"slates" poems
February is brighter.
It's pale blue
aura juxtaposes
the deep purple
of January.
It stutters
in, reminding us
that the adamant doors
of winter have been closed
to ajar.
Only the thin confetti
of snow now lines
the streets in
it's final celebration.
Blue smoke from the slates
thaw the crystals
and the bluebirds
have returned
to the sycamore tree.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
horns squawk
rainforest avenues
exoskeleton
of cars
arteries clogged
with unlovely taxi cabs
fat green fruit
for sale
five languages
merge into a knot
hisses kiss vowels
kiwis apples pears
black guys basketball
debt rises like blood pressure
stocks tumble
but we walk
brogues clop on concrete
count brick after brick
sun cascades
over roof slates
mind cracks in slabs
(you say
Monroe stood here)
heat quivers
men are dominoes
suits for the office
a funeral
designer sneakers
daddy paid for
pigtails cheap thrills
violet octagons
on a stranger’s neck
(behind the closed doors)
today
I drink purple water
aubergine lips
remind me
of a Tuscany Superb
list the names
Houston Charlton
Leroy Sullivan
Perry Cornelia
Dominick and Jane
(ladders lead
away from me
close to
you)
and back again
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
Her voice is green
growing old
rekindling
nature’s
minty breath.
His voice is grey
dull and diminutive
diminishing
our white light.
Splitting the prisms
by dismissing good wisdom.
My voice is diaphanous
blank slates
silver screens vanishing
nature retreating
beneath the fury of the unknown.
Skin scraped deeply,
wound stinging.
Until, it is naked and raw.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
Divest me in lowest twang possible
You're a virus ov benevolence
Clod dockets and nightly shrivels
You're Ideology's ravaged havoc
All slates ov mind embellish at one time
Scandalmonger, a repetitive meddler
I am, you are, a beast like endeavor
Two noddy's going rabid
To divulge and disclose; we're savaged
Trek of dearth and surly in combined minds
Withered, wizened, burnished, refined.
Nov 19, 2010
Nov 19, 2010 at 4:27 PM UTC
in Scotland fair you must beware
the weathered moor at night
For it is said a thing of dread
hunts neath it's pale moon light
It's small and stout and loves to shout
and scare the tiny mice
It kicks the trees to wake the bees
because it is not nice
it runs amok through herd and flock
and makes the chickens fly
Then opens gates and shakes lose slates
and takes pigs from the sty
It up roots crops and spills the hops
and dances in the flour
Though rarely seen its really mean
and turns the fresh milk sour
It squashes flat each butter pat
and mixers wheat with grain
then ups and screams to spoil your dreams
and runs away again
The Haggis see is wild and free
and likes to cause such fun
Breaks traps and snares and frees the hares
and helps them to their run
The hunting hound that sniffs the ground
Will never find his scent
because he sweats sweet Vi-o-lets
to cover where he went
The Heathered moor and rains that pour
wash away his tracks
and he's not scared he is prepared
for haggis run in packs
With teeth and claws and snapping jaws
they are a sight to see
So think before you seek that moor
where they run wild and free
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
Reglossing, rewashing, removing, returning,
she kept using the same cloth to wipe up this mess.
All of the same mistakes constantly repeating,
spools of half-hearted "I'm sorry's" unwinding,
foolproof promise to cover for her missed absence.
I persist reloading, rewinding, replaying
watching the film of our lives together, pausing
at moments where temporarily, I confess,
unpredictable happiness ceased repeating.
This trainwreck of a show carries on, blistering
slides that I want to swipe clean, but her name suppress
stained slates developing, deflecting, destroying.
I throw away the footage, romanticizing
sheer ideas of finally making progress
forgetting her. But relapse results repeating
bad habits. There is not a remedy. I cling
to the seasons of the past, wanting to digress
reminding, rewinding, removing, regretting.
'Til the cloth clears again, chaos keeps repeating.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
Ears in the turrets hear
Hands grumble on the door,
Eyes in the gables see
The fingers at the locks.
Shall I unbolt or stay
Alone till the day I die
Unseen by stranger-eyes
In this white house?
Hands, hold you poison or grapes?
Beyond this island bound
By a thin sea of flesh
And a bone coast,
The land lies out of sound
And the hills out of mind.
No birds or flying fish
Disturbs this island's rest.
Ears in this island hear
The wind pass like a fire,
Eyes in this island see
Ships anchor off the bay.
Shall I run to the ships
With the wind in my hair,
Or stay till the day I die
And welcome no sailor?
Ships, hold you poison or grapes?
Hands grumble on the door,
Ships anchor off the bay,
Rain beats the sand and slates.
Shall I let in the stranger,
Shall I welcome the sailor,
Or stay till the day I die?
Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships,
Hold you poison or grapes?
2.3k
blood
blood patter and splash
leads us concrete toward
tracing back til the scene
i’ve flashing thoughts of the brutality
the violence that must of cussed
between persons
in fear fray and inebriation
down the steps
my four year old child and I go
the greasing bleed in bronze putters
growing and leadening
on stone labours
glowing citrus the refrigeration
of the underpass
‘flips the bird' at the summer blaze
grey dead coral bricks of urination
seasoned in deep beading now cold
the broke up weapon
candy slates of brittle teeth
glass / bottle / beer /brown
the neck its' hilt
and the main mud of the bleeding
the flies are the thing
that bothers my ‘little nipper’
usually a flapper of queries on repetition
no other queries are raised
just eager for the vibration
of train carriages gatling over our heads
i stopper any words i may have on the matter
he holds my hand with his hot hand
we progress under a port arms
procession of caged floodlights
and walled in by fresh graffiti
fingers dripping retching for the guttering
Dec 22, 2023
Dec 22, 2023 at 3:05 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
As long as your alive,
There are no limits to your determination,
I'm so sorry,
Is it my bad?
Excuse my incorrections,
Without no hesitation,
I don't mind a little bit of envy,
For my mistakes,
Then later realize that I can't relate,
To the same mistakes,
You unfortunately made,
Its safe to say,
You have your ways,
Of throwing shade,
With no clean slates,
But a clean plate,
Of broken days,
Children's arcades,
You gave out shade,
You gotta Pay.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
I know your name,
But do you know mine.
Everlasting features,
You will have,
Theres beauty in your sings.
You glisten in the dawn of lights.
Catastrophic Atmospheres,
Can only determine real beauty if you unwind.
I watch you from a distance,
At least when I ever I get a chance.
You know my name though,
You just don't know,
My heart for you is on demand.
So do you really know my name.
Secrets tell lies,
By the time it reaches it first recipient,
It already said its first cry.
Nothing underneath or between it,
No blank slates,
But no hieroglyphic signs,
To show you my heart.
My heart races against time,
To take a look upon your face,
Your beauty is only shown,
In the deepest part of memories grace.
I could only see you in my dreams I spew,
Counting down the moment,
When I wake only not to see you.
Do you know my name?
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
I looked upon the greats, and found nothing they didnt take from the pre-existing grates, that drained our goals into slates, degraded our souls into fakes, and mistook our traits as hate, before we faded into an abatement for safetly, safely enslaving our notions as nations, from the oceans, they saved me ... made me ... who I am.
But nothing is sacred anymore
Only deplorable horror
To numb the chores
Of that other lord
That the imaginitive ignore
Pretending to abhore
The things they cant feel anymore
But what for
There might be more to a coin flip than explored.
Intent and decent Vs stoical form
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
Subway strolls to unending destinations
Runaway bride to subsiding designations
I stroll and begging aint my solution
A solve to the query not a conclusion
No ticket no money
No money no ticket
Train rushes from mile to miles
No ticket no money
No money no ticket
The pain rushes from my mouth
My pockets so bruised they hide away
******** society telling me how to lead a life
I lie, I am alive and bubbly inside, cant lie
Take away that submissive robot you knew
Train train slow down the pace
As I jump of the carriageway of slates
Train train lower my taste
As I forever I get lost in the rush of lust
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
Excuses Excuses...
So MANY EXCUSES... !!!
For The Type of Looseness...
That Has Embraced NOOSES... !?!
EXCUSES For THIS...
EXCUSES For THAT...
EXCUSES For Plans...
That Have CORRUPTED Man...
BAD EGGS In The Batch... !!!
Where Policeman Are Hatched... !!!
Oh YES Bad Eggs INDEED... !!!
Is How RACIST Cops Be...
When RACISM Feeds...
Their Motives On Streets...
And In Turn How They Deal...
When They’re Using Their Knees... !!!
And Using Their... GUNS...
Like These Tasers That Stun... !!!
And Choke Holds That DON’T... !!!!!
When They Leave People COLD... !!!
Excuses UNFOLD...
