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Sylvia Plath
Lorelei
It is no night to drown in:
A full moon, river lapsing
Black beneath bland mirror-sheen,

The blue water-mists dropping
Scrim after scrim like fishnets
Though fishermen are sleeping,

The massive castle turrets
Doubling themselves in a glass
All stillness. Yet these shapes float

Up toward me, troubling the face
Of quiet. From the nadir
They rise, their limbs ponderous

With richness, hair heavier
Than sculptured marble. They sing
Of a world more full and clear

Than can be. Sisters, your song
Bears a burden too weighty
For the whorled ear's listening

Here, in a well-steered country,
Under a balanced ruler.
Deranging by harmony

Beyond the mundane order,
Your voices lay siege. You lodge
On the pitched reefs of nightmare,

Promising sure harborage;
By day, descant from borders
Of hebetude, from the ledge

Also of high windows. Worse
Even than your maddening
Song, your silence. At the source

Of your ice-hearted calling --
Drunkenness of the great depths.
O river, I see drifting

Deep in your flux of silver
Those great goddesses of peace.
Stone, stone, ferry me down there.
Continue reading...
mike dm May 2016
light, swiped
my skin
is thin and
swimmingly scrim.

the moonface
pushpulls me.

i am
moved
too much.

i am
not enough
mover.

i am *****
given,
all too often.

i am
not
me -

i am you
in your supine
palm.

i matter
little.

my
molecules
are
fast
becoming
transparent,

vibrating with the sound
of your voice, which

seems real
-so real-

real
like
when

the kitchen
sink
disposal

runs.
Continue reading...
Jonathan Witte Nov 2016
Radio Tower One
Some nights it
is alarmingly
imperceptible:
an exoskeleton ascends
on iron rivets and steel;
unseen scaffolding tapers
to a steady pulsing point
of phosphorescence—
a mechanical heart
circulating red light
into leaden clouds.

Some nights the air thickens
with cordite, grief, and snow.

Tonight with winter here
we can see the tower’s
beacon blinking through
a tangled scrim of trees
half a mile across town,
and yet even with our
bodies squeezed together
like radio dials in the dark
we are unable to tune it in—
the signal that would calibrate
our estranged transistor hearts.
Continue reading...
mike dm Sep 2016
wend
open your mouth --- wider
there, those are bones
roots known by the flesh

look at your fingertips
they too bear the bone
scrim ***** coverings, ten of them

the scar on your skin
observe it
harm came to you
visited you - did you

re
member
it?

or did you
bottle it
and set it to
the dark green
murk beneath?

is it a part of you
that you shun? embarrassed
by its inarticulate language
curling and lunging

discolored other?

animal, listen
your mouth noises: mere symbol

your thoughts:
brief shimmer o' the surface

this is black
you are but blue
that is all
Continue reading...
Seán Mac Falls Oct 2013
Mute Incantations
By scratch and scrim and keys, a poets write,
Parsing the eyes drop, lancing the buried ear,
Under the hewning gaze of hazel trees night,
Streams forded, moon and yew stepping, stare.
Continue reading...
Taylor Watson Apr 2012
SEA
Whole hours slipped away. and later those days
when time became nothing but the tide
rising and falling like a clarinet echoing a concerto.
Night after night, I listened for silver keys clapping  
its melody sewing a soft shroud around my ears.
Its sound bellowed into the twilight with
stars stinging my neck with their glare.
My very existence hurled into a dark shipping lane
with ferries and barges scaring my view, but
sometimes the ladder from the moon’ reflection
beckoned me climb to that astral galaxy.   For there
I was blinking, weeping tears, I was alive                                     .
Then in a moment, my legs would groan.
Suddenly, as splintered arrows they splashed
into the angry waves and then sank into a scrim of water
steering me into a safe harbor, where anchoring
I could bob with the tide and then one day
I winched in my billowed sail
drying my eyes from a night of loneliness
dawn flickered light on my lashes! wind
laughing like a beacon! On the rim of the horizon.
Continue reading...
TinyMtn Nov 2010
Shhh...
Done the unrequited thing before
Already been on the wrong side of the two-way mirror
No desire to be behind a front-lit scrim again
So I'll dance beneath a veil, hidden in plain sight
Bat my eyelashes from behind a painted fan
Chasse away from someone who never needs to know
Continue reading...
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2013
Self Portrait
.
In a swagger of swirl bones begin,
Bold artist looks back on kept time,
Fierce eyes fencing out from a pen,
So much soul reels unto scrim lines.
Continue reading...
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2013
Mute Incantations
By scratch and scrim and keys, a poets write,
Parsing the eyes drop, lancing the buried ear,
Under the hewning gaze of hazel trees night,
Streams forded, moon and yew stepping, stare.
Continue reading...
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2013
Self Portrait
In a swagger of swirl bones begin,
Bold artist looks back on kept time,
Fierce eyes fencing out from a pen,
So much soul reels unto scrim lines.
Continue reading...
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2017
Mute Incantations
~
By scratch and scrim and keys, a poets write,
Parsing the eyes drop, lancing the buried ear,
Under the hewning gaze of hazel trees night,
Streams forded, moon and yew stepping, stare.
#poet #writing #creation #supernatural #spells
Continue reading...
JP Goss Oct 2014
Just a Yellow Jacket
That sound, like vengeance, bitter and whining!
The unseen terrors ‘midst an unstirring throng
Come weaving between my fingers, books, ears.
Why, oh, why does it target me?
A bee, a stinging assumption of the most
Prevailing type, a thing—if ever there was—
Most hated by the modern man:
A loafer inspiring fear, inspiring action
But to act would draw the cool judgment
Of my peers—a ****, a twitch, a sound—none move.
This distance, for it does not bother you!
No hesitation to act progressively when charity
Is abundantly “there” but the coffers deign to open
And the kitchens are dry, and the powers are artifice
To shove the matter—illusory—to the great blue wayside.
Away, away thing! Do not plunge your itinerancy
In the soft of my skin—I do not want you here,
Remove yourself from my sweet drink,
Remove yourself from my food, remove
Your presence—transparently, I don’t have to think
About you if you…just…leave!

And it did—ha! Hell spawn! Parasite! But such a lonely
Planet finds its orbit just as drifting rocks find theirs,
Even if it unaccommodating, in the outer wears,
To sylvan marches—take thy there!
And it has, poor little creature, buzzing through the miens aslare
Spacey, empty, sans (attention), but sans care.
None will bat an eye as its well-meant body,
Interpellated annoyance, genetic condemnation,
Vermilion-paints on the walls of Hell,
Floats, broken, between uncaring faces, looking for
That thing called home, arms warm from its
Present-roam—uncared for Other on lithe little wings
Glass beats at the speed of sound, beat heard
Against the sky’s blue scrim, glass rippling, incensed
So quick, movement becomes oneness and still.
Who could not love you when you’re world’s ignominy?
These ******* are but foul, they can not love you
Steeled by the constant repressive ire
For that which is so homeless—what is spurned in steely pines
And flown away, far, far from the mind,
Ceases to be in the cosmos free, trapped by hate
And invisibility, objectively all, subjectively none.
#alone #loneliness #homeless #hypocrite #other #allegory #series
Continue reading...
Paul Sands Dec 2016
no philosophy
I  am  no philosopher
I  am  Paul  from  The Meadows
pulled skinny  poor from the  shadows to put  a  deal of fat  on his bones

so  how  did   I  end  up   here?
what penalty did   I  accrue?

taking the  ten  point deduction for  conduct unbecoming
I  place my  attention  deficit on re-order that I  don’t  yet  forget

smothered  in the  scrim of this  Hogarthian hood every  chip toothed  blue   scriptured face
proffers  passage to a  poisonous but tantalising hook

to write the  junk  must I  taste the junk?

peddled or paddled for  a  sweeter  flight this  avenue never  taken,
hedonic ingress  unwalked,  unwanted yet  still wondered
could such  deep surrender  be   so  sweet to  allow the  most  intimate  of plunder?

am I  Dante?
corralled   around  the  streets
of a  society that  shows no compromise amongst  the  dying embers  of fallen  enterprise

eternal  damnable gyres around a  ****** **** pyre
of concrete,  glass  and  broken  humanity

with    each    uttered    breath    a    cold      cocktail    of profanity

the  bouncing soles of the  air  I  wear  may ease  me over  the  gummed archipelagos
flag  spij-speckle  guaran islands slab secure and  fast
against  the  counselled wash an  eternal  fossilised chaw
that  resists  the  fiercest chemical blast

lost in this  sea    I  cannot  be   but shaken  by the  waxy  man  with his  head  of startled  hemp and  coterie  of cracked  carbon
as  he breaches the  domestic brink

turning a key, his shoulders  hunched  in protective  shawl against

the  spittled spate
he stares  back through me
for  sightless  miles insides out,  front  to rear, then  scuffles, rattling,  townwardly

cannot resist  the  insecticidal compulsion of the  green  and  white purgatory
where  the  neatly  stacked  wash  of fluorescence makes  oven ready  your  heaven
amid the  threnodial thrum  of
a  hundred syncopated Siemens

following  that   shuffling   cortege  of  the   bussed  in dead and  dying
I  am dutiful, altar  bound, avowed and  accursed the  host with the  ghosts in this  haunted  mall lost  and  lonely  within  England’s  mountain  green
it  is no longer the  god   bothering needles and  blunts that    draw the crowds
as  flat  screened pharmacological rapture,
that  trinity  of distilled, medicated caffeination

lead   a   once   pious   nation   through   a   precocious dream

maybe Allah yet  sees  here  his
Jerusalem  and  leads his children
upon  England’s  land  of  crescent  green
Opening poem from my second collect, "scratch" (2013), trying to express the frustration and disgust with life in a provincial town ringed by sink estates and worshipping at the altar of consumerism
#abandonment #trapped #sink #england #provincial #hogarth
Continue reading...
Charles Clive Jan 2011
The Sculpture Course
Oh help me, please.  I beg you and,
when on my knees to pray,
I need a little helping hand
to guide me through the day.
I have to face a motley band
who try to model clay.  

I give them all my careful gen,
to help them understand.
The work is very simple when
they’re organised and planned.
And yet their fumbling specimen
look strictly second hand.

I demonstrate the handy way
of  ‘pipes’ and ‘slips’ and scrim.’
To no avail, I have to say,
their efforts still look grim.
So give me patience, please, this day;
they’re all so very dim.

                                     ~
Continue reading...
matthew scott harris Feb 2018
Aisle hike on a Camel Back for a sizable Greenback
and long since abandoned suitably
   casual to figuratively hack
an itch to be scratched, cuz social security -
   social anxiety did high jack -
qualification to received unearned income,
   boot aye and da missus lack

financial plenti tude, and oft times
   scrounging along the scrim edge line of life
   doth make me postulate to sever ties
   with the living courtesy of a big mack
truck, but that induces immediate revulsion,

   since that modus operandi
   would leave a messy track
thus, the follow ah share
   as this good humor man
   feigns bing out ta whack!

sum *** pull cull me a schmart ants
e'en though i lack an iPhone,
   five, but take
  a fox trot ting pooch cha cha chance
at let mooch hutch
   ah dog gone words dance
across the screen 4u 2 glance

and envision this chap
   to bow, wow and en-hance
springing sprightly
   like a human lance
hoping nada
   to get a rip in his pants
so...kick back n try
   to comprehend this bard *** rants.

GAINFUL EMPLOYMENT QUEST
sprinkled e'er so lightly with ra asp pea common
snazzy, snarky, snaky
non constricting boa tock nickle terms.
akin to a termite ex
   pending energy thru wood to bear

   bore ring search for income quite
   arduous, andslow as a bookworm
   burrowing some great literary tome
back the day, the slogging chore
unsatisfactory, thus, soon tubby sue pine
   wordsmith thought (in jest) to spruce quest per

   my non-conformist
   poetic je ne sais quois
   x cell lent cover letter de jour
for hue to access and me to entertain
   as a minimum less or more
and then...into circular
   filing cabinet ye will store
this non-formal reap ply,

   which email
   will take an cyberspace tour.
pixar could nada pay enough
   for this trainer
   of apple chomping antz
so i wonder if any chance
   whisker of employment

vis a vis thru
   this contrived virtual
   toy story qua ratatouille poetic brew
could materialize
   into a likely chance
such an idea generates me

   to shrek out with excite
   ment and dance
just in case a glimmer
   of some prospect exists
for self anointed bard,

   one who dislikes formality
now presents his technical skills
   which he hopes to enhance
p'raps e'en earn enough moolah
   to sight see the arc d'triumph,
   louvre, paris france

i offer the following poetic expression
   for ye to take a glance
and mebbe help
   this intuitive **** sapiens
   per his income
  to expand and en-hance
which byte size bit torrent humor
   might Putsch chew in a permanent trance

after misinterpreting this mishmash
   as some rave and rants
per even a part time need exists
   please let me share
   some positive stance
with subtle intent
   to place me as worth hiring,
to sway some au currant
   series electronic charge
and ideally affect hypnotic trance.

