"sharpens" poems
a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night
when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness,noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream
down eager avenues of lifelessness
consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought
is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man,whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—
on such a night the sea through her blind miles
of crumbling silence seriously smiles
76.1k
Taurus, bull goddess, strong and proud.
Sometimes lazy, quite often loud.
Mother, protector, stubborn as hell.
Obstinate, difficult, but meaning well.
She sharpens her horns on whoever comes near
And more than her horns, it’s her mouth you should fear.
Creature of earth, Taurus woman is strong.
Won’t let you forget that she’s never wrong.
She’ll love you forever, loyal ‘till death.
She’ll defend you fiercely, give her last breath.
If you love one be thankful, she’ll not let you fall.
She’s Taurus, proud mother, and she’s standing tall.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
~~PASSIVE PASSION~~
Endures & Binds,
when
Provocations Looseth the Soul.
How
Submissive & Impulsive,
Yet so Very
Paradoxical a Paranoid !
~~RUSTED TRUST~~
Forges & Sharpens,
when
Life's Brunts Maketh the Soul.
How
Ironic & Caustic,
Yet so Very
Powerful a Predominance !
~~VANQUISHED VANITY~~
Fosters & Transcends,
when
Identity Forageth the Soul.
How
Narcissistic & Intransitive,
Yet so Very
Surreal a Sacrifice !
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:59 AM UTC
The knife cutter calls in the summer noon
on his bicycle he pedals his wheel
sharpens all that rust too soon
knives past prime too blunt to ****
Glues his hair the sweat of roam
his cheeks bear long uncut beard
pray he finds a wanting home
that needs to sharpen not just word!
If comes his way a timeworn knife
he sits to roll the clunky wheel
works to feebly sustain life
bowing to the smallest deal!
He is no poet no skilled scribe
an old hand from a vanishing age
belonging to a losing tribe
that still gives knife cutting edge!
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation.
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination
Silently the senses abandon their defences...
Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour.
Grasp it, sense it tremulous and tender.
Turn your face away from the garish light of day,
Turn your face away from cold, unfeeling light -
and listen to the music of the night...
Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams!
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!
Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar!
And you'll live as you've never lived before.
Softly, deftly, music shall caress you.
Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you.
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind,
in this darkness which you know you cannot fight
the darkness of the music of the night.
Let your mind start a journey through a strange, new world!
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!
Let your soul take you where you long to be!
Only then can you belong to me.
Floating, falling, sweet intoxication!
Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation!
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in,
To the harmony which dreams alone can write,
The power of the music of the night!
You alone can make my song take flight,
Help me make the music of the night.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Imagine the earth as a big metal ball
Now see a crow with beak and claw
He sits on that ball and sharpens it beak
Millennium after millennium, week after week
Till that crow's beak was so sharp, no words could explain
Whittling that steel earth sized ball down to the tiniest piece of grain
That dear friend will be the VERY beginning of eternity
How is that for clarity
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
A curtain held by one nail
Faded blush pink, tilted
Ratted hair into knotted beauty
Eyeliner set as feathers
***** crusted stage, crackling with every step
Audience of the haunted, ghostly clapping
Amused by the audacity
She twirls
Egotistical, making her toes blister
She closes her eyes, her thighs tingling
Meat hanging on a bone barely
Hells lounge
What a crowd
The devil sharpens his hair
Perfect horns of despair
He smokes his cigar
"Keep going my queen
Famous was the only request
You never said where"
Satan's personal entertainer
He kisses her forehead,
carressing her mangled body
He loves her the best a man can,
when being the king of hell
A ferocious request, "bow everybody"
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 7:01 PM UTC
Before taking out a clean sheet of paper,
I hold before the blue of the window
a freshly-sharpened pencil pointing toward heaven
and blow the imperceptible dust
from the needle-tip
before getting down to business.
For in life’s long journey
few things afford greater satisfaction
than turning the crank
and powering the cylindrical burrs
of a mechanism which sharpens
the dulled mind of a yellow number 2 pencil.
In the silver pencil sharpener
I witness the marriage of utility and beauty
—a model for art and a purpose for life
celebrated each morning before this small altar.
2.6k
Tuesday night was always dull
however this one was oddly full
of events from 6 to 1
I don't know what happens
but suddenly alcohol sharpens
all your inner untamed inhibitions
Why is it so?
That when I am with you at night
I am always hit by delight
You're there and I am here
and so is she
but there is a certain kind of comfort
that elevates me to feel to resort
to what "us" is
That meaning that floats
over seas of oblivion
over mountains of stupor
over valleys of friendship
for the lack of a better word
Here, order me another drink
and let me drown
whatever makes sense
tonight
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 4:38 AM UTC
Mundane celebrations to mask our ever closing demise
Working 9 to 5s, never fully enjoying our limited lives
Never knowing which day will be our last
So we choose to slave away for a world
That we will never fully experience
In the hopes our successors will enjoy the fruits of our labor
But inevitably enjoy the same propaganda pamphlets that their parents once read
And slave for a world, that their successors might enjoy
All the while, the reapers scythe sharpens.
Sep 4, 2021
Sep 4, 2021 at 6:06 PM UTC
Months burst with potential understanding
Thyroid, Childhood Cancer, Breast Cancer
And Autism - a landscape of perception
I knew little once
Before lived experiences carved pathways
Of comprehension
Hand flapping, repeated movie scenes
Specific sensory needs
Neurological landscapes diverse as humanity itself
From verbal to non-verbal
From sibling to parent
From self-discovery at 34
My perspective widens like a lens
Societal Echoes
The world whispers harsh narratives
"Discipline them"
"Fix them"
"Normalize"
But we are not broken
We are different
Intricate neural networks
Misunderstood symphonies
Digital age amplifies cruelty
Marginalization becomes performance
Awareness transforms to spectacle,
Unfolding Truth
Intricate neural pathways
Misread as discordant tunes
The digital age sharpens cruelty's edge
Marginalization dressed as entertainment
Awareness turned into spectacle,
A truth slowly unraveling
Hatred cloaked in the guise of compassion
Bigotry masquerading as care
April - a month of performative understanding
We see what others refuse to witness
Complexity beyond simple categorization
Humanity in all its beautiful, challenging variations
Spectrum wide as consciousness
Unbound by neurotypical constraints
Nov 18, 2024
Nov 18, 2024 at 9:06 PM UTC
you speak a dialect of silence
your pupils flash from time to time
like a primordial light
I want to abandon myself at every corner
time is lurking like the plague
here comes the rain, the sun, the wind
again
my hands would speak
a dialect of fever
the candour of tears
sharpens the blood
to find solace in the colours
that curse their silence
to dissolve time in spoons of sugar,
in lost words, into some whispers of the rain
Oct 10, 2025
Oct 10, 2025 at 2:17 PM UTC
I step gently onto the ground as I glide across the shore, padding with a light caution to protect the un-callused skin coating the bottom of my slightly burnt feet, the covering not yet thick and worn from a full summer of bare use. The sand underfoot is a speckled grey, thoroughly beaten to a fine, almost silky carpet, dark with captured ocean and fresh with salty spray. As the seconds pass, the darkness below fades, and my feet somewhat sink, though they are not engulfed, only hugged around the edges so that if I stepped away, a slight shadow of myself would remain behind. I do not, however, move, and instead, allow the earth to slowly bend for my being. I feel miniscule grains of shell aged several millennia rush between my toes as the sea easily escapes the weak attempt to cage it. The next wave tears in, and I see it frothing and foaming, rabid and furious toward the shore, but as it reaches me, it is little more than a carbonated, salty trickle. As the water laps at my ankles, I turn toward the dunes, away from the infinite horizon and know that the slight depression I have left is already being brushed into oblivion, my only mark flicked aside. As I pad softly away, the ground transforms from bland silk to stained glass. The speckled grey sand brightens to a yellow tan, then fireworks to an endless prism of shells, appearing like millions of hooks, swirls, and bowls, across the now slightly undulating ground. Like stars in the Milky Way floating throughout an endless sea of blackness, the shells are scattered in hued bands across the beach, twinkling with reflected starlight. Above me, doming the serene landscape is an azure sky free from all but a few cotton ***** which have been stretched by the sea fairing breeze to be all but transparent. The smell of salt reaches my nose as a bucolic waft emanates from the expanse to my back. I close my eyes, shading my vision and trusting the peace of my surroundings to hold. The faded calls of gulls echo along the shore and the popping of sea foam bubbles sharpens as my mind turns to rely on the sense of sound. Opening my eyes again, I see nothing of the landscape’s composure has altered. But for all its calm tranquility, isn't it strange, that I am walking through a graveyard.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
we
as the world
are living in fear
we are
cradled
by its restricting arms
sung to sleep with
lullabies and hymns
of shrieking souls
and scorching tongues
our hair is stroked
by the claws
of fear
by the piercing nails
it sharpens
to pick the locks
into our minds
fear has erased our memories
it has made a place inside of us
it has set up its bed
it has turned out the light
and it has sincerely
wished us all
goodnight.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
Rhythmic
Tearing
Cow on grass
Settling rooks
Cross sky
All around
Sound playing
Scent
On wind
Descending
Sun
Gold leafing
The horizon
Obscuration
Veiling arc
And furrow
Crop
And shadow
Poplar lined
Fields below
Quiet here
Above
A moment
Passes
Contrast sharpens
Trees recede
Into darkness
Sun bleeds
Into Earth
Apr 18, 2021
Apr 18, 2021 at 7:18 AM UTC
from this
vantage point
the world is
smaller than
we previously
thought, birds fly
alongside us,
cars that roared
before are
silenced,
we swim
in a sea of blue,
a view that
sharpens what
we already knew;
that this world is
beautiful,
a feeling that if
bottled
would be taken
in the traffic
jams & hospitals
& we would
see the Earth as a
speck of dust
floating
through a
Galaxy
much bigger
than us
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 7:56 AM UTC
.*of course i dream i fame, who doesn't dream of either fame or fortune... but... i'm sane enough to want to achieve that sort of stature, postmortem... what? with all the celebrity culture big brother ******** who the hell seeks fame while still alive? oh... well... there are the countless examples...*
and why would i take an ancestry test
of my D.N.A. make-up?
i remember the first conversation
i had with the father of my
first girlfriend...
how many famous Poles (Polaks...
do i look like something akin
to an anorexic waving a *******
flag?) there were...
i forgot Copernicus...
i forgot Marie Curie...
i forgot Chopin...
**** i forgot my own name
when i saw my first girlfriend's
sister walk down the stairs...
why would i do D.N.A. testing?
i just looked at what we eat...
and i mean we, truly,
it's called haggis in Scotland,
it's called black pudding
in England,
and it's also called
czarna kiszka (black intestines)
in Poland...
the Vikings founded Kiev
after all...
i like Nordic music, take a guess...
take a while...
my maternal surname is
Batuk... which is a Bohemian
variant of the Polak Batóg...
so a mix of Czech and...
Viking? the Goths...
if i had the time, and also the time
reference to reply to my first girlfriend's
father... while i was rudely
interrupted by the nymph that was
her sister... it's still a dream to me...
or what's called an arranged marriage
in India...
well... i would reply...
and how many Nobel literature
laureates... came from... England?
deathly silence...
you're right...
you're importing all this ******
post empire post colonial
perspectives and you have...
0 Nobel laureates in
the category of literature...
none!
zero! nil! oh!
yeah...
oh... really?
yes!
zilch... so zip-it-up, shrimpy.
i take certain words to heart...
sharpens my memory,
i'm not offended...
i just remember better...
you sometimes require certain
rubrics that are exclusive
and do not include
the rubrics of formal education...
this memory?
oh...
2003.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
Currents move the water.
Squirming, snaking and slithering
Through the depths till they reach the surface,
And then the gushes of air come,
Plucking the currents from peace
To force them forwards,
Another current swipes,
And another crashes,
Another burns with power,
And another dives through the centre,
The wind moulds the currents,
Sculpting the water to shape,
Until finally a ripple forms,
The gales flood over the crinkles,
They drag and try pierce the perfect folds,
Making the swan into an ugly duckling,
The duckling rises to its feet,
Excessive flesh flying away
Into the moist air,
The wings flap,
It stretches its legs and neck,
More impurities flicker off,
Brown feathers fade,
The beak sharpens,
Currents, gusts and ripples
All bundle into one,
The swan extends its wings fully,
And the water crashes.
Remains of the stunning creature tumble behind,
White foam and twizzling tides are left,
They reach the shore,
Swamping the sand in energy,
Clawing the helpless pebbles off the beach,
And retreating back to the ocean
Where more swans are formed
Endlessly
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night
when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness,noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream
down eager avenues of lifelessness
consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought
is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man,whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—
on such a night the sea through her blind miles
of crumbling silence seriously smiles
E.E. Cummings
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
I.
I wear the stern face of my ancestors,
the apron-clad Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from rock and bone.
My husband, my good friends, my family, my colleagues
all affectionately name me "intimidating."
They say:
"You're the strong one."
"We'll send you to win the battle."
"They should have known not to cross you."
They name me fighter,
mouthpiece,
leader,
and stand like tin men in legions at my back.
I am obliged to march on;
I cannot remember a time
when my feet have rested.
My banner waves in the northwest wind
and I hold it, dutifully,
fearing its inevitable fall
as my arms shake.
II.
My arms
shake.
Wind camouflages
this constant trembling: the
fabric of my
flag
whips and ripples and any
falter
in its course
is blamed on the wind, but
veins shrink - skin
shrivels - muscles
shake - I am no Atlas,
my
breath slows
sharpens
stops -
III.
I am a dry sand-castle:
one touch will obliterate me.
I am the brittle leaf on concrete:
one shoe will shred me.
I am dandelion spores on a plain:
one gust will erase me.
IV.
In my chest beats the soft heart of my ancestors,
the ruddy-cheeked Scandinavian matriarchs
who built me from soft earth and azaleas.
So name me weakling,
broken-down,
dependent;
give voice to all of me.
Lift this banner,
and give rest to my weary shoulders.
Hold me in your arms
when I need to collapse.
V.
At times,
even a general must be carried by her soldiers.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
The night is breathing apartment aroma
and the drunks are tumbling
d o
w n
w a
r d
through marina side
alleys
where the
Jamaican trumpeter
sharpens the brickwork
with clamor
brass rifle bullet sounds.
I get my depression half price at the supermarket,
that man made melancholia/
dehydrating all senses/
gunpowder to a broken barrel.
Sleepless for that distant girl explosive!
She's moving to the big city,
yeah there she goes!
To live in a place where many go to die.
Mango the sky
and ashclouds-
autumnal daisy/
center sunshine/
opalescent ecstasy
reminding one of Indonesia
and Darjeeling balcony evening
on the cubist block
on Kuta
on dreams and nightmares simultaneous
(THE PARANOIA OF PARASITES)
wet air
vapor rain
February pain
in the July bone!
Celebration VOICENOISE
passing phantom
thru paisley sheet
corridor.
Life is strange..
the strangeness of days
receding via the mattress
to time
and memories and
remembering the happenings
of ceremonies
this year
past year
CAVALCADE!
SPECTACULAR STARLIGHT!
OVERVIEW THE FIELD OF TENTS
AND LOVERS!
Life is an unrecognizable chameleon
T R A N S M U T E
to some other color
iridescent
(Where do I go? where do I go?)
Say by December the
name of my Valentine
by boardwalk boreal
and I recall
the current
Summersun
pearl/red
beautiful and beating
(BEDAZZLED LIKE
THE HEART)
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC
I wake.
The sky is clear blue
above the rooftops
whose shadows the sun
sharpens on the grass.
Dew on bare toes,
the limb-caressing air,
my garden breathes, waits, breathes
for you
these flowers . . .
I gather them against my *******
and lay them flat
on a cold slab,
cut, then grasp their stems as one:
to place in the red flower vase
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 4:00 AM UTC
i caught a glimpse of her once,
just as she was leaving.
the sunlight cut her face
like a scalpel, and she flinched.
in the doorway, the dogs
barking at her feet, the day's
bags suspended from her frame.
the one with her wallet, her phone.
her purse pinched in the crook of her elbow.
the one with her lunch, also there.
the backpack with her water bottle
and planner riding high on her
trapezius muscles. the ones holding
last night's tears still hovering above her
cheeks.
and she isn't wearing the necklace
i gave her last year on her birthday,
i can see the pale line on her collarbone
where it lived. but why would she?
the ring i bought fits perfectly
in the kitchen junk drawer,
she is unadorned.
i tried calling out to her, but the dogs,
and she didn't have the time. the earth shakes
and the world sharpens it's blade
again. she turns toward her car in the driveway
and melts back into routine.
a piece of blue-black hair falls across
her face, and i am in love with her again.
but things change, and look how naturally
she goes.
Jun 19, 2021
Jun 19, 2021 at 10:01 AM UTC
Now in this season
It smells like sweet honey nectar,
Thick, warm pollen that heavies the air, that
Overarching succulent sweetness I can
Never find. I'm nearly
Dreaming in the midst of day,
Lack of sleep sharpens this
Feeling of loss that doesn't coincide with
The growth around me - My mind
Is falling back a quarter year, another,
Chilled over somehow in direct sunlight -
My hunger could be assayed with
Those honeyed towers somewhere blooming, but
I've not been told where to find them -
Stumbling along with aching limbs and
Exhausted heart, forced anxious smile,
Can't seem to find these supposed fruits
That hang down at reach, give way to new days -
Just quiet, vacant preludes
Along all these miles of solitude.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:58 PM UTC
*A combustion of hurt,
shards of her brokenness
with razor-sharp edges
scattered in all directions,
Invisible to the naked-eye,
transparent is her pain,
so too are her soul's tiny fragments -
shattered, flawed pieces
of imperfections.
A smile to mask the fear
consuming her anxiety ridden,
brave, but broken,
spirit,
A strong warrior,
she knows she is,
as she shuts her tired eyes
and mentally sharpens
her weapons and tools,
preparing, again, to look fear in the eye,
and to fight herself another day -
because, sadly,
she has learnt to live with it.
By Lady R.F ©2017*
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 5:45 AM UTC