"splintery" poems
They made me a racehorse
Blinders and all
Huffing and scuffing my hoofs
Impatiently at the dirt
The open track ahead
But against my chest a wooden board
I heave and pant but it won't break
I wish it gone but here it stays
Twisting turning, turning red
Hot air balloons within my head
Wet steam rising from my nose
My chest is raw and splintery
But I will break it
Break through to the open track
Spreading my legs as long as I can
Forward, sideways, any way I want to go
Heaving and panting just the same
But free, this time
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 11:31 PM UTC
There is a ladder that I climb
And climb I shall through all of time
The wood is rough and splintery
And so the task is hard, you see
And as I climb my arms grow weak
My bones, like the rungs, bend and creak
Sometimes resolve abandons me
My head goes down and I can't see
When climbing in this careless way
I lose my hold and slip away
So, quickly I fall ten feet down
I tell myself to not look down
I grab hold of the rung again
Then meditate and rest my chin
The rung has now a coat of slime
It feels I'll slip another time
I push the thought out of my head
For if I fall, then I'll be dead
I wipe away the dreadful slime
And climb again, step at a time
And though the top I'll never see,
I keep my gaze ahead of me.
"Why do you climb", a man once asked
"...If you cannot complete the task?"
"There are two worlds", I said to him
"...And one of them is filled with sin
Within that world, you'll find no light
Your soul is bound by fear and spite
In the other, you can see
Your heart's made whole and you are free
The line between these worlds is broad
That is the world on which we trod
But even here amidst our strife
You'll find there are two sides of life
We start between and go one way
By choices we make every day
This road we take is gradual
We slowly fall as blinded fools
Unless we climb the other way
And so please hear these things I say
As I climb, the light gets brighter
And the load on me becomes much lighter
The truth's revealed and my heart made full
As I climb away from sin's dark rule
So, where's this ladder that I climb?
He's here; take hold. He's yours and mine"
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
Tall prairie grass, wind-swept and
burnished gold, whispers with the
long-dead voices of all who passed
on this trail in their dream voyage
to Oregon, or California, or who
died, disease-ridden, exhausted, to be
buried just off the rutted trail
under a lonely stretch of sod
or cairned atop a barren lava bed.
A bone-white wagon tongue,
its carriage long ago disintegrated
and fallen into splintery planks,
laps thirstily at the dry sod along the
edge of the trail, finding only
parched earth and no water, burrs
and beetles instead of hydration.
More prairie than desert but still
more a place to leave behind, only
insects, lizards, hawks and the curious
chickadees seem to make it home,
this dusty stretch of history.
Hawks hover, then spiral effortless
high above, as they did so many years
ago, dark against a soft patchwork
of azure blue sky and creeping clouds.
The occasional click of grasshoppers
is barely audible in the billowing prairie
grass shaken by the incessant wind.
Dry bones of beasts and luckless humans
hug the edges of the trail, mute testimony
to the brutality of the westward rush
and the following of the Oregon Trail.
--
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 7:30 PM UTC
Streaming sunlight and horse tails lightly swaying in the breeze, flicked lazily at gadflies.
Hoarse dove cries echo hauntingly as I wander across lush grass, towards the murky pond.
Dry, splintery boards of the rickety grey dock creak under my feet. Stone still, opaque brown-green water lies beneath. I close my eyes, resting my hands on the railing, letting the euphonious melody of rasping doves, cheeky robins, and other chirping birds blend with the bubbling sound of running water in the distance, and wash over me. The water bubbles and froths, it has a foamy sound, not as clear and ringing as streams and fountains back home.
Carefree.
Bullfrogs splish and dart into the silty pondweed.
It’s all as if this little world requires no purpose, it’s enough that it simply... is.
If only I could find peace in simply existing. Freedom to just be.
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 1:45 AM UTC
Hate. All I see is hate.
Pure, unadulterated hate.
It's everywhere now.
In the ceiling, under the rickety floorboards,
Sleeping through the cracks of a once impenetrable foundation.
There are three sides to every story, but no one wants to see the third side, the truth. I'm right, no I'm right, well you're a demon. You're not smart enough, not pretty ebough, too pretty, the wrong ethnicity, to give a valid argument. You're not valid. Only I, the holiest of beings, can tell you how to think, what to say, and what to never say. I-
SHUT UP!!!
...
God, silence is golden.
Then there's the rest of us. The children, huddled in a dark corner where their angry parents hurl glass plates and scream. We want everything to be well. Perhaps "well again" isn't the right phrase. Home was never perfect, and it never will be. But if we could be a happy family, even through the dark times, if we could hear what one another is saying, no. If we could LISTEN to what one another is saying, that would be enough.
There are those who are done fighting, the old man in his wicker chair, waiting his whole life to be noticed. When he finally gets his medal, his children throw it into the garbage disposal. What is there left to say when no one will listen?
There are those of us on the front lines, the virtual vigilantes.
So passionate, so intense, so disconnected.
There are the Orwellian sheep. Saying what they've been told by whomever chooses to educate them. Their minds so innocent, angry, closing every day. They see not the masses of wolves spinning lies with the help of their wool.
The house is crumbling. Those who scream too loud are breaking the glass windows. The soft spoken are struggling to clean the splintery, split floorboards. Of course, they are all too busy to notice the house is leaning far off to one side. It starts to teeter on the side of a cliff. Creak. Creak. Creak.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 6:19 PM UTC
But I am awakened by a burning on my cheek and the pitter patter of feet running away.
As I lift my hand to touch my face I feel my arms as lighter as before.
Both of my wrists are bandaged to cover the the scrapes, cuts and scratches the chains put on me.
The fire is also on again.
I quickly turn around and draw myself close to this odd light giving off the heat that warms my body.
In the distance I see a bridge .
A bridge that goes over a river running free throughout this dark cave .
People.
People like me crawling over this bridge .
Skinny, worn out, struggling to pull their selves across towards an opening at the opposite end of the cave.
But what caused the shadows?
As I look at the wall I an surprised.
Nothing there .
Did my emptiness exaggerate my imagination?
I don't ponder very long before I try to stand.
My legs, too weak to hold my body up.
Like every other person I must crawl.
Sliding my body across this rough, rocky cave closer to the bridge.
I feel my mouth begin to widen across my face.
What is this? A smile? I'm happy?
Across the splintery bridge I make eye contact with several others in the same situation.
We smile and continue.
A light… I see a light!
As adrenaline shoots up my arms move faster.
Getting closer to the end of the cave i glance back once more to where I was once a prisoner.
I see someone standing in front of my fire.
I look forward, and when I look back the mysterious person is gone.
I finally get to the end of the cave and once im out the light shines down and the suns heat is spilled all over my body.
When I look out and see the world for the first time its like nothing ive ever felt before.
I'm now on two feet
I hadn't even realized I was.
My life was now going to change.
This is love,
This is peace,
This is my allegory of the cave.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
At that hour
the breeze turns around.
The fishermen are coming back
with hands splintery,
without lips,
with eyes of stone.
The bottom is empty
like a bottle at midnight.
The shore is there
where somebody’s waiting.
They’ve sleep for a long time. Dreaming.
With hands locked together.
He, the wind, the last one
an orphan, leads
them…
The original:
Възхвала
Във този час
бризът се обръща.
Рибарите се връщат
с ръце нацепени,
без устни,
с очи от камък.
Дъното е празно
като бутилка в полунощ.
Брегът е там,
където някой чака.
Отдавна спят. Сънуват.
С ръце преплетени.
Той, вятърът, последният
сирак, ги
води…
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 2:28 AM UTC
Each cold wave was starting to slap
me in the face and the grayness of morning
wasn’t lifting as the sun rose. Goosebumps
had made my legs slim sharks, heavy and rough,
so I swam to shore spitting out icy water.
I was thinking about coffee,
maybe crawling into my sleeping bag
and listening to loons’ far-off howls
until breakfast, and I reached the splintery dock
when I choked –
tried to struggle backward, without any splash
which might wash her in with me.
Dock spiders swim. Did you know?
They fasten long ropes of silk and dive
for their prey, something big since no horsefly
sustains a spider the size of a mouse.
This one was monstrous, motionless,
spiky black legs jointed white at her knees,
face-level to my wet bobbing head. She gripped
an egg sac, papery and white, marble-sized.
It held hundreds of tiny hers. It looked heavy.
I had come to her panting but now the water
or inertia maybe pushed my face close
to that enormous silent mother so I fought harder
to stay away, though if the lake had been still
I might have treaded at a distance, stared hard,
dared her to scuttle and disappear in the cracks
in the plywood-patched dock with its rotting ladder
and a dozen more spiders, probably,
white sacs strapped firmly to their bellies.
I flopped like I’d hooked a lip, gasping, desperate
for rough open water where depth
would deter any diving hairy creature.
Somehow I struggled to remoter shoreline
where I slid over boulders’ upholstery of algae,
shivering, legs frog-splayed, stringent and numb.
I never felt it when I scratched my legs crashing
through buckthorn, the way to the cabin, though I saw
the lines later when I put on soft clothing
in a warm inside corner where spiders are smaller
and at least have the kindness
to keep out of sight.
Jan 12, 2010
Jan 12, 2010 at 6:44 AM UTC
Things that
~
{a dented brass thimble}
~
Mean so little
To us
~
{a broken shard of sea shell}
~
Mean so much more
To those who
~
{a rusted and splintery shovel}
~
Mean the most
To us
~
{a hand-written grocery list}
~
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 2:59 PM UTC
The swings are never empty,
they are always occupied by girls
pumping their legs to fuel ideas
that have not yet been created.