Even When They Are Shown...
To Move... So Much SICKER...
Than Those Known As KILLERS... !!!
Excuses Come QUICKER...
Than Confession Sinners... !!!
Because of Protection...
These Bad Eggs Be Getting...
From Those Who NEED VETTING... !!!
BEFORE They Pass Sentence... !!!!!
These Excuses I Mention...
Are Those With DEFECTIONS... !!!
That Need REAL CORRECTION...
That’s Neutral And... CENTRED... !!!
Like... Natural Selection... !!!
There Are Others That SMOTHER...
...... Historical Blunders...... !!!
Like Those Now UNCOVERED...
About... CERTAIN Brothers...
Who Sold Their Own Mother’s... !?!
For... Colonial Masters...
A... FACTUAL DISASTER...
That’s Been So Well Plastered...
That EXCUSES Run Talk...
That IS STUPID And FLAWED... !!!
When It Comes To The Past...
And YES... Slavery Paths... !!!
You See Some EXCUSES...
Breed... MORE THAN Denial... !!!
They Hold Certain Files...
That Are TRULY OBSCENE...
Within... Black History... !!!
Like Those Now EXPOSED...
About... Certain White Folks...
Who’ve Earned Money For Shows...
With... BLACKFACE Videos...
And RACIST Themed JOKES... !?!
That Are FORCING These Peeps...
To Make... APOLOGIES...
As If They Will CLEAN...
Their Slates With Black Peeps’... ?!?
And Of Course Yes EXCUSES... !!!
For Things They’ve Been Doing...
That Lacked... Racial Prudence...
So Just Like The Others...
These Excuses PROVE LOOSENESS...
Is Something That Humans...
Exude In Their Movements...
And In... CERTAIN CHOICES...
That Have Done MORE Than POISON... !!!
Yes... HUMANITY... !!!
When... ACCOUNTABILITY...
Is What NEEDS To INCREASE... !!!
Because These FALLACIES...
Are What Make Some Heads Feel...
That It’s Best To... "Conceal"...
Themselves Behind LIES...
And... FRAUDULENT Deeds... !!!
And The Need To Keep Choosing...
To AVOID Being TRUTHFUL...
Instead of Indulging...
... In All These...
......... “ EXCUSES “....... !!!
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 2:21 AM UTC
I, THE poet William Yeats,
With old mill boards and sea-green slates,
And smithy work from the Gort forge,
Restored this tower for my wife George;
And may these characters remain
When all is ruin once again.
1.8k
It rained for three straight days
during my first visit
to you.
Fitting. I should have expected as much.
Especially if it corresponds to your happiness,
I can only be more thrilled
about rain
and what it brings down with it
and the slates it washes clean.
We drank with reservations
and read poetry with gusto
and fell to the floor with love
as the thunder clapped across the
valley
and the rain poured from our skin.
You are small,
not even close to helpless,
but I would face down anything
so that your hands may stay and fit
so delicately in mine and
so your lips would find mine
again.
When we met, finally,
and I felt your frame fall into mine,
trusting me enough for that
so soon,
I was honored,
and I knew that the fears I had
about what this would be like,
what you might be like,
what we might be like,
were unfounded,
and very complicatedly so.
Wouldn't it have been easier
to despise the other?
But no,
instead we fell into rhythm
as if we had never been out of sync,
we fell into and onto each other
time and again
in ways that could only be described as
perfection.
I saw you gaze onto me
with a mystique only Picasso himself
would be able to render,
so I lost myself in your eyes
with words I've known for
long and with thoughts I could
finally say.
It rained for three straight days,
but on the day I left
the sun beamed through the sky.
So I left,
with kisses and kind words,
and it wasn't until I was on
the excruciating road back
that I realized
I was leaving home
for the second time
in only one trip.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 8:25 PM UTC
Out of the window
a courtyard yawns,
Passion flowers overwhelm
sun-brushed brick
A cat paws a
gutted cassette tape,
whilst pigeons
steal into the
forgotten yard building,
with newspaper windows
and wonky slates
I guess they own
the vestiges of the old
car in there now;
rust on rust on rust
Their own kingdom
in old boxes and older dust.
They aren’t aware,
of the lunacy of it all;
this human race.
People are just
no good to
each other.
Money before morals
before health
before warmth
before kindness
before love
before life.
I envy them,
those
birds-
they only
Have
to worry about
the
cat.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
It was written in the beginning, a beginning before Britain, before folklore, gore and war. A beginning then, when the lords created, decorated and separated the night and also the bright, bright light. Therefore, a delight! In the beginning, creating the seven ways of days and the rays. The birth of earth, the black ravens, the havens and the heavens. A beginning of clean slates, dreams, schemes and themes!
As I blink and wink, badly and sadly I think… An ending, with fate or an ending with no ascending or commending date? Let’s debate and negotiate! A beginning, of Pharaohs, their arrows and the sparrows. An ending of sorrow? A beginning, borrowed from our hour’s tomorrow? An ending, I deem, that forever bends, defends, depends, pretends and never, ever seems to end. The heavens specialties and
hell’s cruelties. Governments and their restraints! Negative and positive lengths and strengths. A beginning and an ending; betrayed and strayed, long before many of us were to play or say. Stories of cities, glories and their pities! Starving nations and Haitians! Expensive vacations and relations! The elapsed and relapsed! Perhaps, the mishaps and disruption of our corruption’s eruption and ending
destruction? Hey! I say, let’s turn a page past the basked, the masked and vast. A fold past the cages that enrage-rage, wage and old age.
The detained delights, the petty fights and plights. Why can’t we each reunite? Unite forever! Drop and stop this harm and fight. Fly into the night, together with our almighty arms and mighty charms. Primarily, in the beginning or ending, let us not negatively but too positively and ultimately amend! Children, men and women, amen.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:18 AM UTC
Humungous pupils.
Little girl.
Attempting to realize the ways of the world.
Sinning and spinning,
she twists and she twirls,
Through the tornado that fate seems to whirl.
So sure of herself,
yet quite the mess.
Eager to learn and quickly progress.
She lays awake in constant distress,
pondering humanity's stress to impress.
How on Earth are we all alive?
Buzzing around this big beehive.
Working for life then turning to dust.
Just for the honey, our bodies we bust.
Investing our trust in invented ideals.
Shunning away what's important and real.
What ever happened to "see, touch, and feel?"
We're worshipping paper, and mountians of steel.
Our slates were clean the day we were born.
From magazine pages, our knowledge was torn.
We were taught by Barbies and trucks to conform.
And we learned about love through movies and ****
But imagine a life without fiction and wealth.
We'd all be forced to act as ourselves.
Without influence or image to compare and contrast,
we'd have less confusion about how we should act.
A society raised on make believe.
Injected with *** diamonds, and greed.
Living our lives on borrowed time,
and filling the spaces with Marlboros and wine.
But then again, I'm just a girl,
with humungous pupils in a made up world.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:30 PM UTC
We paint our lives on color film
Absorbing familiar reflection
And we watch as we live
So little in color film
We love, we ****
We bleed, we die
Do we think God is watching?
Do we think we are the reflection
Why are we watching?
Mountain sides and Lilly beds
Prairies and the mighty ocean
Now held in our hands
Nobody is there
Is anyone here
What is everyone watching?
Loneliness painted in window sills
Plasma radiation gleams on
White, pictureless walls
Millions
Watching sunsets
And passions flame
Lust pervert
Warm golden skin
Radiates tangerine
And the lonely feel
Vicarity
Painting red
On Blank slates
And fill with vacant desire
Million of on lookers
Alone, watching
Watching the world burn
Watching mothers cry
Watching beaches sludge
Watching deserts snow
Watching brave children die
Watching brothers betray
Watching love fail
Watching countries fall
Watching debts paid
Millions of miles of tapes and bits
Project a millions of protestant cries
Endlessly, eternally
Do we think God is watching?
Do we think?
While we're watching
Bathing in radiation
Children don't know how to read
Live their lives on
A television screen
A whole generation
Living vicariously
Do we think?
Millions of gray souls
And avid voters
Watch angry men spout nostalgic redirect
Watch their children live their lives
Watch game shows and advertisements
Watch the six o' clock news
Watch police shoot children in the street
A million beautiful, lonely people
Watch red carpet vanity
Watch million dollar celebrity parties
Watch the American dream lash the
Backs of the fuedal and disenfranchised
Watch depraved souls sacrifice self
For the company of fame
Meanwhile children don't read
Do we think?
A thought original
Is there any thing left to believe
Everyone so sure there's nothing they haven't seen
Nobody leaves their house
Nobody can bear to read
Just watch the world slip into insanity
Ignorance is the greatest weapon
Yet all I see is guns blazing
80 billion dollars to dry the desert
Not a one for education
American families gather
Around their TV screens
They can't stop watching
They're afraid of what they see
Do they think God is watching?
I hope God isn't watching
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 5:09 AM UTC
Resilient
The poets heart
Words we use
Turning pain to art
Chronic stress
A syndrome no less
Our muses behold
The Mother's breast
Fight or flight
Sympathetic states
We resolve upon
Our creative slates
Breaking through
Rising above
Poetry becomes our strongest drug
When the fever flares
Word are but aspirin
And the poem becomes our cure
An observation I made while
living here,
on HP!
Jul 15, 2021
Jul 15, 2021 at 8:43 AM UTC
the coffee’s burnt again
and the cat’s staring like it knows
I haven’t cried in six years
but I’ve been leaking in other ways
through the fridge light,
through the cracks in the drywall,
through the way I say “fine”
when I mean “I’m rotting.”
the mailman dropped another envelope
with no name, just a whisper
and I thought maybe it was time
to bury the version of me
that still believed in clean slates
and women who don’t flinch
when you say you write poems.
I’m overdue for a funeral
but nobody wants to dig
unless there’s a paycheck
or a priest involved
and I don’t believe in either.
the barstool still remembers my spine
and the bartender’s got a face
like a broken clock
always stuck at 2:17 a.m.
when the jukebox plays Sinatra
and the drunks pretend
they’re philosophers.
I tried to write an obituary
for the part of me that used to care
but the pen ran out
and the paper laughed.
so I lit a cigarette
and gave the ashes a name.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 6:59 PM UTC
Diseased again , in the middle of May,
Almost threateningly fatal.
Dormant dimmed brain of mine,apt and inviting prey,
Been demented since awful April!
Earnestly eager to get healed,
I've enacted the preposterous tribal dance to the write(right) gods and appealed.
They unmistakably ignored my pleas,
and my mind still remains stuck,stagnant ,in a frigid freeze.
Changed my workspace to the garden,
To **** in the fresh air,clear my brain and brighten.
Result: Chewed half a pencil,
******** alien patterns in the muck,and a weak wasted writers' will.
Countless imaginary "stories" with no beginnings,
Right Brain-dead till late evenings.
Waiting on this blasted writers' block to clear soon,
Hopefully,the rains should clean the slates, in Judicious June.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 2:45 AM UTC
SKIN & BLISTER
We grin & grimace
drop candle wax onto our fingertips
as the storm
rattles our window pane
angry that we won’t let it in.
All night
it rages
toppling chimney
pots with a crash
smashing slates
it strips from rooftops
as we safe
giggle & peel off
our waxen
fingerprints
hold them
(tiny whirlpools)
in our palms
those whorls
of self
unique to each.
I wearing my sister’s
fingerprints
she... wearing mine.
*******
SKIN & BLISTER is Cockney rhyming slang for sister. We were so close we could have worn each other fingerprints and as a little boy I was delighted to do so. I was her and me was she. This I guess is something we did to amuse ourselves before...telly arrived.
*******
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
I saw you, I heard you.
Today on a screen my future appeared all black, white, and grey.
Nothing at first but bubbles of contrast
swells of innards and technology.
But then I saw you.
Your bones a beautiful highlight,
Our blood; flutters of movement -
Head bowed the two of us saw through your mind.
And then I heard you.
Pounding spikes, white rhythm on black.
Tiny pump like a machine blinking -
My own heart beating faster.
Alive and real, your beat fills the room and echoes through blank pages and clean slates, into empty homes or ones not yet built, cries out in the night with warm comfort and soothing heat.
Now your likeness sits in my pocket
Until the day we meet.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 4:47 AM UTC
Sunrise between leaves
ignites neon green glowing—
exploding the sky
the graffiti sleeps
yellow waiting for their disk
of light like mixed paint
coffee ambrosia
wakes us with eggs and sausage
to reality
Clear Creek washes us
clean of sin or innocence
blank slates for a day
Beer, tears and smiles
meant for you, me, meant for us
fleck public places
laced hands and sweet talk
interrupt clever timers
launching adventure
Margaritas drown
studying sailors at sea,
setting new courses.
lamp light turns moon glow,
wet metal bench, a warm bed,
flip-flop footsteps, dance
I pray to goddess
the divine will sleep in peace
forgetting our sins
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 5:11 PM UTC