Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Maya Grela Jul 2015
A wild man is not a boyfriend, he is a force.
Can you love me in the blinding heat of a birthing star, when I shower warmth on distant moons?
Can you love me in the hole of the cosmic Black, where no one can reach me? Not even you?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me when I drag buffalo skulls through the dirt for days, to the rhythm of an ancient drum?
Will you love me if my beard hides the scars in my heart, from battles I cannot explain?
WIll you love me when I lack courage, when I am defeated, when I won’t let you patch my wounds?
WIll you trust me when I smell of sweetgrass and sage, and when I stink of whiskey and sweat?
When I drink from the cup and play in astral light, will you anchor me to Home?
What happens when my words don’t work, and I can speak with only my eyes?
Can you love me enough to let me go, without asking me where I’ll be?
I am no poodle to lay groomed on a leash at your feet. I am the wolf that fetches the bones of truth.
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He’s not built for animal husbandry. He is a force. He is a cause for an effect. He is a mission.
Are you afraid to let me inside you? Not just my flesh, but my soul. The wild man is neither burglar or vandal. I will not take anything from you. I will not trample on sprouting seeds or pick flowers as a trophy. I am the sun on flooded fields and the fire for tangled webs.
Don’t be scared, lover, mother, maiden, crone. Take me as I am.
Even if I have the power to destroy worlds, I will not destroy you.
A wild man is a protector. A father. A warrior for all that is good.
When the chaos seeks to obliterate you, sheering your flesh from bone, I will hold all the pieces together in love, until you are ready to reassemble.
When your seas boil, and your winds throw cars at corn fields, I will wait patiently for you to catch my eye, so that both of us can laugh.
When Hell opens up the fiery gates, and sends all the cosmos against you… I plant my heels deep in the ground. I lay my shield low. My sword is sharp then, my love. The steel sings sweetly. With a smile, Hoka Hey! My last breath a farewell kiss. Today is a good day to die.
For ours is the oldest love affair. The greatest story ever told. Cupid and Psyche, Shiva and Shakti, You and I.
Same same but different. Would we have it any other way?
A wild man is not a boyfriend. He is a force.
Source http://aubreymarcus.com/blog/poetry/a-wild-man-is-not-a-boyfriend-he-is-a-force/
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i like looking up these shadow-people, the labourers
away from the spotlight, away from easy reference conclusions,
Ludovico Arrighi is among them, as is
the high jumper **** Fosbury - no belly-flop in
the competition after... after 1968 the road signs
told every jumper to expose the back and ***
when overpowering the heights -
Philippe Petit is outside the world, the ultimate
expression of solipsism, what grandeur (previous
attempts, the dyslexic source: the graphemes, æ,
previously i wrote grandeur as: grandeaur,
grandaeur, etc., somehow the syllables of only
vowels can leave you momentarily dyslexic,
when we're talking pure consonant graphemes
we have an aesthetic performed,
sheering can become šeering, whereby the diacritical
input overpowers excess spelling of graphemes,
such examples arise from what became the silent H...
or the surd H... ping-pong with the tetragrammaton...
e.g. dhal - which is said with a macron over the a:
dāl... but the trinity of spelled words gives rise
of neurosis... unless it's a word as conjunction,
the tribunal of aesthetic in keeping language beautiful
will prefer the spelling dhal or even daal rather than
what i proposed). concerning Ludovico Arrighi's
italics type... the skewed rhombus alignment /    /
is prescribed for emphasis... i need something to introduce
something that doesn't stress emphasis, but
sarcasm / ridicule... when i write something,
as i did in Christianity 2.0 (two point oh),
i'd change the direction of the ~wind, i.e. instead of
/    /    for emphasis, i'd like to stress ridicule in the
following direction:    \     .
but that's beside the point, it's like a western with
English not applying noticeable stresses...
for example the English trill, or the French hark...
they should be equipped with diacritical marks
of distinction... some sort of uniformity
of suggestion... the northerners trill (roll)
their R, the French used to, now anything but
a puddle of phlegm... but indeed, easy dyslexia from
pure vowel graphemes... cutting up graphemes
with diacritical incisions (safety, in a persistent vocabulary,
following the method of philosophical methodology -
hence my casual use of diacritics and graφemes -
i.e. when graphemes can't be constructed due
to a lacking of grapheme intention - unlike θ and φ -
supported by their alignment of a twin sound,
the Greeks would never consider applying diacritical
marks on p, t, h - unlike in Polish, where the h
is distinguished into a ch for aesthetic purposes -
e.g. chleb - bread and huj - **** -
but overpowering the vowel graphemes produced
their disappearance and the emergence of diacritical
vowels, e.g. the acute o (ó), which is a U, i treat
the diacritical mark as an incision point for the parabola,
cutting up the omicron, and that seems natural
given that the Greeks already did it without the acute
sign, i.e. the omega (the double u) - ω - again,
aesthetic reasons, the forgotten gallery of words
is there, you just have to forget Chomsky for a while.
but indeed, breaking up graphemes provides us
the necessity for diacritical marks,
the ancient Roman graphemes might have disappeared,
but they're still digitally present: mostly concerning
major words, like onomatopoeia - or encyclopaedia -
graphemes behave differently with the barbarians,
the latter encyclo- example is obviously nostalgic,
the ono- example does a reverse grapheme variation
of oe... but modernity expresses these couples
with individual distinctions - i.e. encyclopaedia
could be written utilising... well not a caron - not quiet
***, and more p'eh - the resurrection of the tetragrammaton
is necessary, i'd have inserted the variation without
minding French, i.e. grave accent on e eating away
the last vowel... or vowels... i.e. encyclopaèdia -
so avoiding the French usage that would cut off the -ia,
i'd insert it for reasons of interacting with a h, p'eh.
Joyce's Finnegan's Wake should have been written like this...
instead, it was written without noticing the diacritical
marks, and therefore made it's pompousness known
by omitting diacritical marks, therefore succumbing to
excessive spelling... or the ruin of Delmore Schwarzt -
nurse! scalpel: sch(sh /sz / š)- -wä(łä)- r(z)'t - drum-kit
wet snare tss't like in jazz.
still i need to define the R being trilled (rolling ball)
akin to the å - but of course the umlaut would do the job
likewise - but it's the aesthetic purpose that's necessary,
i guess umlaut designates an eased concept of
arithmetic included above the sound: i.e. prolonged,
count +2.

