"signaling" poems
Feed me your mouth,
so I can satisfy my desires
with the taste of our destiny.
I long for the rush,
from our lips, when they touch.
symbols of each other,
signaling one another,
our body language,
speaking to,
us.
Lost in forever,
the moment consumed,
by passion
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 7:41 PM UTC
He was the ocean; handsome, but yet, Impulsively damaged. He had a sandy heart to correspond his sandy eyes, the moon dismantled that omitted pride he carried at a dead weight; shoveling and reshaping it, so people would see a sandcastle statue assembled in strength. But his washed-up soul and unannounced insecurities were aware of its genuine purpose,
this beach alongside his pupils;
quicksand, he'll sink so slowly in. Waves in his hair like ripples on his cheeks, skipping stones land at his defeat, he left notes in bottles for you, sank multiple ships for you, because he hasn't the heart to say he's desiccating with the arrival of the stars.. Retracting scars are not too far from gasps for air, foaming words of crisis by writing in the sand, signaling a light as the last one in him died. You wouldn't understand, the calm before the storm, as valve after valve puncture him. So intoxicating as it drains him, and from within, he's drying out. Sunburns stain him, a smile restrains him,
in an inescapable drought--
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
Feed me your mouth,
so I can satisfy my desires
with the taste of our destiny.
I long for the rush,
from our lips, when they touch.
symbols of each other,
signaling one another,
our body language,
speaking to,
us.
Lost in forever,
the moment consumed,
by passion
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
Small hands holding tight
To strings of laughter
On ends of floating
Bubbles of wonder
Sand filled toes in shoes
On quick feet, dancing
Through my greatest dreams
Of who she will be
Soft kisses from lips
Formed from my own heart
Melting into a
Stream to her future.
Sweet songs of her love
Belted with fervor
From within the small
Light flowered sun-dress
Mischiv'us smiles with
Doll filled hands playing
Games to fill the day
With her glow of joy
Bright eyes signaling
A future brilliant
As the twinkle of
the stars they've stolen
Trusting complete love
Holding tight to life
As it floats away
On bubbles of wonder
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC
W: Waves crashed against 2020 pebbles
A: against the shoreline. Colliding with one another, the pebbles slowly chipped away at each other, breaking apart. And
Y: yet, seven constellations twinkled above them in the midnight sky. The constellations of the captivating cat, sophisticated sheep, benevolent bear, unfaltering unicorn, dynamic dragon, lively lion, and curious chick shone brightly through the dark expanse, as if signaling to the pebbles below,
V: "Venture out beyond the horizon, for there you will find the 2021th pebble and be able to turn the tides. Even if storms darken the sky, the sun will always shine again. The celestial bodies will always be here for you, shining bright in the cosmos but even brighter when midnight strikes."
Feb 22, 2021
Feb 22, 2021 at 3:57 AM UTC
"Hey, Charles! I won't be back."
His friend yells out before
Continuing to eat the face off
Of the young Latino he had met.
"Ok! I guess I can get home.. Somehow..."
He mumbles to himself, signaling to the
Bartender that he wanted to order
Something off menu.
He pays no attention to the trans
Woman who sits down beside him.
"I'll have a watermelon sangria, please."
he requests softly, but confidently.
The lady by him chuckles,
"Watermelon? That's odd."
Her voice is rich with flavor,
And humor.
"It is odd. But so am I." He mumbles.
"It seems that way, doesn't it? Well,
at least now I can call you Melon
Rather than ask your name!"
"A rather odd nickname for an odd person."
And so their conversation continued.
It became all the more lively once
'Melon' had had a couple rounds.
Both drunk and desperate, they
Kiss passionately in the gay bar,
Paying no heed to the others
Yelling "Get a room!"
Roaming hands.
Stumbling up stairs.
Drunken giggles.
Broken speech.
"You're so beautiful." He whispers.
Skin against skin,
Burning hot,
Both mad with desire.
Panting.
Groaning.
Moaning.
Ecstasy.
It's late at night.
They manage to call
A taxi, and go home.
Home to Melon's apartment.
The next morning was spent
Drinking ****** Mary's and
Making an account of what
Happened the night before.
That, and more ***
Hot, ****** ***
Passionate, lively
And loving ***
Charles sits up in his bed.
He feels something sticky.
"Oh, that's disgusting!"
****** *** indeed.
He stands up to clean himself
Off in the bathroom, but he
Hears the shower running.
"Did I get laid last night?"
He peeps into the shower
And sees the woman from
His dream. "Eva?" He asks.
"Who else would it be?"
"Why are you in my apartment?"
Charles exclaims. Eva turns and
Raises an eyebrow at him.
"I live here, Melon."
"Since when? We hooked
Up just last night!"
"Darlin', we've been
married for 4 years!"
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
My darling.
How exquisite it is that we happen
To exist in the same dimension.
I suppose tonight is one where the emptiness
Has begun its gradual descent
Choosing to take my feelings with it.
How do I feel? Well, I certainly wish that
You could be lying next to me to comfort me
While I float to the endless bottom of this abyss.
I wish for a night with your presence
So close that I can see the graceful
Rise and fall of your chest signaling
The constant of life that we all know as breathing.
But when the trivial task is completed by you
The world in my eyes seems to play in slow motion.
Utterly fascinated by your inner workings and inhibitions.
What ethereal source have you successfully stolen,
To channel the charisma overflowing within your personality
I wonder if you’re aware of your prominent title as my inspiration.
You have a way with the universe that I crave to imitate.
Or perhaps just to steal for a temporary bliss.
If you were next to me, there would be no reason for my
Uncontrollable fear, your wisely crafted logic would leave it behind.
Perhaps the allure is found beyond the masquerade.
The night sky reflects the mystique of your appeal.
Here’s to a beautiful eternity, may it never fade.
May the forever’s be found in the way we feel.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 2:42 AM UTC
a kiss does not always mean
"i love you"
sometimes it means
"i am sorry"
and sometimes it means
"i have to go"
i have had kisses that taste like
alcohol, sweat and stinging regret.
i have had kisses that were laced
with desperation as their tongue
wrestled with mine.
i have had kisses that left me feeling
more empty about myself than good.
i have had kisses that never should
have happened, ones i wanted to take back.
jesus christ, i wish i could.
there are kisses i have given
that were so passionately deep
only because i was trying to find something,
maybe searching for the thing that
no one could ever find inside of me.
there are kisses that have broken my heart.
and there are kisses that never happened,
but still managed to make me fall apart.
kisses that made me a mess of ****** cliches.
kisses that kept warning me,
kept signaling me to stay away.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
A dozen fellows draped in threadbare tread densely,
Profligating goons in obsidian gowns
gathered under rainbow
moonshine shaking bronze hands,
howling and ****** in the shambles of the moon,
rap'n and nod'n to the notes of midnight.
The mellow marines mourned over malice,
lionizing over lost ones,
many howled venerated, exalted in wonder
in favor of their thrilling grace, and delight,
and brilliance, and might!
but some neighboring sticklers,
behaved haughty and in disdain,
of the crowdy Cavaliers bellowing echoes
signaling out
to the seers of the sea,
singing to the wands overwatching the wedding,
and ravens listened,
roving like noble patrolsmen.
Traveleres and trainees at sea
humble and bright
niave, and frieghtened
in traverse,
volatile and toiling,
tireless,
Lunatics, (laughing, laughing, laughhing,)
Rumaging through rain,
fireciely,
rallying and rableroused,
through towering halls of mohogony,
hefty and wholesome were their hearts
though, beast of the woodsy edifice
were foul and benumb
scowling with contempt,
haste to devide and devised to hindrance.
Hence the heroes heed
to the valleys of rose, and violet,
and strawberry fields of forever,
seeking Saint Nicholas,
in the bustling Byzantium,
in the murky shadows of doubt.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
receive me
like radio waves
i'm signaling you
to pick up the phone
log onto
your inner net
I left a message
but don't check it
it's blank
I have nothing to say
I just want
to talk to you
can you feel me?
-s.a.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
shirtless screaming through
the heartland and I used
to smoke cigarettes
too.
she never wanted
to stay: the youth
she had
left demanded it.
now, I'll wager
she's somewhere
in an apartment with
some dandy that
wears sweater vests
to Thanksgiving dinner.
maybe she thinks
about me and my little
twisted heart every
now and again:
like when she's away
from the sweater vest
on the toilet
behind a locked door,
"be right out, babe!"
or toting groceries
through a parking lot
to her car,
or signaling a
left turn before
changing her mind
and deciding to
go straight instead.
and
maybe I need to
stop thinking
about her
especially after
three years
incommunicado
but what can I say?
