warm.
Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain,
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:
I should have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted a minute more.
4.1k
I find my refuge in poetry.
For in twisted stanzas,
that passionate-scribbling,
I can read of blue skies,
write amber waves,
dream rusty signs squeaking,
flapping in hot summer breezes,
oil rigs pumping & wavy-trees,
behind broken screened doors,
I hear phone’s ringing,
laughing children screaming.
I can eat biscuits & gravy,
savor catfish & string beans,
see the rolling plains,
feel the clapping thunder,
listen to yellow parakeets
as the morning sunlight
peeks through stained-glass,
the pitter patter of gentle rain.
Sitting on porch swings,
watching ripples on streams,
inhaling rivers of cigarette smoke,
I visualize hay rolls & barbed-wire fences
under flocked geese in flight.
Soothing wind chimes in c-minor,
jingling, meandering
through lace curtains,
I lay on lily white tiles
crying, clutching my tissue,
trying to make it through
another starless night.
Rocking with Eric’s slow hand,
wearing Tony Lama’s & driving Buicks,
this random selection of cells
I cannot keep inside me.
There are millions of things hidden
in my stronghold of words,
yet to be written.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
When I look at you, I see a wall:
A wary way of walking through the world,
hands pushed deep into your pockets,
keeping them safe from other hands.
Your laughter comes only controlled,
even smiles sometimes shielded
during our careful conversation
that’s calculated before it clears the air,
sentences screened for slips of the tongue,
holding back secrets that sit in your silences
when I ask the questions you can’t answer.
Whoever took that hammer to your heart
has this hard shell to answer for,
this barrier built on top of broken trust,
a mountain I am not strong enough to move
so instead I choose to love you from the outside in,
drumming on the door of this fortress you made
when someone made a fool of you.
May this love make such music that one day
you find yourself holding my hands
as we dance to it, laughing, talking, smiling, free.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
I am under the microscope
I put myself here
I didn't know
How far it would go
Years in, and I am slowly dissected
Habits up for scrutiny
Emotions analyzed
Demeanor reviewed
Constantly screened
For any hint of disorder
Perhaps I am lucky
That help is at my finger tips
But it feels like a curse
When sickness is your soul
And it lives on through treatment
Through love
Through the microscope
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 2:16 AM UTC
do you remember when
all that mattered was
holding his hand
and smelling the sun
on his sunburnt skin
laid on sun-set sand
do you remember when
the only song you knew
was his second name
and now the only dance
your feet understand
is a stance with his toes
can you take me back
the night i cried
like how lampposts died
asking myself why
your moon only shines
when you speak of his smiles
could you take me back to sun-screened streets
where all that mattered were
our touching feet
Feb 1, 2024
Feb 1, 2024 at 4:50 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, just an old a family memory on a dinner table--sorry no rhymes :>
to the no one who is not recognizing......
when I stopped for a long stare for me
I stopped and looked around me searching for something that
I don't know stashed deep into the picture I view
I smiled for the happiness that invades those hearts
for the gratitude that my soul is permeated
I crowned the thrones of blood in pure joy
I stole the sounds of laughter
I screened that shot that is bottled into the core of my memories that shot the reason I am on ground in this life
the reason that I believe in the reason that I hang on to the reason
that I long on my stormy nights and deprived alones
I locked them on that table of love and warm clouds attached
when I stopped for a long stare for me
------ravenfeels
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 1:57 PM UTC
"I thought your search was over."--"So I thought."--
"But you are seeking still."--"Yes, even so:
Still seeking in mine own despite below
That which in Heaven alone is found unsought;
Still spending for that thing which is not bought."--
"Then chase no more this shifting empty show."--
"Amen: so bid a drowning man forego
The straw he clutches; will he so be taught?
You have a home where peace broods like a dove
Screened from the weary world's loud discontent,
You have home here, you wait for home above:
I must unlearn the pleasant ways I went,
Must learn another hope, another love,
And sigh indeed for home in banishment."--
2.2k
loathe — july 17, 2013
reëstablish the current which made being whole
no, not just in another life since fragmented whole is nothing tethered to the waist. that’s what belts are for. if you say so
monitor it like
you would anywhere
the trajectory is clear : light the torch of multi-orbed sensation
where we wait on the cusp
of the whole
perhaps in another life, we dare to suggest it. i don’t dare. if i did, i would consider myself a pigment of this pallet
i don’t breathe limited expectation
scientific claims
they’re just as good as dead to me. perhaps the whole can be related and consume our progress. there is too much to see. too little methods
methodic function isn’t perfunctory yet. a push is required. jumpstarting will only cause sparks.
i know something better
so sit down and move to the right. the light’s blocking my view and i cannot surmise unless i’m granted a complete oversight. nothing backseat, because we all know
that is reductive
paint splatters on my face
i
am
frozen
the colors reimage our complexion and erase the mistakes until we are whole
[ uncertainty is the new guarantee ]
introspection is a form by which we do so. everything we see is incomplete. our eyes need to be adjusted
to the [ uncertain ]
adore — july 29 , 2013
black blue strata pillars spruces flutes
eclectic aftermath debris snaffle pop
chute-in whelked chrome lugubrious
lifeblood : trans yes mutate pro-ohms
in timehalts wyoming woodsmoke
screened scans : rancid gemini rotors
hulks histories back - lying supine arts
( please remind me to act regimentally )
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
It was the silver, heart-enveloping view
Of the mysterious sea-line far away,
Seen only on a gleaming gold-white day,
That made it dear and beautiful to you.
And Laura loved it for the little hill,
Where the quartz sparkled fire, barren and dun,
Whence in the shadow of the dying sun,
She contemplated Hallow's wooden mill.
While Danny liked the sheltering high grass,
In which he lay upon a clear dry night,
To hear and see, screened skilfully from sight,
The happy lovers of the valley pass.
But oh! I loved it for the big round moon
That swung out of the clouds and swooned aloft,
Burning with passion, gloriously soft,
Lighting the purple flowers of fragrant June.
2.1k
Love isn’t a feeling
Love isn’t an action
Love isn’t a person
Love is a place.
It’s the cave of wonders
It’s a hospital room filled with new life, balloons, and flowers
It’s an altar in a church in the countryside of a town unknown
while a man pleads for the soul you’re not ready to give.
It’s a tent pitched next to the lake while fish cook over a crackling fire
It’s a home with a swing-set in the backyard with a dog tied to a banana tree, while naked children dance through sprinklers.
It’s the treehouse in the neighbor's backyard
It’s a living room where friends sit and play Nintendo 64
It’s a bathtub with bubbles and a book and a beverage
Love isn’t butterflies in your stomach
It’s a butterfly garden at the city zoo on a hot Saturday morning
with butterflies flittering and fluttering and flattering around.
Love isn’t jumping in front of a train for someone
It’s the parking lot of a hospital you run through to stand by a death bed, reading from a Bible you haven’t opened in twenty years.
Love isn’t your parents or brothers or sisters or cousins or friends
It’s the patio screened in, with the rain tap dancing on its roof,
while a father of three snores peacefully in a rocking chair.
Love is Calvary’s hill
It’s a trustworthy bank
It’s a dog kennel jam-packed with the loyal, the faithful, the brave, and the true
Love is an underground railroad connecting those who belong together.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
*to be
or
not to be*...
he stands at the lamppost, screened from view
evening light slopes across the street
and cuts an oblong square of light
from the Hotel de Ville lobby-entrance.
she wonders who he is, standing there so
almost melding into post, his nondescript shadow sidling alongside
while early eve strolls through Le Parc des Céléstins
steady presence, half but not quite menacing.
he gazes down at his silhouette, Gauloise alit
and it, in turn, looks into the kerb...or up at him...
he turns his head up slowly, hazy wisps
as bewilderment draws reredos.
she hears footsteps clack across the parquet floor
as someone leaves the rez-de-chaussée
she wonders what he wants; why he stands there
who he waits for; and why so long.....
she can never see his face, ponders much on this
she longs to understand, yet feels afraid
as if she's seen that shade before, across the road
moving slowly, as the hours steal away...
visible from her second floor, she eyes
daddy-long legged limbs and dangly shapes
he has merely wandered into his past
seeking only the one he hopes to find.
traveled so far and sought so wide
crossed oceans, traversed treacherous terrain
perseverance the clutch word of the day
only to linger long to recover dashed prize.
later, as she peers into the heavy night
from windows shut, all her eyes can pierce
are nought but empty shadows 'neath that solitary lamp post
seems the mist carried off her spectral fear.... as well.
*or...
did it?*
S T, 28 June 2013 (Fry-day:)
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
Beneath the Golden moon,
The waves shimmer,
Like silver streaked with gold,
The beauty lies before me,
I dreamt of you stealing behind me..
Together we witnessed the serenity screened for us,
Sound of the sea orchestrated a wild Symphony,
Waves dancing on silver sand,
The salty peanuts you fed me there..
My tongue cleaning your fingers without a speck...
Content you continued to write from where you left.
I continued to type this song, continuous without a period...
This is just one evening of our lives...
There might be many,
There might be none,
But, Its easy I can reproduce you through my memory,
Another moonlit night and you stealing behind..
The winds might roar then,
The moon might disappear without trace,
We will stand and witness the waves roar,
A wild dance that threatens and we step back,
A hurricane may brew before our eyes,
But, my heart calm resting at your side...
A cold ice cream this time, rain washing your sticky fingers,
You nod at me and I followed,
A Spring morning, when the tides lazed and slept...
You held a tulip and ran on my cheeks,
I stood there closing my eyes...
It's time to reproduce you back,
The Scottish village idyllic before our eyes.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
The reason for the expedition had lost its meaning. Everyone was now interested in what they were seeing about them other than that for which we had originally come. The expression on all of their faces seemed to tell the story plain enough but, there was evident a certain degree of conscience which prevailed in them that appeared to override their own personal desires. This I noticed with anticipated concern for after all, if it were not for training prior to the expedition all would have been lost on reaching this point. They would have become irrational like the things they were witnessing taking place before their very eyes.
I looked at them once again and could have easily read their minds but managed to resist the temptation for if I had done so, would have fallen into the same threshold they had. It was just like walking through a dream relating to your own sub-conscious mind mingled with your conscious deep integrated personal desires and screened in your mind with harsh realism. Anyone who had experienced this before and was able to be disillusioned, as I had been, stood the chance of escaping its hypnotic hold on the mind, those who didn't were doomed.
Once in its spell they could witness everything in terms of personal desires; things that happened to them in the past and things that "would happen" to them in the future. The effect of this threshold could also be moulded into the way you wanted things to happen which was the main factor that once caught it was very difficult to get out. Without my help and understanding they would never have been able to re-materialize from a world of irrational feelings and capabilities where time and space were their servants and each one's desires their master as the Fifth Dimension.
________________________________________________________________
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
“*I am the smoke of return and rest,
sky inscribing,
knowing your precise needs and the
screams and the years unfair taken,
screened through five perceptions
I am the word weaver
setting the loom for each peculiar requisition,
a havened place of restoration
as best I can,
for this weaving my eye’s recollections
perfect,
no imagination needed*”
imagine that
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
Her eyes rolled,
To that screened window,
With a fleeting look…
Full whiff of silence
No end of thumping shadows,
An ingredient of past…
An escape to embrace.
Golden path
As closing stage…
Of strips of colours.
Awakened dreams…
But shattered hope,
To perish those gears veiled…
An everlasting skirmish.
(12/12/12 - @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
Like old
mean beetles,
like old
men in battle,
like egos: solid anvils,
like families: lethal weapons,
like these: them,
begotten sons
who begat daughters
of a land, of a bordered plot
on the globe, the dirt,
the house, the property
which begot
them
both,
these two
bitter enemies
from two
separate places,
furiously blaze,
as the time
for darkness,
is far
from arrived.
And the sun
quakes,
in its heat
rippling sights
and
knocking particles,
which deter the next
knocked,
and which enforce
the continued sensation of
warmth
continued,
of aversion
continued,
rising,
screened,
for its impeccable quality,
against
nobody in
general or
specific
to announce, or to gain
against
consequences, which are
soothsaid
in time,
nullified.
Partners afflicted will be less opportunistic
and more egalitarian,
but are sworn,
like the sun,
against the monotony,
of repetition,
of indistinct days;
like these:
them,
the enemies,
they
are
engaged,
aged,
unteachable
and
spoiled.
They are always
immersed
in
vexed
states,
always in competition.
Hope
is
the
souls
united
never again
as much
as the static,
single dimension,
alone,
impeccable,
impossible,
for its possibility
is drawn by He
who
spews forth
lumens
next to card sharks and Amazons, knowing these
will have to suffice, having no escape
from the projected
source
of energy.
The metal heads
of garden rakes,
weapons
thrown
at devils
in the sweltering heat
of hell,
the Inferno
that holds a
first-person
point of view,
a dream, alongside
superheroes, allied,
but who are,
nevertheless,
without their unique
and exceptional powers,
pros and willing deviants
from the celibacy,
the weight,
the unoriginal paint
that collides
in
each
stroke,
making what
appears
null,
and the array
but one,
and supposed,
so that then
are the weary
and soulful mergers
which corrupt
and meander throughout,
polluting,
as
it
were,
the tranquility,
the wrenched service,
of the destined
machine,
of a million
trajectories,
homespun threads,
woven
into
a
million
miserable
microfibers,
unanswered
queries
that were
held back
in
fear,
and
were
never
asked,
and remain
even
now
sorry.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 7:49 AM UTC
This is the time I cannot bear: this silent evening hour
As I shut windows and the balcony to prying nightsong:
In the trance of dim lights, I ride the incense plume
Across whispers and half-thoughts, slicing through
The canvasses of time: that unforgettable house of love
Perched by the lakes, circled by the stream and canal
Where worlds and time stopped to catch a glimpse
Many shades of grey silhouetted against stormy skies
Of swans gliding past fresh ripples across reeds
Drenched in a hundred hues of ethereal moonlight,
Hum of the wind surfing on the waters, drunken voices
Of assorted lovelorn: thrushes, finches, hidden warblers
Majestic storks and herons guarded the secret doors
To eternity, pitched right in the middle of the great city
By the home that housed love in precious embrace
O the cold of the winter that screened for damp corners
In our souls, through meditative shades lining the view,
The home that I squandered, I who love ruins and rubble
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
We used to hear it all the time:
Can you come outside and play?
We heard that chant throughout the hood,
From screened back doors where our friends stood.
Calling just when time was right,
For Hide and Seek at the dawning night,
Or Hopscotch, Double Dutch
Kick the Can,
On neighbour's lawns and sidewalks,
On streets, driveways or city parks.
My daughter got a text today:
Can you come to my house and play?
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 11:05 AM UTC