but these are but minor points of consideration,
obviously it would take decades to implement, and knowing
human endeavours in this realm, once fixed, once
fixated, nothing will hardly change - due to the already
existing utilisation, whereby it works perfectly to segregate
people... and the fact that there's no linguistic bible to
mind... but talking about orthodoxy and meddling with
dogma, i'm still bothered about the Malachi heresy,
how could it have been implemented?
i mean, a polytheistic concept of reincarnation is the oldest
form of identity theft, isn't it?
monotheism is incompatible with the concept of reincarnation,
this is the weakest spot / the blemish in Judaism...
Malachi is the actual inventor of Christianity and Islam,
he introduced the concept of reincarnation with
the return of Elijah, as mentioned in the New Testament
where Jesus is compared with Elijah...
it's a monotheistic heresy... reincarnation has no place
in monotheism, yet there it is, glaring at everyone from
the page... it was Malachi's error that gave rise to
schism... the litmus test of a monotheism is it's inability to
succumb to schism... well, Christianity is poly-schismatic,
Islam suffered an infection of schism early on...
Jewish schism?  you either practice or don't...
you either don the full attire of a Hasidic jews or you simply
turn your opinions toward earthly matters...
and so much rigour just because they didn't care to
roll the ******* back during ***, all that much work
from snipping the *******... early intervention did the job,
snip the skin off and we have the most ridiculously
funny god in the thought of man, an entire Mongolian
horde of intellectuals have been spawned from his existence...
imagine if god intervened when plastic surgery came around...
wouldn't be so ******* funny by my count.
****! listening to the radio and standing up between sentences
then realising there's no go-back button... it's live...
sometimes the oddities of not being your own d.j. can be
petrifying, when you're working against the river-current
like a Salmon of rhythm.

lastly... i guess this is a major point, in a magazine article
some dung-heap of opinion wrote something
about poetry, in ditto:
a policeman shoots dead Michael Brown in Ferguson,
Missouri in August 2014, Maggie Smith's poem
Good Bones goes viral, it wasn't about Ferguson,
it was about life being short and often terrible -
continues with: poetry is the language of crisis, of
profound thought and deep emotion, it may not be
much read these days, but it is certainly felt...

is that all true? is poetry the language of crisis?
i think that assertion is a load of *******...
it's a bit like using a hammer to paint the civil room's
walls (living room, i call it the civil room) -
if i'm reading poetry i'm not commuting or lying in bed,
i'm perched on the windowsill in a quasi-akimbo pose,
sipping a glass of bourbon with coca-cola and
smoking a cigarette, mindful of never wanting to
wear contact lenses or eyeglasses,
poetry is more than this idealism about it,
that you read poetry to savour the moment of critical needs,
i read poetry because newspaper articles **** me off...
poetry is like newspaper articles when those monstrous
literary ****** get going for months of necessary
attention to finish them... poetry, when drinking
bourbon, smoking a cigarette, quasi-akimbo on the windowsill,
perfect use of spacing, i bet most people who stick
to poetry will have better eyesight when they grow older.
JeanlBouwer Dec 2009
Freedom of choice, can never be
Rather, a designed destiny

With
Accidents, default settings by design
Coincidences, planned occurrences in time
Surroundings, attracted by rhyme
Then what, is the influence of time?

A matrix known, to only a few
The rest a drift, never knew
Only filling gaps, for the few

Like sheep, alive in meadow
On man’s command, they go
Slaughter sheering feeding, they never know
So, do we really want them to row?

Do they want to row?

Do we actually harvest what we sow?
Or is it just, part of the flow?
JR Potts Feb 2015
The wind swept across sheering dunes of white sand
the way certain kinds of dancers sway
like flames
The way young children often play
free of their father’s shame

It filled his lungs with the fire of his innocence
and the longer he inhaled the larger he grew
no sooner had he rivaled mountains
did he hear the cries of his former self
this being bound in chains spoke thus

Be wary Apricus,
many great men have had their heads over hills
and their fates delivered them to the stake.
Are you willing to burn, to crumble into ash
and return to the dirt of mother earth
for all that you believe?


Broken by doubt,
the mountain becomes a man again
but the heart of a giant still swelled inside of him
It raged against his fragile frame like a violent slave
until it grew weary of its own restless thunder
and there it sunk into the deep,
the deep frore of a wintry slumber

Sleep for now my lively child
for the hearts of giants reside inside of all men
but first they must learn to love themselves
before the giants can walk the earth again
I originally wrote this work in 2012. I envisioned it as a piece of a larger body of work surrounding my original protagonist, Apricus a Gypsy Poet who wanders and talks with people of life and philosophy. Think Kahlil Gibran's "The Prophet" or Friedrich Nietzsche's "Thus Spoke Zarathustra". This poem was submitted to several poetry contests with no accolades being bestowed upon it but I still consider it one of my best works. Thank you for reading.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
rub it in... rub it in why don't you? isn't that the point of capitalism, this competitive mentality? why're you looking at me as if i killed your mother with a ******* harmonica?

i love how people regress their national frustrations
into sports - England is perfect with football...
oh? did i poke a beehive just now?
is Brexit for real now? it is now...
apparently one of the Icelandic managers is a
dentist, he just does the coaching in the summer
part time - i was walking for my daily metabolic
dosage of alcohol a little suspicious, acting out
all doom and gloom - well, it's more fun than
paying your taxes or seeking out career promotion
to be honest, after all, abolishing asylums turned
the entire social cohesion stratification into an
asylum, everywhere you go you have the phantoms
of "men in white coats", everywhere, can't ****
in an alley, can't drink a beer in public,
forget adrenaline *** - the entire human potential
of civilisation the Englishman stashed in his semi-detached,
by the way... don't you think that a Londoner will
find himself in lost-territory outside of London?
i love how the S.N.P. are in parliament 'aving a go
at voicing their compulsion for Brussels' choc &
guillotine chop policy - they want in... oh! does this
mean goodbye Jack ol' Boy? really? well, if you need
a ***** might as well be Wales - they're hanging, they're
hanging, and finally the bubble will burst,
why not Union John (like a toilet) or a Union Jeremy?
Union Jeffrey - Jaffas? Jizzum - Jazz?
but they're out for certain, if a bunch of
barbers, carpenters and sheep herders can beat them
living the Leicester City dream, i'm thinking of them being
the second Denmark from 1992 -
i've had so much emotion in my heart that now
i have a ******* headache - go on! a third goal! get in!
bam wam thank you Black Betty, bam ba'h lam.
it's not the football that interests me as much...
you seen the fans? ha ha! *a'woo!
              a'woo!                                    a­'woo!
a'woo!          a'woo!            a'woo! a'woo! a'woo!

mind you the sober wisdom of Alan Shearer
but that ******* chant man! coupling the missing
trill in the English R (how many gym sessions was that
to get the R to not trill? 2000 years and counting?
trickier than a French phlegm hark mind you)
and extending the E, well, the A isn't really necessary,
it's still reel...
*but who the hell decided what vowel goes where
and what vowel goes in anywhere given a change from
i - aye - and í - as in a punctured punctuation of
e    - prolonged -            and c            -
            a variant of        is              i.e.           ís
and not the German                   iß                    -
called a Kama Sutra of tonguing - slightly zeddy -
you really start to get polishing that mahogany table
for starters - no one gave me the rule books,
what's an offside, what's an penalty, etc. etc.,
i'm working at the scrapheap of language -
there was no congregation akin to the Diet of Worms
(ˈʁaɪçstaːk tsuː ˈvɔɐms) - try deciphering this
educated alphabet - upside-down Cyrillic for starters,
a bit of French, Greek iota, then circus without
a sheering process to add the -ta:k, and there too
a gamma is missing due to the softening into a kappa,
tsu;?                     huh?      why not              ßu?
to mind the Chiral (kye-rawl) nature of S and Z?
ich haben, ih blaben blabshen? *****-slap this to Jupiter,
i will... Tao no mayo in this ninja chow mein -
then it just, gets nuts! ɔɐ is what i've been discussing
about the umlaut - could have just written Wörms -
it's not straight arithmetic - it's that ɔɐ... thing...
like woad but more like woo'ed - you sort of have to
speak sideways - wo'o'erms - werms - or
so i thought.
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2014
The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves she felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and rain
tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
gusty trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.

    .  .  .  .  .  .  .

        But at the deeper woods opening he lost his way and became fearful,
not wanting to enter.  The tallest ones, red giants with faces of evergreen
canceled out the closing sky and so he changed his way back as before
to the rounded hills.  And weary from his climb he rested on the back of her
body in lands overlooking down from the brae he saw the ocean swelling
and the stars being born in wild flowers as the hills at dusk were dissolving.
        After two eternal moments in peace, he rose again in the Highlands,
to the braise and harvest smell of musted hay, cottage chalk and bleating
wool.  Now holding the girl draped in tartan, this time without caring he fell
into the black woods of her mien.  And the milk of her body dripped out into
his and slid back waveishly until she was all hair from black becoming straw
in their bed and feathers when the raven appeared.  And the flooding waned
when she flew through an opening unraveled in the thatching roof, shredded
above the funny moors.
        In seconds he was swiped clear, before the shy song lamenting when
the doors, by tidal weathers, blasted open into the mackerel sky, gathering
too like vapours with the dawn, he wafted up, swept away into the airs
on Highland shoals.  Now sailing above the speckled clouds in a darting
school of other drifters, he heard himself singing in heights of sways
throughout the tangle of wandering bark that stretched by branching coral
midway to the moon.  A great oak tree made of lime pierced the end of blue,
nadir to its zenith and into the heavens all starry.  And ringing its trunk was
a line drawn of which beneath lay the drowning world.  It was as if each layer
were one part oil, the other part water.  Looking down, way, way down
and down even farther, he saw the running seeds of striped minnows
who swam by up-streaming a wide river.  To catch up he dropped, again,
all dressed in the colours of rain, with those gladly miners.  But they swam
above the river between the rounded hills.  And the waters ran runny, now
unwrinkling as does the bowl that holds the Milky Way, when someone
dappled by in whisper saying,
        "Come with us twice the road is easy!"
"Where are we?" To himself he mused, as she blew away and by, like a long
dragon flying.  He let his body to sink with the weeds and sedges he saw,
to a beam held with barely a nail hanging, the age old sign set, spiriting him
back again to his place.  Back to the point that draws itself, as does the wind
that winds through the rushing reeds, back to the sun rising note after moon
underwater and from such still sounds was he a reel, just when the post
that was always sheering spoke out and said;
"Welcome!  .  .  .  "
        "Welcome to Minerva."
The aisling (Irish for 'dream, vision', pronounced [ˈash-ling]), or vision poem, is a poetic genre that developed during the late 17th and 18th centuries in Irish language poetry.  

In the aisling, Ireland appears to the poet in a vision in the form of a woman, usually young and beautiful. This female figure is generally referred to in the poems as a Spéirbhean (heavenly woman; pronounced 'spare van'). She laments the current state of the Irish people and predicts an imminent revival of their fortunes  .  .  .


Minerva ( Athena ) was the Roman goddess of wisdom and sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy. She was born with weapons from the godhead of Jupiter.  From the 2nd century BC onwards, the Romans equated her with the Greek goddess Athena. She was the ****** goddess of music, poetry, medicine, wisdom, commerce, weaving, crafts, and magic.  She is often depicted with her sacred creature, an owl usually named as the "owl of Minerva", which symbolizes that she is connected to wisdom.

The celtic Gauls revered Minerva ( their name for the goddess being 'Brigit' ).  In this poem the name refers to a mythic place in dream.
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2015
— for Victoria*

Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre.  So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2016
The hills beneath him stretched out like the curves of women.  Bent
to the clouds he fell from the earth which geared him prickly as would
a range of *******, then soaring higher, he dived, topping valleys
reshaped downy now into ridges slowly writhed before catching
under toe his own dazzled stare on a water loch of milk and coal-
haired body strewn out to her lily'd bones and still falling, he dropped
to the break of morn dribbling wet sand from his eyes and woke
in the sparring light of his least favourite day.
        In a grainish and utter room, where hanged more than two
pictures of two people, he sank down to Sunday diminished in sighs
from the four tilting walls and blew dead inward unfolding a book.
As he reached for some volume, a baby finger nicked the hair string
of his guitar and for a moment was reminded of her voice in the bedded
vibrations.  Looking on her curves he felt the soft nape of her neck
with his eyes, then those same eyes unhanded her and she, his
dejected guitar, faced him unsung in the cornered glare of his boxed
in room.  He felt frost in throes all that morning and sideways out
of doors— the sun looked back on him even colder.  It would be hours
now until the end of days, so after lunch he went for a walk and a bird
sang nearly the whole way.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

It was much warmer than he had fared it to be outside and having wrestled
with this idea, that the day was somehow harder than his soft, flat room,
the mere remembering was rote by him to his pangs.  He turned, thinking
toward other things, like the void of driven streets or the mimicking cruelty
of shadows, until he saw a sullen field and left the road to dust.  He knew
that if lost, walking through the lofted hills, he would end up in the ocean
so he headed higher to the crest and over then saw a stand of trees.
        And facing the water that rilled on its way, in the tall grasses he saw
patches of red, flying with the black birds and his heart, in a boat of swells,
traveled like the red patches those birds carried.  Snowed on alder trees
brushed by him, but the wind was blowing in from the west and there
were beautiful things to behold.  A red-tailed hawk striped the ceiling
of his day by the sea and built an island to his eye and then his head sank
droning into a syndrome of birds as he joined in silence with them all
singing;
        'ta— hee— tae.'      
        Showers of poppies spilled to his heel and the keel-brew of rushes and
rain tasted purple on its way perning to the sky.  At one stop in the middle of his
path, he came upon a purfled coil, a briar snake, its body shaped in question,
unmoved and long.  The dark Orphic frieze, branding his way, it would not
listen, as if she had always been there, deaf to his song.  He felt the loss
of love by echoes from his room in the out of doors.  The drumming trunks,
the stringing leaves harping and the water that gurgled by stones into poems.
A Northerly blew begrudging the trunks, the leaves and the stones and by
the woods sinking taller he felt rushes of time running as breath through
gusty trees and felt chimes of things flying buttery like feathers to a bell.

    .  .  .  .  .  .  .

        But at the deeper woods opening he lost his way and became fearful,
not wanting to enter.  The tallest ones, red giants with faces of evergreen
canceled out the closing sky and so he changed his way back as before
to the rounded hills.  And weary from his climb he rested on the back of her
body in lands overlooking down from the brae he saw the ocean swelling
and the stars being born in wild flowers as the hills at dusk were dissolving.
        After two eternal moments in peace, he rose again in the Highlands,
to the braise and harvest smell of musted hay, cottage chalk and bleating
wool.  Now holding the girl draped in tartan, this time without caring he fell
into the black woods of her mien.  And the milk of her body dripped out into
his and slid back waveishly until she was all hair from black becoming straw
in their bed and feathers when the raven appeared.  And the flooding waned
when she flew through an opening unraveled in the thatching roof, shredded
above the funny moors.
        In seconds he was swiped clear, before the shy song lamenting when
the doors, by tidal weathers, blasted open into the mackerel sky, gathering
too like vapours with the dawn, he wafted up, swept away into the airs
on Highland shoals.  Now sailing above the speckled clouds in a darting
school of other drifters, he heard himself singing in heights of sways
throughout the tangle of wandering bark that stretched by branching coral
midway to the moon.  A great oak tree made of lime pierced the end of blue,
nadir to its zenith and into the heavens all starry.  And ringing its trunk was
a line drawn of which beneath lay the drowning world.  It was as if each layer
were one part oil, the other part water.  Looking down, way, way down
and down even farther, he saw the running seeds of striped minnows
who swam by up-streaming a wide river.  To catch up he dropped, again,
all dressed in the colours of rain, with those gladly miners.  But they swam
above the river between the rounded hills.  And the waters ran runny, now
unwrinkling as does the bowl that holds the Milky Way, when someone
dappled by in whisper saying,
        "Come with us twice the road is easy!"
"Where are we?" To himself he mused, as she blew away and by, like a long
dragon flying.  He let his body to sink with the weeds and sedges he saw,
to a beam held with barely a nail hanging, the age old sign set, spiriting him
back again to his place.  Back to the point that draws itself, as does the wind
that winds through the rushing reeds, back to the sun rising note after moon
underwater and from such still sounds was he a reel, just when the post
that was always sheering spoke out and said;
"Welcome!  .  .  .  "
        "Welcome to Minerva."
The aisling (Irish for 'dream, vision', pronounced [ˈash-ling]), or vision poem, is a poetic genre that developed during the late 17th and 18th centuries in Irish language poetry.  

In the aisling, Ireland appears to the poet in a vision in the form of a woman, usually young and beautiful. This female figure is generally referred to in the poems as a Spéirbhean (heavenly woman; pronounced 'spare van'). She laments the current state of the Irish people and predicts an imminent revival of their fortunes  .  .  .


Minerva ( Athena ) was the Roman goddess of wisdom and sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy. She was born with weapons from the godhead of Jupiter.  From the 2nd century BC onwards, the Romans equated her with the Greek goddess Athena. She was the ****** goddess of music, poetry, medicine, wisdom, commerce, weaving, crafts, and magic.  She is often depicted with her sacred creature, an owl usually named as the "owl of Minerva", which symbolizes that she is connected to wisdom.

The celtic Gauls revered Minerva ( their name for the goddess being 'Brigit' ).  In this poem the name refers to a mythic place in dream.
.
PK Wakefield Sep 2010
what,s beauty?shorn and tousled follicles.a b
-owlfilled with hushed buzzing electric teeth
masticating her hair fleetly. a soft waste deposited
in porcelain silent whiteness; a crevice kindly hard
to pertain the sheering

and rough gently her bobble i clutch and rub
its skein
the jostle gritty stubble rumbles contended
under my hands
but remains an onyx shock twaining sweetly
you
i love you
my                 little              valkyrie; scream
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2015
— for Victoria*
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre.  So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
Caroline Grace May 2010
Between the cool-quarried kitchen
and paint-faded south facing door
runs a windowless wall
sugar-papered with childhood dreams.

Memories of roughly folded gifts
squirreled in satchels,
crossed creases still intact;
curled corners fixed with shiny pins.

Luminescent paint heartens the darkness of a pitch grotto
anticipating a flicked switch
to illuminate dimmed histories
of abstract symbols, visionless figures and countless fingers.

The small pink fists that captured
Time's most precious pieces,
now live with vaguely painted hope
of sheering unsteady walls
in their uncertain world.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2010
With heartbreak and loss...
             does the Divine hear our thoughts?

Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,

WHOOSH!

On hands, on knees,
wind, hair, cascade, face.
I cry out -hoary breath,
sobbing, tender, the freeze.

FUP-FUP-FUP

Painful sheering burning ice upon my forearms...
             to die is a warmth here.

Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,

He lands and screeches,
talon'd feet below,
swaddling of wispy bandages
knees bent in reverse,
awkward pose o'er me
I look up and I see!

Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,

Creature of arms species of wings, bandied, banded...
              almonded eyes so black, large, -peering.

FUP-FUP-FUP

It knows of pain.
To deliver me, -here.
...away from the world
I exist in short space,
I lean back my haunches,
expiate my yeornful heart!

Torn out but beating and in pain no more?
          I am leaving with this messenger...

Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning,

To the Van...
      to the van...

Turning feathers, black and flickers,
spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.

...spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.

...spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning.
Marcello Oct 2010
Across the crowded room I see her there
With bright blue eyes and golden hair.
The light shines on her delicate face.
Gazing at her, my heart quickens its pace.

I plan to ask her out on the town
Hoping my appearance won't let me down.

Turning to the barkeep I order a drink,
Trying to recall that missing link.
I dab on cologne that will make her adore me,
Grabbing a notepad jotting a few lines of poetry.

"Please come with me to my house on the shore
Where we could wine and dine forever more.
To greater heights our lives will ascent,
Loving each other till the end."

I turn around and notice she's not there
But I catch another giving me a wide-eyed stare.

She has hair like Medusa and a drooping face
Coming this way making a feverish chase.
I retreat to my position hoping she'll go away
Sipping my drink my body starts to sway.

I glance in the mirror that hangs on the wall
And see that monster nearly eight feet tall!

There she remains with eyes glowing red.
I wish this was a dream; laying in my bed.
I twist just slightly to see if she's truly that size.
I realize I'm staring into those sparkling blue eyes.

Choking, I wash down the remains of my drink,
Stunned by the beauty of the woman in mink.

I stagger to my feet adjusting my silk-laden tie
Thinking of giving it one more desperate try.
She gives me her hand and I kiss it gently
Hoping this moment will last for eternity.

I stare at her face and something's not right.
I assume it's the room dimmed with the light.

She snatches my hand, whispering, "Let's go for a walk."
I state, "It's too cold, lets stay and talk."
She rambles on that if I come,, she'll give me more.
More of what? I begin to think, following her through the door.

I grab my coat, heading out into the night.
The cool air sending an ice-chilling fright
Throughout my bones with an endless hunger.
This woman's presence forever lingers.

Startled! I hear a hissing noise that sounds familiar
Of snakes that I remember quite particular.

When I first saw that lady monster just before,
It reminded me of some ancient folklore.
Abruptly I stop, thinking it my imagination.
Facing her, she stares with such fascination.

Displaying that face and hell-sheering laughter!
I try evading the gaze, can't escape from her.

Suddenly, I feel an agonizing pain in my feet
And peer down, astonished, they're cemented to the street!
How could this happen to a guy like me?
This is not the night I hoped it would be.

"Unbelievable!", shrieking as the rock forms up my leg.

Looking up at Medusa I start to beg,

Now aware that I could do nothing else

But stand here changing into a statue of myself.
Seema Aug 2017
The vultures roam low
Deserted in the middle of nowhere
Ready to begin their hunger show
To rip my body off and share

My heart is still at beat
I am not yet dead
For I am longing for our meet
But right now I am so scared

I pray for the cannibals to go away
The more I try to move myself
The more flocks dive my way
Inviting themselves

I peep at the sheering Sun
And hope for it to disappear
Water left, I have none
My vision so unclear

I get back up on my feet
Heading towards the shady creek
While vultures fight on decaying meat
Fighting with their sharp beek

Dear vultures,
If I become your fresh meal
Then please do me a favour
For I'll bare all the painful feel
Just spare my eyes for my saver

He who is my only love
Lost and gone out of my life, yes
God, shower mercy from above
And let me get over this mess...


©sim
Inspired by the hindi poetry:
"Kaga sab tan khaiyo chun chun khaiyo maas. Do naina mat khaiyo, mohe piya milan ki aas."
mEb Sep 2010
Tonight in front of the early AM infomercial,
I overturn,
And flip through a few times more
Finally, to attribute self dialect
Still watching images on a soundless screen,
mimicking their actions,
One thought only fills the mute void
________

Our leering fog days under freeways
Waiting all hours during school weeks
to hear you fill the mute void
_______

Technology, I claim,
Surprises the electro brain currents at such hour
Given the right two and a half hour sleep schedule,
A lack, made proceeding day event sheering
________

I just wanted you to realize that before your double self died
That monster we both made in unison
Is my death of a hideous past
The thought of him at this hour
Always fills the mute void
Puts me to sleep under fluorescence glowing
from the early AM infomercial.
Seema Jun 2018
Conseal the pain of this broken heart
Let there be flashes of light
Unveil this darkness, O' sheering rain
Drums of thunder thumping tonight
Blots of ink dubbed on paper
Melting candle wax shapes a figure
Breeze of glory, sound of chimes
My trembling hand on the trigger
Drowning deep in this nights swamp
Swallowing pins and needles of taste
Tears break into silent cries
This life is just a waste
Do I or do I not
The fight is still going on
Live or die
Coz I am already torn
Helpless, but there's a guilt feeling
Why be a coward for someone elses mistake
Live and start all over again
Give no time to fake
Pulling the trigger gives no escape
My soul would be barred in this world of fake
Why should I take my life
Why not, correct my mistakes...

©sim
Fiction, not my story.
Jack Huang Feb 2016
It's night and I am to wonder
What is this sinister madness?
shocking me like thunder
an unexplainable sadness!
Sadness from sheering silence
Erasing all hope and guidance.

I wonder. But find no reasons
Why this sadness is needed
and like spiritual dry seasons
Wither the joy I once seeded
Drained and bleak, but why?
Sadness and silence, no reply.

Time passes days and weeks
I am still with no explanation
And when the sun finally peaks
I feel this relieved sensation
But why did the sadness go?
why did it come? *I don't know.
Sometimes I just feel sad I don't know why. No warning, no reason just sadness. But I always manage so I just hold tight and wait for better days.
Seán Mac Falls May 2017
.
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,

Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,

For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
in a house, where a bonsai tiger sleeps listening
to jack johnson's in between dreams
(realising his loathing for radio transmission
dynamics of advertisement and talk when
the album fills a full hour of ear drum concerns,
and in a house where upstairs frank zappa's
hot rats plays in unison to a man on a windowsill
musing: 'by god, zappa did a john coltrane
in a symbiosis with a love supreme; there's only
one vocal track on the album, the rest
is sheering saxes to grizzly.

poetry, esp. non rhyming poetry to detached it
from musicology, poetry is after all
the oldest musicology without instrument
as whether dicing tongues protruding
made sneezing a new wheezing or coughing
to beat-box rapping, i guess it's like that,
well, non-rhyming poetry that old rekindling
adolescence needs to be less "scientifically"
itemised with theories to identify a metaphor
for a metaphor: just take it in one gulp as the whole;
it needs a detachment to lose all inhibitions
of self-consciousness and carve a route into
exhibitions, pompous art of music, this poetry,
so if not rhythmic rhyming at least interested
in music: a strong rhythmic section makes music
interesting, esp. when the bass guitar
is as important as the drum-kit - and gets equal
expression, unlike all those air-guitar soloist
techniques within the framework of critique of
the famed phrase 'intellectual *******,
thinking, epitome of liverpool's jabbing and upper-cutting
because of a football score because of a referee decision,'
same thing in music: big hair, make-up, solos
of guitars with over-burdening vocals - i need the rhythm,
i need the rhythm to enter the labyrinth and scatter think
by way out, by the odd chance right choice.
so scientific theory died with the higg's boson,
god got a mention, no need for scientific theories,
with my x-ray vision i see everyone wearing laboratory
coats and pretending to not have rats' whiskers and tails,
it's over, we need all theories to move into
humanism's area, from science just practicality,
but as always, we have the merchants and middle-men
who will stall human endeavour for a higher price
being reached by politico dynamite exploding
in curbing the populace for a horse-blinders of
angry rubric divisions into economy theorised.
so if i told you otherwise, would you tell me
the winter be bleak? i find winter refreshing,
after all, only in winter can you see the celestial
marriage of moon and sun, seeing how the moon
appears in the daytime and in the night is missing.
with that famous debate about pinpointing god
(existence - out of every instance? that's hard),
i'm not going to guise myself in a theological disguise
of spider and spider's architecture to eat with
the spiderweb his digestive system inside-out:
like a poet to his unvocalised muse: this word
isn't complete, it's an abandoned poem,
and hence us, we come in with scissors and pliers,
hammers and nail, due to the incompleteness of
this world we have a momentary chance to fill
it with ourselves... that creationism fight v. darwinism
is too claustrophobic for me, so anyway:
if i said to you the romans were better poets than
the greeks because the greeks gave names to
their phonetic units: alpha to omega in between
iotas, then i'd tell you the romans didn't name
their letters to be befitting for scientific constants,
on the basis of do re mi fa so la,
and hence i'd tell you romans were better poets
and the greeks were better fathers of shakespeare,
and i'd tell you homer was a greek and fathered
the tree major sons in rome: ovid, virgil, horace.
then i'd tell you our age has to have a lightbulb moment,
after the 1st prometheus stole or simply gave fire
unto man in order to be gnawed by a hawk
gnawing on his liver (metaphorically, might have
been a heavy drinker, drinker's hawkish vision),
a 2nd prometheus must come:
i'm guessing with some sort of magnetism to capture
zeus' wrath of a lightning storm...
2nd prometheus is rather dull, let's use etymology
to drive out a name for this man:
lightning bringer (αστραπαραδευς) - derived
from lightning and the word *deliver
, the deliverer
of a godly essence - of course other ambiguities
can be crafted, but putting two nouns together
to create a compound, like -1 + -1 = -2,
so two nouns put together don't really create a
new noun, but couple a noun with a verb
and it's like -1 - -2 = 1... hence i didn't use
the greek word deliverer (ελεθερωτις /
eletherotis).
Seema Jun 2017
I don't know, how many heartbeats are left in this body. But I can assure you, that my time is quite near. Near to the gates of freedom from this sinful body. I admire, the ticks on the old wall clock. It gradually reminds me of my choking last breaths. The treasure chest in my heart weighs heavy with sorrows. The key resides in my mind, where the memories churn. My eyes stare wide at the pillars and the high ceilings. The energy to raise my hand has drained to the point, where I can't even get up. Blurred vision and twinkling micro lights fly whenever I blink to see, to see what I've missed more. To see that one peace that my soul craved for. To see you, being successful. Sometimes, I hold onto my breath...to get the feelings of death. But then, I am suddenly perched with enormous pain, like a million needles stamped over my chest.
A pin drop silence, then a siren sheering sound bust in my ears. And this, my dear I believe is a tour of hell.
It's just a bad fate, I carry with me, and this will leave me only.
Only, on the day,
I leave this needless body, for good
And all the pain, the sufferings, the sounds shall stop
...
A pin drop silence



©sim
Cynthia Wales May 2015
Hidden beauty resides not in the grace like charms
Of coy smiles
Painted across a gentle Madonnas face.
Nor is she vested within the chastened vows
Of saintly knights; encased Great-Helm:
Thus maketh the pale maidens meek pulse
To so fervently race!

She neither dwells in fair Michelangelos alabaster statues,
Or famed masterpieces hung upon hushed galleries
Hallowed walls.
Never does she proudly boast from-on-high
In lofty ivory towers,
Or brazenly shout across yawning grandiose marble halls!

For she will not be found in royal palaces,
Or sprawling estates of greatly lauded piles;
She is not to be found in ancient cathedrals -
Or exalted from their most sacred holy aisles!

She will not be found in hidden empires in brave new worlds
Frontiered by far flung foam washed shores;
Nor found prowling echoing dusty bank vaults -
If all the worlds bankers
Were to throw open all of their bolted cold steel doors!

For hidden beauty knows all the crafts and wisdoms
Of learned mens most subtle and tricky arts:
And cares not a jot, or gives a ****,
For all the poets and their foolish sentimental hearts!

                            But.....

Perhaps she shyly glowers inside a sun struck morn -
Her stealing lips simmering upon the dew kissed dawn;

Perhaps she wantonly flirts alongside a babbling brook -
Where sweet Virgil, Her, for a Muse mistook;

Perhaps she frequents the flowery paths of verdant pasture -
With all their lush, vibrant, unassuming rapture;Perhaps you may find her in the dappled shades -
In and amongst the streaming glades;

Perhaps she traipses idly through heavens lights -
Of beached harvest moons and star tilted nights.

                            Or.....

Perhaps she briefly flickers across sizzling lightening strikes -
Accompanying thunderous cannonades of symphonic rolling might;

Perhaps she sometimes ignites the drifting tallgrass plains -
Glistening within fleeting rainbows blazing an arc over sparkling rains;

Perhaps she is in the gulf filled roar of stormy headlands -
Whose pounding seas smash and grind the sheering cliffs to sands;

Perhaps she burns across diamond ice in glacial mountains high -
Where frozen snows reach sharply upwards to rip open the azured sky;

Perhaps she slumbers in impenetrable greening forests deep -
Lain down with the hunted grey wolf...safe at last in contented sleep!

                            For.....

I am the glint rippling upon the gleam -
The tumbling cryptic flashing only partly seen;

I am the eternal flame that crackles in the grate -
The enigmatic indecipherable most profound innate;

I am the paradox within the intrigue -
That does so contrive but does not deceive;

I am the quantum within the curled up string -
The grain of truth from which all half-truths spring.

I am all these indefinable moments and much, much more...
which all of your befuddled senses are resigned to grapple with -
Whereupon to set such store!

                            So.....
Content yourself and make not the mistake
To assuredly set me aside to thus debate.
For i am beyond the conjectures of a mere mortal mind,
As by accidental-consequential reaction...i cannot be denied!

                            For "Hidden Beauty".....

Once freed from Pandoras box upon this spinning coil:
To fire and play upon your enchanted thoughts - and forever foil!!
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
i do a pretty good rendition of vader’s cover of mayhem’s track: freezing moon.

i tend to forget what it’s all about the minute i think of it,
obviously thinking about something can’t make you doubt it /
esp. if you think in a way to deny its existence:
if something is doubted it’s not thought about,
there can’t be a doubling of anything like that -
if it’s... it’s denied... pushed to the back of our minds:
theme park thrills to deny gangsters and terrorists -
there’s no such thing as a cartesian “chirality” - whereby
the thought attributed to something can work
in the classical sense of *i think, i doubt, therefore i am

(cartesian chirality exists on the doubt v. negation axis).
it’s not being that’s doubted, but the consequences of undoubted thought:
that abraham did right, for example...
but it’s not really about that...
i was reading a part of plato’s defence of poetry by julius a. elias
and i recognised, there and then: my aversion to christianity
is due to platonism... i’m from the root of artistotelian philosophising,
not the platonic root... i couldn’t go against nietzche’s rebellion -
plato the boor... plato the bore...
why did plato assume all poets are liars?
why is it necessary to reveal the real of a potter’s *** making as basis for lies
in poem... and excuse a crap bit of pottery as above a really good poem?
as in the language of roofing... someone does a **** job and it leaks...
kiszka panie picasso... kiszka! brussel’s pâté! van damme muscles no more!
there’s a great point being made right on page 12...
i don’t have the original but it sent shocks right through me,
it’s the old chair and table fascination...
should we **** on a chair or **** on the table?
that’s plato to me... more **** than yawn.
it’s not about representing the chair as it is... that would simply
be boring... it’s about distortion, it’s about finding the self
in such a way as to provide a “callous” interpretation...
what would be the point of originality in the creative process
if it was otherwise - the gods created, man interpreted, and only that to
harbour existence per se?
we’re standing on the membrane of originality, given this world,
why would we suddenly comply to it without a “delusional” distortion
to ensure the self is encrusted in it? there would be no point
in such an endeavour... we'd all comply to 90º of the angle
and 100ºc of boiling water and london would
be the capital of hawaii... i.e. i don't lie, i just read a lot - more so:
i guess you get to be a plato supporter if you study philosophy first...
and not science...
i guess you get to be a disciple of plato if you start sheering language
to the bare minimum - the theory of forms...
but i like the telescope and microscope (autism) of aristotle looking
into a bog with tadpoles for spiderweb niches...
so the god of the jews beamed corrupt because of the ******* snipping...
‘looks nothing like what we originally intended!
what metamorphosis of the sword of his will give to rust because
it’s missing a sheath...’
thoth interrupted him - ‘guess what my people have done...
they trim the girls’ *******...’
‘tell you what thoth... i’ll go down and sort it out...
i’ll disguise myself as a burning bush.’
‘ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! ***** on fire! ha ha ha ha ha!’
the god of abraham to abraham concerning isaac:
‘don’t circumcise him! there’s a massive empire in the right top
corner of africa that’ll marry you and prove
i’m a god jealous of the others gods with your warring phallus!
the other gods just don't get involved!
i didn’t want to be involved in the first place, for *******’s sake!’
abraham losing the plot: ‘you want me to **** isaac?!’
‘no, don’t circumcise him! ah ****... too late.’
the whole story loses the medial aesthetic after centuries of
religion / being squeamish / 9am to 5pm / 2000 years of sunday being the last supper:
which is more viper confusion venom injection than the planet’s orbit
provides already: stop the carousel... stop the carousel!
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2016
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,

Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,

For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
women are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever sit on it... but she still plans for the chair to be there. men are like that... the chair isn’t there, no one will ever mind the chair should it be there... and he still doesn’t consider the chair to relate to the possibility of impregnation with his ******* of the ideas she will have to eat as the prime protein... unless of course he’s forced to go against his freedom and enter her will and make god prove himself freely kinned to her will and the chair.*

i love the fact that i can
drink,
write, watch the internet,
then watch the t.v.,
think about the bones of imaginary ******
of my hand,
switch off the t.v.
write,
remember the internet is static unless there’s an imput,
forget that too...
think of something...
that’s like a surgeon’s last sight of life
that’s more than a funeral mantlepiece...
well that’s me... it’s un-rhymed and less classical
that you might feel it might be...
i want to ******* to be honest...
but what’s that, ***’s a handshake?!
well... with so many sorry and soapy faces
i would look uncaring and clean faced to say hello
un-inhibited again... again... again:
i can say say it with a life... or sway saying it
with a profession as an actor; your choice... ha:
he who laughs last laughs true, and all interpretation comes last
as first to define wages in consideration of historians -
i might have said something like iodine matched up the
creases.... although the creases never scented iodine...
and the creases where never a wedding-dress... but skin’s leather
care for aged 80 in homeric blindness:
i might have... should have i doubt unless i was schooled
to be the envious of a circus played...
it doesn’t really matter... like poetry of
girls desiring a contract and newspaper snippets of likes...
for that biography of sylvia plath ending with:
‪#‎fucktartbollockshitbiographywaytoolong‬!
of course... then my ironing playlist changes
and i hear xednomorph’s satan’s presence...
then ooo la dip d’e doo d’ah becomes a *******
that just wanted to **** on santa’s beard to
hear the sunshine song of lapdancing reindeer
turning lapdancing into a shave / sheering:
***** tonk thomas engineer said: plot the blues
in plural for a patched up sacrifice of itchy thumbs up
for the sacrament: icon for a scarce testimony - icon for a scare -
pears i can juggle walking up the stairs...
juggling crucifixes walking up golgotha... i can’t:
if i did... i’d be a pope or a jew!
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2015
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,

Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,

For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.
Seán Mac Falls May 2015
.
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,

Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,

For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2017
.
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre.  So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
That sheering pain in my toe was wonderful
Why?
Because for 1 2 3 4 5 seconds.
The pain in my heart was absent.
The pain in my toe makes it hard to walk.
The pain in my toe is ripping my skin.
The pain in my toe is drilling my bone.
But the pain in heart makes it hard to breath.
The pain in my heart rips my dignity
The pain in my heart drills my soul.
So for a second longer,
please let my toe hurt.
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2017
.
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,

Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,

For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.
Alexander Miller Mar 2019
Hazel eyes, hate is very much alive.
Bleached striped hair, parents never cared.
Desaturated makeup, abuse save up.
Branch like lashes, left the guns in the attic.
Bloodied pores, closing doors.
Chipped nails, bleeding Dale.
Scarred skin, occurring sins.
Bloodied skirt, exposed hurt.
Bloodied sneakers, driving by the bleachers.
Steady hands, acting out plans.
Pressurized trigger, pull back finger.
Black handle, blood covered handles.
Full magazine, gruesome scene.
Empty canister, a new cancer.
Staring scope, deprived hope.
Heated Barrel, death written peril.
Dispensing bullets, anger she’s full of it.
Chipped desks, severed heads.
Impacted walls, faint police calls.
Shattered glass, death attracts.
Bodies down, the flag is proud.
Blood soaked tiles, bodies litter the aisles.
Wounded souls, doors closed.
Narrowed screams, a violent portrayal gleams.
Distant sirens, victims silenced.
Blurring smoke, the gun provokes.
Gas mask on, a tragedy in the dawn.
Emergency services, the hurt she did.
Police, she’s loaded to release.
Erupting explosions, a bloodied corruption.
Officer down, **** she’s proud.
Reloading yet again, pain is about to begin.
Hit through the torso, she still has the guns though.
Hard to move, starting to lose her homicidal groove.
Sheering pain, every scream sounds the same.
Another shot, her moment is lost.
Killed by the law, psychosis remains a common flaw.
Aftermath: A tragic path.
Overlooked as a simple girl, an untouched disturbed world.
Within the fragments of abuse and fantasies. Unknown abnormalities
She herself was very misunderstood, had no teachings of the common good.
Parents exposing death, they just didn’t know it.
Breeding a killer, giving violent media to justify a sinner
And they wonder why their daughter made violence a neighbor instead of a impostor.
Dave Hardin Nov 2016
Ukiyo-e

Thin curls coaxed from the grain
released from all claim by the dogged
rooting of the spoon gouge

bone white ribbon
easing itself to the fragrant floor
spiral cherry rivulet lost in the churn

at the feet of the carver, the first
thing I remember. A churlish man
as I recall, the burl of his squint

screening detail and smoke
from his cigarette, blue double
helix rising in mirror image

a lowering ceiling steeping
his head in stormy weather
gimlet eye weighing heavy seas

a tempest lipping
the canted rim of a petal thin
tea cup, striated wave

reaching for the heavens
top lopped clean by sheering wind
the fluter and the veiner alive and biting

in the hands of the carver who cuts me free
at last, rendered in stark relief at
the boiling crest of the surf break.
old poem, something about Japanese wood cut
Sam Ciel Oct 2017
Through the eyes of a dormouse, the world all looks bleak
As those who feign strength prey on the weak.
Shepherds lead sheep to houses of silence,
Empty rooms full of false facing guidance
Led there by lullabies that flatter their sin,
Desperate and desolate,
Metamorphosis begins:
Where sheep turn to songbirds as shepherds thin flocks
Wearing bright winged masks and red woolen smocks
Preening their feathers, and sheering their skin,
Anticipation dripping from each shepherd's grin.
Wolves in sheep's clothing
Would be saying the least,
For their songs herald banquets,
And echo kings' feasts.
Now, more than ever, keep writing.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
if i were conscious of all the poetic techniques,
metaphor, imagery, pun etc.
i wouldn't write as much as do -
i'd be dealing with some sort of arithmetic,
a labyrinth of obstructions to identify with
rather than bypass - i'd be doing what
philosophers do, staging a fright with a conscious
use of words like: metaphysical, etymological,
ontological - the list goes on, but such vocab secures crutches
holding the whole thing afloat, in poetical realities:
the equivalent of pursuing identities that might
summon a critical conjurer of positive feedback
who, with nodding approvals testifies:
mm indeed a poem, mm indeed a perfected use of
a hammer (metaphor) on that plank of wood
(pun), per se, imagine replacing technique very
much akin to swimming styles with an inanimate tinge,
a stasis - the techniques surrounding the approach to
each of these Pandora boxes is unlimited,
each approach a crescendo, a total failure of Roman
bureaucracy exploited - rather than that mundane
drilling of schooled knowledge of English teachers
ably identifying techniques to such an extent that
all that remains is a noun and nothing behind it;
poetry - the act of spontaneity - synonymous thoroughly
with impromptu - sheering of innocence - the act
of formidable maddening - hysteria par excellence -
spoken like a true addicts, never mind the alcohol,
even though i drink i'm still quiet sober when i infatuate
myself with verse, then the real drinking begins -
piquant - i wrote it because i just love the -quant sound
of things, meaningless indeed, but meaningful that i
could have uttered the sound, and by doing so the resonance
would have a little condo in the universe,
a little place for itself... it still ****** me off what they did
to Brain Wilson - marmalade pop, sure, but it was the sixties!
Seán Mac Falls Aug 2020
.
Seasons shuttle the tall stoic figure,
Graceful and solemn as wafted mist,
When seen, as if he was always there,
Overarching into meek, gloamy skies
Of mornings and dusk, mid day, lost,
Seems not right for wading out kills
That crane from above into the mud
And murk of the penny eyed waters
Only the ferryman will tender, for time
Slips, sleeping with the fishes, spears
Puddle and rim in the wakes, sparks
Of waters break like a sputtering fire,
His dart eyes are as yellow as golden
Sun dancing in funeral pyre.  So green
Creatures, must they always be gotten,
Gone, have it coming from the sheering,
Mercies of the Great Blue Heron who is all
Seeing, scything, down to dazed judgement,
Incited, pecking to order at the squirming fold.
.
Stringer Jul 2018
Its 6:01, Farringdon Platform 1
Shattered souls craned necks
And twiddling thumbs.

The fool in the know.
The first to know; the last to accept it.

Here stood reflecting.
Silently condemning a life accepted
Reams of fleeces overground and understated.
Shrouded from sheering myself.

The fool in the know.
The first to know; the last to accept it.

How my hem has freyed
No, not from loft today
Through rubbing ankles under desks,
To metamorphose
To a child cocooned blanket bound
Rubbing ankles dreaming sound
I dream as the child dreamt
As a baby longed to feel
      I long for what I have felt
crazytilde Nov 2014
Is life an illusion
Is it a trick of the light
Will we ever know
What if on the other side
We find out, learn
Why must we be kept there
Not sheering knowledge
Watching them pointlessly try
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
when amnesia charged
against anathema
     and gave birth to a chimera...
dunno...
   just liked the way it sounded:
far more
appealing than a sheering
   cry of shattered nerves:
in the bowels of an ancient
forest, mid the chattering cold:
and the suddenly breathing
earth...
          to have conjured
a throne from a piece of wood,
and having placed
  a stone upon my head:
identifying a crown -
that abstracted piece of
cranium: or a charm against
a receeding hairline.

— The End —