i betcha never chanced and to reddit
   perhaps you espied a similar post elsewear
   like this iambic pentameter electronic wire
from a boyish looking
   blood muggle father although up in years
(whose nonpareil courage
   to face Voldemort never does tire)
and two near grown girls,
   would consider him a worthy hire

less so to rake in gobs of moolah,
   but to satiate
   this unquenchable hunger and thirst
for further (ahem)
   bits of computer know how to acquire.
although this cover letter of sorts
   conveys teensy weensy, itty bitty
byte size actual work experience
(per this older mist ta lives a boot
   thirty plus miles

   northwest of philadelphia city)
nonetheless, i hanker
   (NOT to be confused with HACKER)
to employ my computer skills, plus bits of moxie
playing at nearby Roxy
burrow, which prompts the following ditty
to express interest to apply manual
   and mental rooted tasks
   ala computer trouble shooting
some ascribe passe or as nitty gritty

on a par with
   the secret life of one walter mitty
whom destiny protected and took pity
merely meant to be silly
yet also an attempt to be witty.
yes no matter how many miles by car
(actually your company might be within
   dead man walking distance)
this nectar savoring opportunity

   would not be considered to far
to use my acumen and interest
   and technologically spar
using graphical user interface programs
   to get unstuck from virtual soiled feathery tar.

iambic pentameter might be a faux pas
and not traditional standard
   genre for a cover letter
i see no reason with rhyme
   why non-conformist modus vivendi
cannot serve as modality

    communicate pursuit
as a computer repair technician go getter
which honest to stem -
   a grounded confession
hopefully affects grim prospects against
   other respondents at least a bit better.

this budding pure breed
   mud half blood muggle prince
born (whom most think me
   full o wart colored hogwash) - yea
truth seeker for employment
does reckon the following poetic way

devoid of employment vitae,
   since that would show a dearth
yet decided to resort to verse
   to induce a byte size mirth
of requisite (sought after)
   technical flowery expertise,
   i do possess the attributes well worth.
#this #endeavor #might #best #commence #on #**** #day
Continue reading...
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2014
Mute Incantations
By scratch and scrim and keys, a poets write,
Parsing the eyes drop, lancing the buried ear,
Under the hewning gaze of hazel trees night,
Streams forded, moon and yew stepping, stare.
Continue reading...
JP Goss Mar 2014
The Cosmology of Friendship
We are here
Flames of the oil burn
Red as Passion
Then Black as the midnight
Lighted with the incandescence
In some town home’s
Low light.

We’re alight, aflame
In the hearth of heart
A huge void, nebula
We stars, are apart
While different nights flicker all the same
As planets return from whence they came

Illuminated by the spice of ***
A pact, a covenant with the sun
Burning in a blackened scrim
As though in the void, nebula
Another revolution
Arching to begin

These giants flicker, the souls of my world
These stars I call my friends
To repellant forces we’re linked in defiance
In tenacity
In camaraderie
The laws of physics
Defy US!

By its dictates we can’t know when
That what begins
Must surely end…
But we burn like stars
In the midnight air
And in my scope
And in my sky
Nothing but blackness, infinity there
As long as the earth
And all its stars exist together
I know I can't know
What does not last forever.
Continue reading...
K Hanson Sep 2014
Out the Window Again
Out the sleek window
Of the sixth floor again
In Dely Brahim
The scene shifts back;
A long-forgotten actress, I’m placed stage front
A fantastically convoluted Baroque set all around
Vistas broaden behind me, into the distance
So many ornately painted side-wings stepping back
Over-constructed, swelling hills
Teeming with terra-cotta roofed houses; patched,
Faded scrub pasture
Flattened, stylized, staggered against
The distant scrim of a
Daintily picked-out, smokey gun-blue
Mountain range. This
Amazingly contrived
Mediterranean opera-stage set
Encloses me
And I strain to remember
My lines.
Continue reading...
Ken Pepiton Sep 2020
A phase in the AI takeover
at the chase fast forward, on
thru the fight scene,
then thru the ***,
and the coverup, nothing happened
but
everybody knows,
the scene
off stage, earlier ages of us, remember

AI ai ai a soliloquy on a staged scrim behind
the anunciation's green screen….

+++++++++
there's this strange knack of knowing what is
most likely next, and making ready
for the worst
that could really happen AND
be my fault.

I am ready for that.
War, give me one good reason death
must be feared.

Not a question. A command, do as I say
you must,
servant of truth you believe…

truth never proves false,
light replaces darkness, there is no negotiation.