The sun manipulates its rays
to illuminate tin-foil slides
and girls burn their legs as they go down,
learning more about life than they wanted to know.
Girls pause at the edge of bridges,
one foot hovering above the shaky metal.
and when they finally take a step they run,
catapulting themselves away from nothing.
Hands grasp on metal bars,
Feet hovering above splintery wood.
Girls swing back and forth,
enticed by the idea of letting go.
Roses catch the eyes of girls.
They grasp and beg for them.
Girls will blossom into roses,
and they will ***** their fingers on their own thorns.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
He feels like sharing memes and finishing burritos; like snuggling on a bench when I'm shivering and letting me wear his jacket the wrong way. He feels like long phone calls and sarcastic remarks; like feeding ducks, and helping kids, and going kart racing, and being terrible at Mario kart. He feels like silly puns and bad humor, all the while still putting butterflies in my stomach. He feels like the heat in my cheeks when my classmates ask me about where my bracelets came from, and the pride in my heart when they say that he's cute. He feels like kissing in a park, holding hands next to fireworks, and giggling at the movies. He feels like sunshine and Rex Orange County. He feels like home, like someone who will always be able to make me smile, like someone who will endure a hug even if its awkward.
But he also feels like crying at 10pm in my room on Thanksgiving and clutching my chest because I can hardly breathe. He is in every sad song I've ever heard, and every depressingly artful photo I see. He is the bittersweet memory of a lost young love, and the fractured, splintery aftermath of trying to recover. He is sitting in a park alone for an hour, crying because you dont know if he's even going to come. He is the anxiety of being ignored for three weeks, then showing up to a party I'm at. He is the tear stained pillowcase from every time he has asked, "are you a waste of my time?" -- each one a separate fist to the stomach. He is the fear of never knowing what is going on in his mind and the constant worry of not being enough. He is the sadness and frustration of every Sunday morning with an empty chair. He is the moments I lie on the cold wood of my bedroom floor in the greying sunlight, salt mixing with my hair, and feeling empty. He is like the ache between my ribs everytime I'm left on read.
But he still feels like home, and he still feels like the only love I've ever known. And it's all about how it feels, right? And it's okay as long as he doesn't hurt those feelings...
Right?
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 8:11 PM UTC
In my room
24/7 24 hours 7 days now
A week since you left it feels
Longer than it is some weeks are days some
Weeks are hours some
Weeks are milliseconds but this
This week is forever
I never saw the transition from workaholic into depression like
A literal depression, an indent I
Cave in myself I
Cave in on myself I
Go to counseling, admit it happened it should feel like lancing a boil but
It doesn't it feels like rearranging a sweater around a rock in my chest so
It rubs against the splintery undersides of my ribs irritating inevitable
Months spent in my bed i don't go to class i don't do work i sleep
Sleep everything away sleep everything away
My uncle asks me if i've been eating i'm paler than usual and no
No I haven't been eating how can you eat when there's a
Boulder shoving your lungs into your spine, and your intestines into your pelvis
I try and feel like throwing up I
Lose weight but don't feel any more worthwhile I've been
Caving in on myself, caving in on myself, caving in on myself
In the ruins
Furious
I still live
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 3:37 PM UTC
Soft and dainty as a rose petal. Dew drops on my forehead. Kisses from the sky. Blooming sweetness, growing past my eyes. Prickly thorns to my surprise are beautiful, poisonous and splintery to the touch. Blood drips down the stem. I smile because I like the color red. The sun's beaming down my back, I continue smiling trying not to crack. Repeating thoughts, crowded, lost into my mind. I peak into your soul. Torn, worn, and black holes. Vessels, bitter sweet kisses fall unto your lips. Leading down my core. Your fingers trickle over the notches in my spine. I shudder at the thought of your non-existence here. The chills you spread across my neck, tip-toeing to my head. My hair stands now. I'm submissive to your defeat. My adoration for you is overwhelming, keeping me in heat. I crave more. They say every rose has it's thorn. I'm curious as hell what your catch is, what it possibly may be. You are genuine perfection to me.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
the only word that explains
that defines
that moment
splintery planks, squealing and whining
under our souls' weight
salty paradise, rushing beneath us
peeking up through inevitable imperfections:
the cracks and the holes and the space
before saying goodbye, and riding away forever
starry heavens, carrying us up with them
on their search for escape
from the cynical world on which
they are demanded to shine
and eternal sea breeze
flying, so fast
through our hair, our eyelashes, our fingertips, our toes
our hearts
i will never stop loving you
and you will love me
and we will continue to run
as fast and as far as our lives will take us
before our search for an answer
is expended
by our own curiosity and pure desire
and we leave the world, and instead live the word
that which is:
unstoppable
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
for some
deadly
awful
bleak
reason
(today)
I am an ogre.
Squinting
through
splintery eyes
frowning
the
humans away
letting my
teeth
YELLOW
'n' decay
Ah I know
I'm an Ogre
I can't
speak properly
without
sounding
rude
I can't help but feel brutally angry and distracted and blurred by the people trying to speak to me through my hard shell of bitter lemon juice
Ah,
but I know
...my dear
I'M AN OGRE
Don't you DARE talk to me
if you're a happy perfect person
today
'cos Ah,
but yes,
today, an Ogre
and always a
******
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 2:50 AM UTC
Dedicated to my dear friend Jordon Dinneen
So many thoughts linger in my Atlantis mind.
As many thoughts as all of the hairs on my head
blanketing the overflowing ideas inside.
Tangled around justification.
One huge knot.
A rope dangling from the ceiling.
I am too weak to climb to the top
of the raw splintery string
stretching across the mile.
No one will find the end.
Reasons are meant to be tangled.
Steady hands may not remove.
Find a place on the gym floor,
lie down, look up, ponder for a moment.
Then, get up and walk away.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
Safety in bones
splintery and barbed,
cutting away the fear of flesh
as Persephone sleeps eternally.
Knees ache and bruise during restless slumber,
one on top of the other,
from running this eternal marathon
of illusive perfection.
Recklessly chasing rainbows
conceived out of the
blind imagination of the masses.
Hunger pains mistaken for redemption,
skeletons misconstrued as a life
well lived.
Freedom and courage are found
in deadly comments from innocent mouths:
“Are you eating enough?”
“You are so skinny!”
“Are you sick?”
Yes.
I am sick.
A slow, tedious sickness of my soul.
Not wanting to live with the flesh
of my past,
not knowing how to maneuver the
burdensome flesh
of my present,
while obsessively worrying over the flesh
of my future.
As I slowly **** the only self I know,
(or don’t know),
and replace her with a mask of self possession,
I unearth an exquisite relief from the dread of
never being loved because I am
too much.
In my twisted perception,
that is true death.
This is only dying….
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 2:58 AM UTC
the air today was inviting
cold, it's true, but still
there was something about the way
the sunlight shone unfiltered
and fell upon the ice
that held stubbornly to the cracks in the sidewalk
something that made me think:
good things will happen today
and perhaps they did, but i am still unsure
as to whether this chill
and the fact that it no longer pervades my veins
signifies a step upwards
or a steady slide down
and as winter rolls in
on splintery, frozen wheels
i feel a crushing sense of foreboding
and i look up into the sky
so i can ignore the ground
that i might fall into, making me think:
what if nothing is what i think it is?
what if i am somewhere else?
not on this beautifully ambiguous cloud
not stepping through an open door
but out a window?
what if the things said today were heavier
more weighted
than i hoped they would be?
these words poke me, **** me
almost into submission, and you don't know it
but i am simultaneously
opening my eyes and arms to you
and crouching, shivering, shuddering
in a corner, afraid of what you think
when you look at me, and i want to know:
what do you see?
are you looking at me
through rose-coloured glasses
through a lens of colourful fall leaves
through the sun shining upon my face
in all these beautiful places
what do you see?
and i want to know:
what do you feel?
when you place your hand neatly
among the folds of my clothing
and somehow find my waist
when you duck your head down
and breathe
comfortably into the nape of my neck
when my head rests in the crook of your elbow
and i play hide-and-seek with your eyes
ashamed, but you take it as shy
i want to know:
what is this?
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
darling, i know they will tell you
your body is a temple
but they will forget that this temple has
sapphire roads
leading to incessant pounding of a fist
on iron gates of your heart
your marble columns and ivory floors will crumble
t h u m p t h u m p t h u m p
through the kudzu constricting your lungs
do not force yourself to breathe thorns
when you feel inadequate
darling, i know your body is a temple
but they will forget that this temple has
splintery bridges spanning the deepest chasms
of a mind carved from gold
it is easy for the slightest bit of heat to melt
your thoughts until they pour as thick as molasses
into your ivy misshapen lungs
it is okay to have your fruits plucked from you
and roots destroyed
when you can rebuild
again
darling, i know they will tell you
your body is a temple
but they will forget that this temple has been mined
from replenished caverns and forged
by a deadlier inferno still raging within
your flames will be fanned by the winds of change
because you finally
learned to breathe air
after you have cleared the garden
growing deadly in your lungs
do not be afraid of those who have destroyed you
when you have a fire in your eyes and oxygen in your veins
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 2:47 PM UTC
Shattered heart lying on the ground
Splintery in different directions with no hope of being connected
Hope gone with the wind
Replaced with dread and fear
Love is gone
People are replaceable
Until you came along.
c.m.l.
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC