"sive" poems
Born the war drum
I was beat until the cries became the sub-audible pounding of a thousand marching feet birthed of beatings.
Truant was I to the current flowing like the wind that leaves the leafs chasing that end from which they've stemmed, rather moving to the inner drum beating out my doctrines engraved on skin, a prescription through inscription it allowed me to see through jade eyes and experience my near life experiments. The temple trapped within I tore the doors off of to find the one I could love, only to be left with hands stained of (His/her) blood. Bleeding the gods of Din and (w)Reck on in(g)sides work against the world I'm in, the perception deceptive eluding the corrections of that War Drum originally beat, the per(cus/sua)sive force of that forced message left lessened in the face of realities newly perceived, though still accepted in universal truth. The heart beats new root, a tie-in to every action bourne of a falling hand drumming out that beat of every thousandth fallen feet.
And I am left to (Him/her), that hidden god of Din, and I am left without that temple once held within so I may decipher that left upon my skin, that forgotten prayer I begin,
"forgive me father, for i am sin…"
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
The city is windy,
today.
Certainly noisy, everyday,
Compared to my country life.
Tall buildings glimmer,
Streets boisterous with sounds of people and machines.
Excitement!
Opportunity!
Urgency!
Country life, by comparison, stiller,
Slo wer,
Ex pan sive.
Both are good
I tell myself.
I am still flexible,
I tell myself.
Then, verily it dawns on me,
with unfamiliar panic and relief,
that my stretching-bending days are over.
I want to ride
like the wind
to where my being has
despite itself,
taken root.
Where the nomad has
inadvertently pitched
A more permanent tent.
30 years after roaming
ill-suited ground
my Restless Soul
was cleverly tricked
to settle
where nature,
in all her glory
and quiet magnificence,
crowds the land.
Amen.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
angstens afgrund er
meget dyb
og jeg har forvandlet mig til
et af de mennesker der altid
sidder i vindueskarmen
og ser verden suse forbi
mens jeg blot bliver siddende
i frygt for at de tynde stankelben
skal vakle og vælte
blandt fremmede og aldrig blive set
af nogen eller noget
din tid går
min står stille
jeg har prøvet at skifte mit blod
ud med tør hvidvin og jeg har prøvet
at samle spyttet i min mund og lade
det sive ud af mundvigen og ned i mit skød
men det eneste der kommer ud er
små lodne edderkopper
der får det til at klø og kradse
over hele kroppen
mens små minder af glas
flyver om min krop og
sætter sig som små blødende
sår der aldrig bliver til ar
og jeg bliver siddende i min vindueskarm
for jeg ved at mine tynde stankelben
vil vakle og vælte
og gulvet vil brase sammen under mig
de siger allesammen jeg skal vågne op
...men angstens afgrund er dyb
så jeg bliver siddende her i min vindueskarm
mens din tid går og min står stille
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
Do you remember the time you crinkled up your nose at the sound of my favorite band and shook your head in dissaprovement?
You used to do it all the time
You picked at me like you picked at your scabs
Except instead of it hurting you, it hurt me
Do you remember when you said why with a look of disgust when you saw the scars on my ankles and I told you I was sad, that I'd cut them with razors and scissors?
I still do it all the time
I remember the next day after you found out you told your friend and he told the entire softball team and I asked you why with a look of disgust on my face, you said well it's gross
And my eye lids filled with tears, the dam broke and they fled free
You said stop, you're making a scene
One day when I came home from the library I found my Christmas lights that were strung across my walls, crushed into pieces
And you said you need to grow up and stop acting like a child
I screamed in terror that you destroyed them just like my heart
But all you did was laugh and say oh please, stop being so melodramatic
Nothing I did was ever good enough for you
You painted my walls grey so I could toughin' up and stop whining all the time
How the hell was grey walls going to do that?
I hated you so much but was so afraid of that hand that was inevitably going to collide with my face and legs and back and nose
And those hands that would crush my bones over and over
And that fist that would plant a black and blue bruise on my left eye
Why do you hurt me?
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
It cost nothing to make your presence felt/
I put my money where my mouth is, speak from the heart
and this.....
I present my wealth/
theoretically imagine fashion/
into existence fathom/
for if not envisioned it never happens/
what's being realistic I'm asking/
answer boundaries limits fasten/ yourself to belief forever lasting/ identify pursue conquest grasp it/
although the outlook bleak defeat it doesn't matter/
you can whine or climb I suggest choose the ladder/
or the latest/
I forbid you shall not forsake this/
it's evident they need evidence exhibit A your greatness/
you give everything you got tell them here take this/
they give negative feedback relax be come e·va·sive/
maneuver manipulate shift originate anticipate twist/
their views until they see as you do prove/
by the graces/
zoom to the moon with the stars just like spaceship/
Spoken word theoretically except I didn't say shhhhh!
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 9:30 AM 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
i have developed
a twitch.
neurotic tendencies.
obsessive,
compulsive
tendencies.
i brush my teeth,
my hair.
i pick,
leaving tiny,
almost unnoticeable
speckle
spot
scabs.
stupid that my
response
creates tangible
evidence of
an invisible
experience -
or maybe not -
maybe it's
appropriate,
maybe it's
the point.
after all,
holding the smooth
hair
and sparkling
teeth
is a once loved
heart
scarred,
pocked,
and marred by defeat.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
oh, defeat that she will give
past the time she wasted, live
yet, the tears did drown the sive
but, she still tried to catch them.
Oh, she was the best to please
to all of them and all of these
make behave and make believes
but never did she give it
heart cave in so as is we
drama filled as I may be
yet so true that you don’t see
what she felt, she owned it.
needed and yet seperated
the baby cried and so frustrated
cried. oh woe, for woe is traded
is she.* wipes eyes* yet, undone?
She wandered here and yet she knew
and wandered there and never true
until she found her heart in you
peace and yet her heart is void.
heart felt empty still unknown
Those accusations made alone
wrapped around the rag and bone
choked her half to hell and back
fame her weakness made her limber
finding in herself the member
she hated that she could remember
heart so dark. She held it near.
resented the betrayal lept
into flames burned all except
someone she admired and kept
in his darkened ego.
she felt it and the desperate plee
to understand the ways, and the
reasons for her groveling plee
sit within her loss and cried
Of the dwindling pride did stir
it made the hate well up in her
make believe and then did stir
fear of invisible nothings.
Oh, but words, her only friend
took hold her hand with hungry pen
another world so deep within
made a better her for her
pulling threads that surely scar
bound and stitched her hurt by far
like the strings on a guitar
pulled so close she was them
wounds o wounds with scars that drip
from her eyes I took a sip
with my hand i traced the rip
that made her smile again.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 12:59 PM UTC
I feel as if
maybe
as if
yes yes
as if
I need
to make
deci-
sive
deci-
sions
and re-
vise them
be
fore I
die
for
them.
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 4:30 AM UTC
I am restrained. Through my own choice mind you.
We’re playing a game with very high stakes.
And we’re both trying to keep our cards very close.
But as this progresses, we each take more cards, and
At some point our hands are going to be too small to manage.
Our cards will fall, and the game will be up.
As we play, this game requires honesty and sharing.
Denying oneself is like starving a flame of oxygen.
It needs a little bit to survive, but not too much to start a fire.
Denying oneself is like starving oneself of food.
One needs food in moderation to live and be healthy.
Just for now, lighten your grips on the reigns.
How else can one find the middle ground?
The median is the middle of a low and a high.
And one needs to test and test and test again.
Just remember if the ride gets too bumpy, then its
Always okay to take your foot off the accelerator again.
There is no penalisation for attempting, for being brave.
I miss you.
I think of you.
You make me happy.
And I’m not ashamed of honesty.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 6:40 AM UTC
She waves to me: mummy look
She plays in the grass, the earth is turning
She shouts throughout summer and rains
from white sand to black sand
She is a little pig, gruntgrunt
and one more time, one more time
One two see sour sive
singers she has, and ***** seet
that climb everything: mummy look
Her hands want to take everything
feeling the whole grown-up life
herself, caution, it is hot
She drags my bag with her like a lady
She likes sweet gruel and bread
without crust, cheeks with peanut butter
She cheers for the gnomes: mummy look
who always come to help her
at night when she sleeps
Aug 15, 2021
Aug 15, 2021 at 2:24 AM UTC
wrapped on your lap;
eyes-caught\\sharing- breaths
squeeze press.heels.to.your.back
one thumb pressed to my hip
while/your/fingERs/slide/inside
...nails/break/skin...
moUths locked in a kiss;...
my hand pulls your hair//
~fingers~TangLed~
the other,...
holding on-foR-dear-life.
digging//in
ribs-to-chest
~pressing~into~yoU~
^^breaThing^^labored^^
puLLing-you-in...
and...in
...and
in (sidE//deepeR)
Biting yo(my)ur lip
pUsh-me-to-the-bed
mouth, taking, over, where
fing//ers//be//gan
puLl.your.teeth.closer
~so~lost~in~the~moment ~
pulsing cosmic tendRils
of explosive t.a.n.g.e.r.i.n.e.
throughout all of my
...being.
anD i never need another
thing;... again
except.thIs.moment.
~as~you~reveal~
...my
cOmplete...
sur//reN//der.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 6:20 AM UTC
1) Mix apathy and emptiness
2) Sive out the happiness
3) Dilute pain and sadness
To make a void of nothingness
May 4, 2019
May 4, 2019 at 10:59 AM UTC