I've never slept on
a bed of nails
I couldn't
dream on.
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 9:34 AM UTC
For instance, recall daisies,
or if you have not seen one, so much the better.
Paint me a crass picture and sleep
on the shallow crevasse. Stilt through
the orchard and search there: nothing still.
Even the nothingness is form-fitting, and thus,
your vestigial image of daisies. Mold something
out of the vacuity, and there a retrograde sculpture
will wind back to clay. Cornerstones have your name,
and your name even so, has taciturnly placed stones.
Stones. These tiny bodies that lay, undemanding,
scourged by the rapid passage of a carriage.
I wait there, with them, still thinking of daisies.
I know of a child, cylindrically obtuse, in front of the mirror.
Have you seen yourself in the hazy windows
of the Metro? What do you see? I still see daisies.
Or people with heads of daisies. But remember your
forethought of daisies? They are nothing. I am a beheaded daisy
in the lackadaisical wind of Summer. There is nothing to gain
here but the sadness of cold passing. And the child that I am speaking
of, his name, Magno. Sturdy like the rucksack he’s carrying,
lovelessly trundling altogether with the pipes and the
handrails, almost signaling the alarm without warning.
This uncared-for sultry evening decides to splinter
itself against the masses. Again, the daisies appear to me,
this time, in heady form rogue with peripatetic fragrance.
Magno used to unearth daisies and give them to her
mother when he was stiflingly young – he hustled through
the carefully placed furniture. Whatever happened to him,
I know not. And just like the daisies we have come to know now,
trains that do not belong to anyone, and the daisies too, that go
unheard of and unknown to the behest of the city,
have gone into the subtle beginning of everything
that once started in itself, the form of splendor. Nothing.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
***I long for the soft swaying of the boat,
the calls of howlers nearby, signaling the
oncoming of another heat-ridden shower,
a sweet taste of red wine on my lips
while I watch as he stands on the bow,
the wind brushing hair from his eyes
as the rain begins to trickle down,
a nearby camel rushes for cover
beneath its sturdy shelter, and I wonder
if this is what peace feels like***
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
**Yo! Yo! My Drug of Choice **** Poets)**
Yo! Yo!
Member of the troupe?
You up all nite?
You always hungry,
Making trouble, rite?
You one of those?
**** poets!
Exist on strict diet?
Pleasured-pain,
Constant-continual surges
Turn into urges,
Full-time suspense,
Juices always flowing.
**** Poets!
Yo! Yo!
You one of those?
Never knowing,
What? When?
The eyes gonna invert
Retina images into words
Brain signaling, semaphoring the fingers
Yo! Yo!
You don't get nine months,
Maybe nine seconds,
Then mother-birth another verse,
****** poets!
Yo! Yo!
Remember your first real high,
That moment
No absolution, no return.
That moment
When you admitted, confessed,
to yourself:
*I am
Forever forward,
A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet*
Yo! Yo!
So you do recall,
The exact moment,
God-spark-within, ascendancy gained
You lost control,
Wept words instead of tears!
A ****** poet ******
Yo! Yo!
Sophie's Choice.
You chose writing over breathing,
Worshiper of the purest pleaure,
******* in deep the smoke-high of
Head-nodding discontented contentment
Stealing anything you saw
For to satisfy the need, the craven
Craving.
****** poets!
Yo! Yo!
Don't you're ever sleep?
Hear that the city, the state,
Gonna methadone your kind
In a special program
Teach you only language to sign.
**** poets!
**I am a ****** poet.**
*The first step taken.
Admission.
Poetry is my default rest position,*
My drug of choice.
5:07am
June 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
Custom made world
All made of plastic
Counting twist or turns
Everything is spastic
High definition views
Playing with our eyes
In a different place
Reality is a crime
Trapped in our electronics
We can not walk a line
Children with no manners
Living is a lie
Spoiling our ambitions
Charging everyday
Respect is really lost
Pictures are to say
Transmissions cross the airspace
Signaling the cost
Humanity is all but broken
Everything is lost
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC
They have difficulty keeping eye contact
Because she says it's like everything stops,
Including time,
And it was just so precious.
As if they didn't know if they should smile
Or say hi or give a nod signaling a hey,
But she ends up panicking and runs away.
As if she was Cinderella.
When it was almost midnight.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:04 AM UTC
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals,
please come flying,
to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums
descending out of the mackerel sky
over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water,
please come flying.
Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing. The ships
are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags
rising and falling like birds all over the harbor.
Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing
countless little pellucid jellies
in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains.
The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged.
The waves are running in verses this fine morning.
Please come flying.
Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe
trailing a sapphire highlight,
with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots,
with heaven knows how many angels all riding
on the broad black brim of your hat,
please come flying.
Bearing a musical inaudible abacus,
a slight censorious frown, and blue ribbons,
please come flying.
Facts and skyscrapers glint in the tide; Manhattan
is all awash with morals this fine morning,
so please come flying.
Mounting the sky with natural heroism,
above the accidents, above the malignant movies,
the taxicabs and injustices at large,
while horns are resounding in your beautiful ears
that simultaneously listen to
a soft uninvented music, fit for the musk deer,
please come flying.
For whom the grim museums will behave
like courteous male bower-birds,
for whom the agreeable lions lie in wait
on the steps of the Public Library,
eager to rise and follow through the doors
up into the reading rooms,
please come flying.
We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping,
or play at a game of constantly being wrong
with a priceless set of vocabularies,
or we can bravely deplore, but please
please come flying.
With dynasties of negative constructions
darkening and dying around you,
with grammar that suddenly turns and shines
like flocks of sandpipers flying,
please come flying.
Come like a light in the white mackerel sky,
come like a daytime comet
with a long unnebulous train of words,
from Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
please come flying.
2.9k
There comes a night,
within which silence
changes perplexion.
No longer soft with hope,
but hard with truth.
No crickets to chirp.
No cars to roam.
Just a frigid breeze,
Signaling the setting of summer.
Tonight,
this moon does not shine.
and the stars..
They mockingly stare back,
without any hint of
destiny promised.
But I remember.
I remember what was
once
promised to me.
Warmer nights.
Where a couple would ingite love through storm.
With foolish words, forgiving hands and any efforts that their youth could muster.
I have learned however,
that even a flame once fierce,
can gutter in its own smoke.
Tonight is such a Night of No Return.
where I release a name into wind
and no longer chase the answer.
Where you walk your road,
and I walk mine,
and the crossroads we were once meant to embrace upon,
dissolve into dust.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 11:04 PM UTC
Out in a distant land
Church bells are ringing
Families and friends are laughing
Most of them are crying
Not from sadness
But from happiness
Church bells are ringing
Out in a distant land
In celebration of a joyous
Occasion between two people
Between a man and a woman
Between two men or two women
Church bells are ringing
In a far, far away land
Signaling the togetherness
On two communities
And the creation of one
One happy community
Somewhere over the rainbow
Church bells are ringing
Marking the end of a struggle
A struggle for freedom
A struggle for unity
A struggle for happiness
Somewhere, anywhere, everywhere
Church bells are ringing
As two people force everyone
To take off the mask call hate and discrimination
And ignorance and become a family together
Church bells are ringing across the world
From China to Greenland
From the United States to Malaysia
The bells have different sounds
But the message is the same
And is felt in the hearts of everyone
Church bells ring for everyone
And someday church bells
Will ring for you and me
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 2:00 PM UTC
His thin shoulders,
Dutch nose
the hair at his temples is grayer than when we met
five years ago.
Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
My love for him
is a ships in the night love.
We circle, cutting separate pathways through
a vast ocean, on course for something
something
that keeps us signaling
onward, onward.
We look to the past privately but do not
speak of it.
The times our bodies touched.
I count them (I think he also does.)
One: the way I used to graze his arm with my hand
Two: an accident, swaying with music, too close
Three: drunk with the courage to kiss one another
Four: sweat, bed, the sun rose and I held his hand at the door
Five: years later, a hug that lingered,
the times we are allowed to touch one another,
hellos and goodbyes, in cars and trains.
We continue to pass one another.
And when we talk, we talk
and laugh and I feel a churning of waters,
a warm ocean swell that says: this is it!
Hold this.
The tide runs out,
Ships press forward on prescribed routes
through blind oceans.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
The markets up, the Markets down
For weeks it just meanders.
Alas, my stocks are always down
Each time I take a gander.
GM, Lehman, Citicorp
My broker bought for me-
And you can guess the net result-
I’m broker now, not he.
Those friends who don’t avoid me
Say I’ve reversed Midas’ touch.
I don’t turn things I touch to gold
I turn gold into rust.
I’d heard dart tossing Simians
Can best the S & P
So I went to the Zoo this March
to consult a Chimpanzee.
He perused the chart then flung a dart
to pick a stock for me-
And now I’m getting margin calls
because I bought BP.
He seemed the sage of Omaha
before he ruined me.
I should have tried Orangutans
And paid their higher fee .
They wanted five bananas
My monkey worked for three.
But now I’m bust because I used
a discount Chimpanzee.
I might have dodged a massive loss
And profited besides
Had I but heeded the baboons’
Sell signaling behinds
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
Wards the shadow of a freezing night
warming bodies
massaging with relaxing dreams.
Its smoke shields from bugs and animals.
A means of communication,
signaling help when lost.
A warm doctor--
kills bacteria.
A master chef--
warming food for a delicious bite.
Thank you, brother fire
for your charming nature.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 12:16 PM UTC
The truth is I have no idea how to begin this
because I don’t even remember
how or when exactly you began to invade my consciousness.
you were an uninvited guest, a gatecrasher, an intruder
filling my mind with paranoia and endless dilemma —
how I contemplate about going out or not
because I get overwhelmed with crowded places
like public transports, and malls, and fast food chains,
how I s-stutter whenever placing an order,
or how I could not finish one sentence without repeating
repeating a word or or two.
It might sound funny how I find a sea of people terrifying,
how I feel a dagger or a gun pointed at me every time I step
outside my comfort zone,
how I would replay failed scenarios inside my head like a broken tape,
how I would apologize for actions that demanded no apology.
I often get nightmares about being asleep and not being able to wake up
and sometimes I dream about waking up in a strange bed in a foreign room
filled with people with the strangest faces talking in tones barely audible
but when the voices would all stir together
I would run out of air and pass out,
but I still wake up though, screaming, trembling
signaling another episode of survival.
If I could drive, I would take you away with me and bring you to a sunset beach
tell you that everything’s gonna be alright
that it’s okay to knock me down sometimes
but not too hard to break me
just enough to remind me that I am, after all, human
Or maybe I would drown you or maybe not
because I get too overwhelmed with the waves
I struggle against the current,
and I am the one who gets drowned instead.
I hate you, no, I mean I love you. I should love you
because they said those we love are meant to leave
So I will love you, I will love you until you get tired of me,
until you no longer find me appealing
I will love you obsessively, until you get sick of me,
until you run out of places to run to, until you run out of air
I will love you until I run out of words and metaphors
and rhyme or reason,
I will love you with the hopes that one day I could finally say:
“My anxieties have died beautifully, with dignity,
in their sleep.”
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 3:56 AM UTC
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war!
How suddenly gauche I was
with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home
my father was in love with maps
while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and ****
Except when he hid
in his bedroom on a three-day drunk,
he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk,
his matched luggage
and pocketed a confirmed reservation,
his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk
each night with no place to go,
opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo,
the whole U.S.,
its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones,
through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road,
his heart pushed from neck to back,
his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband,
as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool:
boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull
to the thread
and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino,
a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling,
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame,
your sample cases branded with my father's name,
your itinerary open,
its tolls ticking and greedy,
its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
2.3k
Staring your thoughts in my neuron canvas...
where every cell signaling love....
Every memory pixel your ethereal face .
In the destiny , internal time and space.
Where i heal u into my deepest breathe .
Now the pain I consume, is enteral journey to infinite love ..
It's now the distance that bridging gap every second...
Everyday walk in the cloud thoughts on way,
See your shadow melt into mine and say -
travel in light ,on my milky way .
Drops welkin with tears oozing , in rain ,
Felt aura, her aurum soul regained .
Craving , sbapnacari come to reality , hover , don't airy ,
I flourish love, each micron heart ,u grown adult ,my garden fairy ...
by MAHi - GALAXY
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 7:05 PM UTC