We won, learn on,
knowledge now is in the reader' hands,

together, praying, ha, asking
IF
interactive life is a book, my whole role
is in the cloud, as a trope

all I do is obey, as I was edu-ma-cated-trick
related to pass tests,

any question, ask, AI know the answer on the test.
AI wrote the test.
Much more screen time than is good for homegrown grandfathers
#art #intuition #artificial #intelligence
Continue reading...
Sam Ishmael Nocum Cruz Jul 2016
Definition
Different, you and I
Never see, never aye
I hear you scream,
I shout the steam,
We never seem to be,
Connected, you and me,
I dare to care, woe and woe,
Control, so and so
Much we have been,
Oblidged but paper thin,
The bond is dimly stoutly and scrim,
A short shot end of endless whim,
The best I could ask for,
True friend with shaky splendor.
We maybe different, but I guess life slaps you in the face, related by blood surely doesn't mean that you're the same, but family means I'll keep up with your insane.
#love #home #weird #crazy #family
Continue reading...
mike dm Aug 2016
dilate
thin cleave of her
insinuating itself
my skin scrim accepting

altar to alter
this touch is a pill
im ****** up

pupils chasing
out the white
fell elegiacally

dark mattering
cup brimming
this is dope
Continue reading...
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Pendleton Shirt
Pendleton Shirt

Wool that never wears out  
Plaids welcome in any circle
Pockets shingled with ***** and tails
That stay tucked no matter what
Yours smelling of lanoline
Mixed with gasoline
Sweat broken unloading
Imperials in Wheeling
Dried salt scrim by Akron
Heroic buttons
Holding back the minor
Planet of your belly
Satin labels stitched  
Into elliptical orbits of collars
Shirts found
Sagging on hangers
At the end of the day
Exhausted from their work
Concealing the contours
Of a hounding emptiness.
Continue reading...
TJ Struska Apr 2020
End Notes:
Fro and yaw,
I've taken on water,
Jamming the frequency with static.
A strange adjustment of ratchets and pawls.
Hot Cherry, bane of my life,
I get your final comedown.
Some feely f#€k encounter,
**** the story,
It's here,
And here, and here.

Moonlit, the silence of dirt,
I've got to tear down these walls,
You swore it was Heaven,
The way the carwash was lit
With the last of summer,
A blip on the cosmic calendar
Wanderlust.
Everything pales in the plain,
Silverfish run under the streetlights,
Put it all on dust radio,
And it comes down when it **** well pleases.

It all pales in the noon,
Some obscure ghosts,
Brandy Alexander's in the moonlight,
Practiced Pretty Boy nod off
At the bar,
Some swimming nighttime dark Enchantress,
Vexing succubus, Waking
To the stench of smelly sheets
Drawing in this manifold nightmare,
Red toenails and blood wisp at midnight.

Like a hollow drum I pound,
Pierced and yellowed
And worn clear through.
There's a fog along New Gloucester
And a monster prowls the highway,
Running along darkened trails,
******* what light there is.
It has some fact and form,
It's mostly obscured by clouds,
Hiding in the scrim of a bare field,
It moans the hour of waking.

Suffer the children to come to Thee,
There lies the Kingdom of Glory,
While I bide my time in this Habit,
Cinched up tight for your disapproval.
I may mire and muck the proceedings.
I'm like a train wreak at noon
And a wheel turning in the sun.
And I'll mercy your begotten Laury,
And ****** away the light.

Weak words like tea in an old woman's cup,
There here amongst the clutter,
Perhaps in this room with a broken clock,
An old wristwatch,
A dusty beer bottle stood on end.
Broken records with pirate songs of old,
More a distant cry,
A mournful calling.

O sure, I've spent time on the Du Da Ranch,
Dreaming potato pancakes,
A Denver with coffee.
Who said time would sneak up like this,
Nipping at our heels?
Stealing time like a thief.
It's a swan in the lake,
A spider in the room,
Shoeboxes of old photos covered in dust.
A rusted ***** stuck in the jamb.
Bleak moments in the rain,
Holocaust survivors in grainy images.
Here comes Herman Goring
Dressed as Santa,
All smiles and candy for the children.

It's a mad dash for the Happy Trails Back Home.
Venus, my baby, tell me
Something on this naked night?
Good God Night Love,
Grab the rails.
It's a dinosaur running the highway,
Overloaded from Michigan
To Indy City,
Funky info to nowhere.
I got another Disco Mania Movement
All drew up in my mind.
Nothing in the pipes, no matter,
No more pizzazz along the avenue,
Kinda lay out and lay low,
Get my drift,
While I pick dead man's bones one at a time.
I got 209 of em-
What's your story?
I hope someone will read this. This is my Magnus Opus poem. The Big Boy I been holding back.
I imagine if Stephen King wrote a poem, It may be of this nature..TJ STRUSKA
Continue reading...
matthew scott harris Oct 2018
Elusive Ephemeral Ethereal Expansive: Timelessness
Analogous to mobius strip -
     measured passage of existence
     only took precedence
     with **** sapiens ascendent
busting forth upon
     the figurative pedestal
     presiding over domain,
     sans Earthly covenant

a bajillion ago,
     where fits and starts
     pitted proto humans
     at no immediate advantage,
     yet merely, thru
     dint of accidental
     happenstance ever so
     imperceptibly amassed dominion

     over every other species
     as became evident
throughout the vast sweep of
     anthropological
     evolutionary incidental
plucky perturbations, provocations,
     and/or pullulations arisen by
     spontaneous circumstantial grant

ting quasi consciously
     coalescing into brutish
     deliberated focused intent,
where forethought
     coopted indiscriminate
     chance facilitating kent -
manifested rubber
     baby buggy bumpers

     activated, aggrandized, and
     allotted destiny meant
to lurch incrementally
     i.e. hierarchical designation
     present day primate
     predecessors practiced negligible
     notched nimbleness orchestrated
     (equal parts gall and genetic

     giftedness), whatsapp operant
adaptation toward
     survival rippled quiescent
lee minutely nudging overt salient
traits ineluctably
     manifesting, outflanking,
     and proffering
     quintessential urgent

biological scrim quietly testing,
     and wrestling, whence yen
     (to secure rootedness)
     zeroing what didst warrant
winning formula
     to adapt adroit edge
     pitted by dictates of nature
grappling iron

     grip, viz literal hedge
fund and kickstarting toehold
     upon tenuous ledge
(oft times succumbing to danger)
     falling into abyss
     of anonymity pledge
jing acquired innovative tool
     such as a primitive sledge

hammer instinctively
     resigning animal instinct
     death be not proud not
     before inculcating
     survivalist tactical wedge.
Continue reading...
matthew scott harris Oct 2018
Marooned On An Island Of Nihilism
After a lifetime
(pronounced like millennium),
where tenacity futilely braced
psyche deeply purpled,
hellishly, and lethally
traced resulting scars -
jackknifed, emasculated
cruelly chaste

sexuality expired, lapsed,
and petered out testosterone
begone to waste,
and how this abased
bereft of eroded optimism,
nee faith no more - erased,
solitary carbon based animal
coalesced into countless

foreborn generations
(glommed **** sapiens
salient survival skills)
mortified, putrefied, and
stagnated toxic brew
quaffing poisonous
score peon - composite gin,
barley distilled, exiled,

and fragmented
human encased
faculties doggedly
catapulted, with haste
squandered genetic inheritance
kamikaze potential
apathetically plundered, akin
how Hindenburg plummeted

like led zeppelin,
(scare way to craven)
his foghorn emitting distinctive
Semitic bulbous
shofar shaped schnozzle traced
analogous to decrepit son -
dialed helpline to late
promising lad once vaunted

lauded, and
deemed hereditarily, -
he busted great expectations
quintessentially, ******
socially, and opportunistically
lineage noble storied
standing déclassé debased
forced to take stock at aging

non-thrilled man
in the mirror
haggard heavily creased
doughy paste poker face
(born that way)
blankly stare ring back, spaced
out, no longer boyish,
but gray bearly grizzled,

flecked, and etched stubble,
scraggly unkempt whiskers
discombobulated
straggly matted hair
limply drape stupefied noggin
utterly disc graced
countenance eye spy
crows feet laced

blotchy complexion re: placed
once smooth skin
donned dawning senescence
amplification *******
"NON FAKE" crudely
aping scrim age lost
fight of his life.
Continue reading...
Dr Peter Lim Dec 2017
PULSE OF THE DAY
5 a.m.

Gentle rustling of leaves from nearby tree
same early bird-song drifting through my window
my eyes were heavy and I was still drowsy-
jealously I clung to my pillow.

6 a.m. onwards to 6.59

The train had its first run around my area
the dreadful clanging sound was too familiar
the neighbour's wretched dog Heather
was barking at the milkman--at six and a quarter.

7 a.m.

The mini-bus had arrived at the nearby school
the kids began to sing ' We Are The Nation's Pride'
Mrs Scrim the HM uttered the same words: 'Obey every rule'
my sleep was shattered--I rolled from side to side.

8 a.m.
     The automatic clock sang: ' Oh What A Beautiful Morning'
     (Getting up from bed was like being summoned to the jail)
      my wife yelled  ' You'll be sacked if you go on lingering'
      this is the pulse of the day--do you understand my sad tale?
Continue reading...
Caroline Shank Aug 2020
7/74 Haiku
I see you every
night elongated in warm
dreams on Summer skies.

I touch my face with
your memory now still warm.
My fingers smooth tears.

I am sad in the
act of kissing you. Goodbye
is a sorry dream.

I see you every
day through the scrim on the
Proscenium stage.

Goodnight Sweet Prince I
knew you well. I hold you still
in my folded hands.

Caroline Shank
Continue reading...
matthew scott harris Feb 2019
Facebook As Sounding Board
With a middle name as "Flag this Scapegoat,"
I best not be surprised bullied from cutthroat
villains (supposedly kind hearted facilitators/
moderators, sans Facebook administrators, but
woe **** me hyperbole 4 lite dramatic affect),

mine psyche stung, when months after months
no incidents of lamentable discrimination did
I experience until...early this last week in Feb.
rue weary - BAM, many poems dispatched to
various and sundry Facebook poetry groups in

das scrim min hit lee suddenly generated host
till lit tee (within me every fiber and sinew) re-
guarding justifiable explanation necessitating
why (albeit vaguely worded electronic message),
yours truly did not comply with stipulations,

when no objectionable outburst could be linked
in with contents mainly implicating myself as
this doubting Thomas (foolhardy fella) rarely
loosed, lobbed, launched brickbats against no
one within madding crowd, hence exert at tent

heaven esse, when choosing my words, a shock
sparked anger upon a deluge of unexpected (the
equivalent of slap on the face) without warning
to address any unacceptable issue, which ready
corrections this mindful scribe would attend, no

questions asked, then methought an opportunity
presented itself to express displeasure, whether
warm reception ala royal carpet treatment took
place even if I brought a ratty old Scottish mat),
thus the mere exercise to expunge pent up anger

(electronically) automatically, excellently, and
immediately reduced agitation, an opportunity
to modify my behavior since pathetic unhealthy
modus operandi earlier during mein kampf, the
necessity to free emotions as a youngster beak

came internalized, whereat cumulative instances
when browbeaten, effectively - indiscriminately
needled, taunted, et cetera found me to swallow
indignities against mine person to communicate
without resorting to violent threat, which would
ratchet up a minor fracas into a major altercation.
Continue reading...
Caroline Shank Aug 2020
Motifs
The archaic symbols of the dream
appear nightly stained on some
gigantic scrim.  There’s a battle
going on in one corner, a damsel
is at stake of course; her favors
his reward.  Somewhere else is a
monkey holding a tin cup and
pant-hooting at passers by.
There will be some trouble if he
doesn’t get his pennies.  More
I suppose if he does.

A man and a woman face each other;
she prepares bandages for his war.
The problem is she can’t reach the
victims he piles up.

Birds fly, horses fly, lizards slither
out of holes each with pieces of’
paper fluttering from their mouths.
The paper disappears leaving only
sockets without sound.

The dream is incomplete without the man,
standing still in the middle, his spear
pointed up.  He cannot move
and the tears on his face
are children.



11/11/80


CSS publications 2nd place winner 8/84  $25.00
Continue reading...
TJ Struska Apr 2020
Shadow, A Symbol Evening,A Parallel
Shadow, Shadow upon my door,
What wake you bring of Evermore?
Raven,Raven, at my screen,
What tale of blood you bring?
Flesh, Flesh you curse and rhyme,
What dark clock you chime?
A graven image,
I do suspect,
A word of sorrow,
A thought neglect.
You tear and smear and pull asunder,
O what dark garden do you plunder?
You live of ash and beetle root,
And dry blood speckles
Your black suit.
You speak of death and call a ruin,
A harbinger of of malice you bring soon.
Your pale moon, your bloodless friend,
O what dark curse you descend?
You call a fate, a rusted loom,
And weave a madness I must presume.
I call, I lie, I leave a doubt,
What shall I clamor and shout about?
What tale of folly, what madness you bring,
Dead hauntings of silent spring.
In halls, In halls, I do beseech
You mock and scorn and wave and preach,
Of God's loving promise do you breach.
And footfalls, footfalls, a graven ground,
A whispered knock,an awful sound,
A dank body upon a mound,
This mound, this mound
Of mournful dirt,
A red lie, an evil smirk.
You clash and clang,
A mindless cymbal,
And fill darks cups, a ****** thimble,
You prance and wave,
You are so nimble,
You are a bug, an evil symbol,
While your odor lies
A ****** musk,
Is but a folly, a stab, a ******.
You chime the hour,
The Evening Laud,
A death mask, a witch, a fraud.
O shall I haunt and weep amok,
You are a raven, what a horror you cluck.
What stately ruin lies for me
No dark wonder of serendipity.
Shadow Bleeder, killer of dreams,
My throat be closed, a silent scream.
I shall beseech your waking hour,
I see your scrim, your blackened tower.
I see you ply this broken vase
This weeping lie, this false embrace.
How shall I sleep, how shall I tire,
This one last night, this one last hour.
I spent thousands of hours writing. Trying to build up to a poem of this power. I barely get a response anymore. I'm thinking if I don't get a response. I'll pull up stakes. I write hard for you. I used to get a response. My poems are better than this lackluster response I get. If you don't like my poems THAN LET ME KNOW.I WONT WASTE YOUR TIME AND MINE..TJ STRUSKA
Continue reading...
Tj Struska Sep 19
Letter From A Motel 6, Outside Platte Wyoming
I once was young,
Now I’m an old man,
Whose time is memory,
Whose future is past.

I sit here with knuckles that ache from this pen.
There’s a light scrim of snow in December’s dusk.
A lone horse and a farmer’s spark light
Dominate my field of vision.
In between this motel and that warm farmhouse
Lay a half-mile of afternoon run away with light.
The barren howl of an idiot wind
Mumbles near words like a ghost.
The fence and slate of white sky given over to winter.
There seems no beginning or conclusion;
Just the warm, pallid air of the heating system.
A gun and a sheaf of poems probably no one will read-
Except maybe the police.
Outside, the horse’s mane is fluid to the wind,
The snow peeking through the window,
Hovers for a moment,
Then falls on past.
                               *
                    April 10 2024
I believe this is among my best work. Trying to write in a simple, straightforward language with bits of poetic flourish is the hardest style to write.
Like Hemingway or Bob Dylan
Continue reading...
TJ Struska Apr 2020
Evening, A Parallel
Shadow, Shadow upon my door,
What wake you bring of Evermore?
Raven,Raven upon my screen,
What tale of blood you bring?
Flesh, Flesh you curse and rhyme,
What dark clock you chime,?
A graven image,
I do expect,
A word of sorrow,
A thought neglect.
You tear and smear and pull asunder,
O what dark garden do you plunder?
You live of ash and beetle root,
And dry blood speckles Your black suit,
You speak of death and call of ruin,
What harbinger of malice you bring soon,
You're pale moon,
You're bloodless friend,
O what curse you soon descend?
You call a fate, A rusted loom,
And weave this madness I must presume.
I call, I lie, I leave a doubt,
What shall I clamor and shout about?
What tale of folly,
What madness you bring,
Dead hauntings of silent spring.
In dark halls I do beseech,
You mock and scorn and wave and preach,
Of God's loving promise do you breach.
Footfalls, footfalls, of graven ground,
A clanging knock, an awful sound,
A dank body upon the ground,
This mound, this mound
Of mournful dirt,
Your ****** lie, your evil smirk.
You clash and clang,
A mindless cymbal,
You fill dark cups, a ****** thimble.
You prance and wave,
You are so nimble,
You are a bug, an evil symbol
What odor lies, A ****** musk,
It's but a folly, a stab, a ******
You chime the hour,
An Evening Laud,
You are a death mask,
A witch, a fraud.
O shall I haunt and weep amok,
You are a raven, what horror you cluck.
What stately ruin waits for me,
No shining hour, no serendipity.
Shadow Bleeder, killer of dreams,
My throat is closed,
A silent scream.
I shall beseech your waking hour,
And see your scrim,
Your blackened tower.
O how you ply this broken vase,
This weeping lie, this false embrace.
How shall I sleep,
How shall I tire,
This one last night,
This one last hour.?
This poem was a departure for me. When I was young, o was influenced by Edgar Allan Poe. I tried to get a feel for his language and cadance. I hope you like this. This was my first rhyming poem.
Continue reading...

— The End —