"sieved" poems
I wish
It were Christmas
Because I love the frenzy
And excuses it brings.
It's a beautiful
Excuse to not do
The ******* things
In life that we spend
Our lives doing.
The fairy lights
Entwined in the trees
Cross continents
With the buzz
of electricity.
I wish it were
Christmas because
It brings the beautiful
Excuse to love
Extravagantly.
Just as we love
The icy daisies
Of spring I love
The warm branches
Of bare Christmas Trees
I wish it were Christmas
Because I want to
Hang the rosewood
Baubles round
And see the glitter of sequin
Bunting strung happily
About the bedrooms.
I love the beautiful
Excuses brought
In the gifts bought
And how love is sieved
Through in the snow.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
have sieved the
ruins of discarded
things,
sometimes finding
in an old magazine,
women looking
through you
with ageless eyes
block square keys of
a typewriter,
cardboard covers
of fragile messages,
images of shattering
glass,
empty bottles of
RAT POISON,
‘Kamasutra for beginners'
‘The lonely wife’
other clandestine
books, sometimes,
extracted from some
secret wardrobe chamber,
wrapped in brown paper
school notebooks with
red tick-marks, blots, rights,
wrongs, devastating
stories of marks, homework,
a light bulb that still works,
the legs of a chair,
toy horses, toy cars,
scratched plastic
gaping holes in mugs,
buckets, fake notes
from a crumpled game
of monopoly,
a chewed dog's collar,
a heavy rusted *****
every night in my dreams,
they come hopping over a barn,
now you know,
that I do not count sheep
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 5:47 AM UTC
Windows to the the world through which I see
Images of shortfalls and views of perpetual inadequacies.
Shut my lids ever hoping for a change in scenery...
But only pictures of emotional chaos, mistakes and uncertainties.
Visions I can't ignore and they can't be severed;
Like a splinter that's embedded but can't be retrieved.
Reluctant at first I wish to have them captured...
Capturing all the disorder, but have the beauty all sieved.
Beauty and light engulfed by this visual turmoil
From windows to canvas, I paint but with a sombre brush.
Vicious strokes represent the feelings that roil;
Devoid of pardon; sing of pressures that crush.
This brush that I use; I've taught it all too well.
It could paint even when running on the subconscious.
It never does relent, nor never will it ever quell,
It'll keep on painting the dark side of the senses.
My canvas just lays receiving the brunt of the strokes.
It lays there quiet; accepts it all without struggle.
Like fuel to a bonfire, it provides and also it stokes;
It lays there ready to accommodate the dust and rubble.
Again the brush finishes with its last deft touches.
Producing the same painting it's painted over and over...
They will never depict meadows with the farthest of reaches
But a portrait of me; staring mournfully into forever...
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
staying up late just thinking of all the could-beens and should-beens that could and should have been us.
what if we'd tried a little harder? persisted a little longer? held on to each other as tightly as we should have?
would you be by my side then, instead of the empty void staring tauntingly back at me?
would our hands be clasped together, interwoven,
your eyes that once bored right back into the back of mind haunting me wherever i would go,
your touch tattooed into the skin of my palms as they once were?
what if i hadn't let go?
what if i'd learnt fate's cruel lesson that
possessing the trait of fickleness never awarded anything but everything slipping past, earlier?
would you be willing to stay with me then, and forgive me for all the wrongdoings that i would inevitably cause?
would we have ever evolved into more than just an idealized dream drawn from a fragmented memory,
the idea of an irrevocable love that despite having been mulled over for what would've seemed like an eternity,
has never seen the light of reality before?
then again, everything does appear only better when it's all in your head.
when i can still pretend that you are who i expect you to be,
and i may be accepted for who i am truly,
excess baggage of unneeded insecurities and imperfections weighing me down and all.
is it better to be cleanly rejected or to be
torn down bit by bit,
night by night,
spent just staring at a blank screen and waiting,
hovering over imperishably,
pure naive hope fuelling the drive to continue delaying the inexorable?
foolishly believing that crossed fingers and
any lingering feelings that hadn't yet been sieved away by the
jaded culture we exist and drown in today
would perhaps, even if accidentally,
as if out of a fairytale that i starkly don't belong to,
send me a text back?
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
We're cooking up a thought stew
A mindful casserole
Compassion the sauce that our hearts impart
sad tales sieved from our souls.
The base of the dish is hope
seasoned with laughter and tears
we stir in empathy to the mix
and we plan to allay crumbs of fear
Our stew has a dollop of knowledge
jugs of experience
ears that are prepped to listen,
Spiced with strength and resilience
But we won't prescribe your recipe
for journeys are made with choice
your life's kitchen tools, your recovery rules,
empowered and mixed using your voice.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 7:38 AM UTC
You tell me three little words;
I reply with four smaller words,
You smile at me;
I laugh with glee,
We share a moment or two
But we hide many things through
And through from each other
Wonder sometimes why we even bother,
Don't know who's going to speak up first
I'm parched from talking got to quench my thirst,
We walk away to our own little planet
Etch a sketch shaken we don't plan it,
What we'll say next
Lies shallow deep fabricated text,
How long can we keep this up
You're half empty I'm half full brimming cup
Of false interchanges amongst us
The world outside can't join this circus,
Always putting on a show improvising
We wear masks to keep from disguising
Our deep dark truths threatening to be sieved,
We are the greatest actors to have ever lived...
© okpoet
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
At one
with the wind
in a midnight dress
a necklace
dripped around her throat
like raindrops
I didn’t buy
but should have
and
how she adored
the water-lily pond
I’d paint her
in delicious shades
myriad colours
but only an image
in the end
static
solid complete
now
heading
to Bemelmans
down Fifth Avenue
she dances
a dragonfly
in the winter dark
I catch her
twirl her
and the trees
don’t seem so empty
savour her voice
like fine caviar
study the liquid flow
of her legs
heels clicking on cobbles
my left foot
twists
and I wobble
breathe in her laugh
a detour
a walk into the park
skips along
snow-sieved paths
her hair
a merry jazz
in the bitter air
the strangers
think we are weird
and we find Alice
motionless in moonlight
a kiss on a cheek
sway circularly
until everything
smashes into a blur
and we spill
giggle like kids
seventeen again
can’t drink enough
of the evening
I ended up
in Wonderland
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Tap tap tap and ye shall find.
I sieved and panned for nuggets that shine,
Searching for those elusive lines
That transgress space and transgress time
Or soothe and calm like favourite wine
Or send a shiver down the spine
I chanced upon a wealthy seam
I tapped and from it gushed and teemed
A geyser of emotion
A tide of wisdom
A planet of experience
Hello Poetry, how do you do?
I'm very pleased to meet with you.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 8:37 AM UTC
love a girl like pyrite
when you found me in the mines
shook me from your baskets
saw me glint in the sunlight
said my irises shifted like tiger's eye
i was never what you thought
love a girl like pyrite
if she's your gold then i'm a
shade of amber, a copper quarter
if I was hard then she is soft and
quick in your hands like a gardner snake
faint and without teeth, tangling through
the grass and you love the silent chase
the girls that flip belly up and
kiss your corners, kiss your
borders, rub away the ash
and lay themselves over your grenades
your sticks of dynamite you blew
me away with
love a girl like pyrite
because I was a fool's gold,
the normal luster of something
grand, sieved through your tables
back into the river, the unspoken
daughters of not-good-enough
lying in wait, picked up by farmers
by men who sell, who hock, who
pawn, washed down in Vindicator Valley
run between thumbs, turned up amongst
rocks the ordinary, run-of-the-mill
we can only be imitators of
the greatest
love a girl, who's fool's gold
would you find her?
would you keep her?
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 9:44 PM UTC
Today I saw a sign in a
town called Cahirsiveen
County Kerry, advertising
what appeared to be, Sive.
I sieved my thoughts, and
what came through the fine
mesh of my mind were the
filings of amnesia.
Earlier, I had passed by Glencar
the foothills en route to Valencia
an island off Ireland, last stop
before New York harbour.
Hugh O' Flaherty, The Vatican
Pimpernel was looking at me
through James Joyce's glasses as
I passed Daniel O'Connell's church.
It was O'Connell country for sure,
**** a native of the island could
share the ball with O'Dwyer and
Paudie O'Se, the three coasters.
Balinskelligs, monks Islands,
isolation, invasion, inhospitable
weather, antarctic insurmountable's,
Inis, Inn's, Inch, Tom Crean, Fungie.
I sieved my sievings only to discover
that Sive was by John B Keane, but
guess what, the Queen of the Kingdom
should be Miriam O'Callaghan!
Ps.
This is a poem with a colloquial
flavour, one needs to be a native
to comprehend it.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 3:27 PM UTC
The words are sieved
strained
disguised
Hiding the truth
wrapped around
in lies
No longer recognize
the faces
of the unknown
Knowing nothing
is the passcard
to disapointment
Were it just a game
a trick
Sleight of hand
But it's not
It's the putrid
breath
of death
upon the lips
of life
Sep 13, 2022
Sep 13, 2022 at 8:12 AM UTC
Out for a tea-break from rude routine drudgery,
Let our pupils pamper with green tea greenery,
In a wide cradle of hills down the western range,
Hey, enjoin and enjoy the beauty of lull in full swing.
Clouding mist cuddled the crown of gross green hills,
Warmed up trembling heights at day and night falls
Tourists touted, scouted up and down in curvy drills,
Marched ahead for feast of green smiles along miles
Short and smart tea-pool parade cool on high heels,
Unleashed the taste and toast of parallel paradise,
The train of tea plants planted mounting pleasure,
Surmounted gravity hard and soft in ups and downs
Wheezing wind whispered winter whimsy hymns,
Sun and rain sieved through mist for sporting spa,
In memoir cameras clicked sprawling green carpets,
What a tantalizing tea tree treat to tired tourists!
Nay, bonny tea bear tear and fear in its pink of health,
Of tampering heads, fracturing leaves, grinding dry,
Of cream, sugar and spice mixed to its boiling sweat,
For daily drink’s deep delight to trigger takers’ sprint.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
Rain sieved through my window screen, leaving clear freckles upon my cheeks.
The stars blanket the sun, but still flashes of white light up my room.
The sky roars and it cries as though it's fed up and the air rushes bitter down my side.
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 7:28 AM UTC
Out for a tea-break from rude routine drudgery,
Let our pupils pamper with green tea greenery,
In a wide cradle of hills down the western range,
Hey, enjoin and enjoy the beauty of lull in full swing.
Clouding mist cuddled the crown of gross green hills,
Warmed up trembling heights at day and night falls
Tourists touted, scouted up and down in curvy drills,
Marched ahead for feast of green smiles along miles
Short and smart tea-pool parade cool on high heels,
Unleashed the taste and toast of parallel paradise,
The train of tea plants planted mounting pleasure,
Surmounted gravity hard and soft in ups and downs
Wheezing wind whispered winter whimsy hymns,
Sun and rain sieved through mist for sporting spa,
In memoir cameras clicked sprawling green carpets,
What a tantalizing tea tree treat to tired tourists!
Nay, bonny tea bear tear and fear in its pink of health,
Of tampering heads, fracturing leaves, grinding dry,
Of cream, sugar and spice mixed to its boiling sweat,
For daily drink’s deep delight to trigger takers’ sprint.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
The tape, as I unstick it from its place, rips off plates of paint from our crummy, moldy walls.
My heart wrinkles a little.
I fold the tape over the corners of my collage. Lay it down over my everest-sized pile of clothes-to-trade-for-souvenirs.
I sigh.
It is quiet.
A cockroach scurries out of a shirt sleeve. I flick him lovingly off the bed. The only one to keep my house company these days.
I start pulling out notebooks, so much. So many. Too many things I collect and funnel value into.
I must decide which to take and what to leave behind in the ******* bin.
Back at school, I chuck half the pile, almost violently, into the trash and stride away. Stay there then. Have it your way.
Only a few minutes before all of this, I bragged about being ready to go home, washing my hands of this ridiculous place.
But it only just occurred to me then that by leaving Africa, I will be facing a whole new life. Like a neo-Alice, falling further down the rabbit hole. I am being sieved, strained, pressed until the juices of energetic volunteerism is squeezed dry.
I have only heard rumors, of course, but I believe that what I will be facing will be maybe even more terrifying than it is here.
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
Clay and water
Sieved and pounded
Moulded and shaped of His hands
Why do you then boast?
Of these riches and wealth?
They were here before you
And here they will be
When you are no more
Of wisdom and knowledge?
Acquired and will be required
When you are no more
Your beautiful skin
Nothing but boasting dust
Simply dust, safe that first breath
Giving in love, and with love
If there be any boast
Let it be of His second to none
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
Out for a tea-break from rude routine drudgery,
Let our pupils pamper with green tea greenery,
In a wide cradle of hills down the western range,
Hey, enjoin and enjoy the beauty of lull in full swing.
Clouding mist cuddled the crown of gross green hills,
Warmed up trembling heights at day and night falls
Tourists touted, scouted up and down in curvy drills,
Marched ahead for feast of green smiles along miles
Short and smart tea-pool parade cool on high heels,
Unleashed the taste and toast of parallel paradise,
The train of tea plants planted mounting pleasure,
Surmounted gravity hard and soft in ups and downs
Wheezing wind whispered winter whimsy hymns,
Sun and rain sieved through mist for sporting spa,
In memoir cameras clicked sprawling green carpets,
What a tantalizing tea tree treat to tired tourists!
Nay, bonny tea bear tear and fear in its pink of health,
Of tampering heads, fracturing leaves, grinding dry,
Of cream, sugar and spice mixed to its boiling sweat,
For daily drink’s deep delight to trigger takers’ sprint.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
Whatever happened to the boy
who dreamed?
The master architect of worlds
rarely visited.
Fragmented artifacts are discovered,
sieved out of the sand.
The body as whole remains incomplete
A lonely man singing along
with his guitar of woe
Sing to me your story,
tell me what brought you here
Failure to dream or overwhelmed
by choice?
I've heard of the living
I know of the afterlife
The walls between you and me
are physical
Follow the paths forged by the few
Liberate your passions
I see you in me.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
On this ground I was born raised and lived
In the years since my birth
I've sowed much wheat, and many rocks I've sieved
Making this land mine, this sky and earth.
The blue, clear skies, and evanescant clouds
Have dissipated now, this land is torn
I'm a mere denizen, yet here I still stand proud
So that on this ground my children will be born
The dust roils in ferment around me
And flings topsoil in my face
No green thing, nor bird nor bee
Is allowed to thrive in this barren place
And for my progeny, their future I mourn
This land is dead now, and has left me forlorn
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
They are each and all still there
The moments we have lived
Toss them bright up in the air.
Like diamonds out of soil sieved
All exist like coins we've scattered
Time's the path between them taken
We keep the ones that we think mattered.
Memory-sounds like spare-change shaken
Uncertainty too in our exact position
Life's velocity with no certainty known
Entanglement tells naught of the mission
And futures sprout like crystals grown
And thus we dig as life goes on
And smash small things to find their meaning
Until we find our Higgs Boson
The pieces fall and scatter screaming.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
How can I not walk the twisty path,
Sit in chairs away from everyone
To read about poetry
and drink hot chocolate
When your beauty is at every corner?
How can I not grow and flourish,
Like the long shadows of the early morning
on the path in front of us,
When I am nourished at all turns?
How can I not feel lightness,
Like the soft white flour sieved by a cook
Into a competition winning cake,
Baked to perfection,
When you stir my worries into treasures.
How can I not love you,
When you brave
Unmanlyness
To show me your soul.
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 4:10 AM UTC
I was more than this
More than the sieved shelled
husk in a hallway
Waiting for relatives to
scavenge fragmented
memories
More than the salted sinner
deserving of slaughter
Further than the fear in
my shivers as I stared down
a bullet; and lost.
More than just a media martyr
A way to sell papers
A symbol of massacre
Emotional wankery; societies comfort
That isn't me
I am more than just bravery
I am not merely someone's
More than a parent
More than a child
More than a hero
More than a minute of silence
I was my own.
A scribble;
Hobbies, Quirks, Tics,
Snarks, Anger, Laughter, Tragedy,
Sexuality, Inside Jokes,
Embarassment
I was secrets, that no-one else will
ever know.
I am secrets locked inside a rotting mass
I am forgotten; because I can no longer remember.
A stockpile of emotion,
reduced to a photo,
and the title of 'victim'
'hero'
'martyr'
'missed'
Today I am 2D
Today I 'RIP' Remembered
Tomorrow, I hope to be real
and forgotten
Tomorrow, I hope to have
lived
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
Every day, I die upon a lingering sin,
Choice that I made, consequence there has been.
Every day I die for a promise to spare
Me from the moment that I held despair.
Every day I die; both confused and contrite,
Settled on Truth that spoke that of life.
Every day I die – not another should I miss,
A day less of You is not the entirety of bliss.
Every day, I die for the seed to grow
A seed of hope for me was bestowed.
Every day I die; that Christ may live
In every way I try, His grace fell sieved.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
Thought of the fairest hooyo
Is a hue to dab on you.
‘Red’ would tinge a thing or two:
Oily drips on the apple skin.
Cubic glass that sprinkles rays
Mixed with brilliant sparkling smiles.
That you are in white as the sun
Only sieved of scourging warmth.
Afro-brown has joined the queue;
The melon bulb that’s packaged soft.
Mummy’s nurse that props my head:
Food and rest in dermal bronze.
In the night, your colour glows;
Leave me not in colour blind.
Pledging scent that cuddles me,
Shadow not your penal self.
As you peck my lips to sleep
Halfway through some lullaby,
Eyes and cheeks in Snitcher’s love
Just so real in whitish-blue.
May 20, 2022
May 20, 2022 at 5:26 AM UTC
Stem, that stretch of branch over rocky, fragile ground,
**** those plastic, lemon circles you got for eyes
Lick, that smile, that smirking smile you shot at me,
Wet, that water on your baby fat cheeks
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
A knife in my hair, my working birth branched over rocky, fragile ground,
Your sorrowed songs sieved, your happiness a chalk outline on tulipwood tables,
A knife in my teeth, I sing these dreams of me, you see
Mirrored, that miserly misfortune you got for a heart
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
I can’t breathe for you
Cap, that satin wrapped cloud, circling wrangled, strangled cows and crows
Stab, that forlorn fire, ever end that showing, shallow show
**** that plastic lemon smile you shot at me
Lick, that water on your fat baby cheeks
I can’t sing for you
I can’t sing for you
This is my working birth, mirrored and miserly misfortune branched over rocky, fragile ground.
This is my working birth, mirrored.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC