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J J Sep 2019
With a fly across my lips, your paisley wall,
Like the interior of a chandelier,
Floats like a cartoon span sporadically
Into motion.
Commotion, as the grimmoire that observes
Every moment as they occur,
cauldron that stirs the blood
Through the vein, is broken free.For a moment
The sky was loose, we were free and we were floating;
But now we watch as insects dawn our skin
And dismantle our presence.
My hand spirals the green neck of the bottle
That splits us, departing our lips indefinitely,
And you intercept to top your own glass first.
MV Blake May 2015
The migraine calls like God; thunder over mountain
Rolling deep dark echoes, and shaking up the ice
To fall like sharp daggers, dropping points on my eye.
I fall hard to my knees, and pray to stop the pain.

All other thoughts eclipsed, as pain becomes like suns
Exploding in my head, burning through my brain
To leave a charred vessel, too fragile to even move
As ash becomes my skin, and stardust is my lungs.

I practise ritual, I pray so hard it hurts,
I try to straighten form, and breathe in gentle rolls,
Call on Alexander, and all my other roles
That work sporadically; they sometimes just desert.

Destructive forces leer, like imps upon a ledge;
They're grinning ear to ear, as I consider death
To free me from this pain. They know that I can't last
A moment more than this; I'm on the razor's edge.

I feel their fingers close, squeeze my protesting throat;
I grit my teeth and scream, forcing air into my lungs.
And as the pain recedes, I see them standing there,
Patient in their defeat, they leave a passing note:

You can think that we've gone, but it's just a gap in time.
The prayers will come and go, but we are always here,
So smile and take a breath, and master all your fears
Before we gather strength, and strike when you are fine.
A 24 line poem written in alexandrine form, playing on the popular Alexander technique for migraine treatment.
Poppi Mae Jan 2014
Your lips were all I knew
In this crowded room

They spoke to me in ways
I can't begin to repeat
They showed me meaning

They taught me more than anyone else could have.
I knew your lips, before I even knew you.
We sat and talked for a while
Thinking up ideas,
The both of us rather spending time under the stars
Than in a room full of dispute, anger, and the unknown.

You waved goodbye, and my heart fluttered
As if I, and my own heart we're talking to you.

These things only happen sporadically,
It was chance,
It was the best thing that ever happened to me.
kissing at parties
laying under the stars
romance, chance, thoughts and ideas.
great feelings never to have existed in the real world,
only the one that belongs inside my head.
Mr Bigglesworth Sep 2013
Muted skies dim the light, as deep dark clouds roll across the big wide blue
The air is alive with the anticipation of electrical discharge
The wind whips up, catching the vane, spinning it round unsure where to point
The temperature drops, but not unpleasantly, as it cools the skin and soothes the tension
Drip by drip it all begins, each single drop picking its own spot on the dusty road
Sparsely and sporadically, as random as the stars in the night they plot their course to earth
Within seconds the duration between drips lessens and the unblemished dry becomes the spots
The heavens open and the deluge commences, spots turn to puddles and puddles to pools
Soon the gutters are awash with ***** water and debris; small streams emerge and meander across the roadways
People scatter and rush for shelter, shielding themselves from the rain with whatever comes to hand
Then all of a sudden lightening comes fourth, with the grandest of entries, splitting the old oak in twain
Black too its trunk, burnt by immense power, leaving it dismembered in a cacophony of sound
The rain doesn't ease but steps up in pace and fills all the dips and curves in the land
Then as if the taps have been turned, it slows and stops and the sun peaks around the corner of its shroud
The blanket is lifted, the brilliant sun is now back in all its glory and the temperature rises once more
Within an hour the air is humid and the road reappears, the storm has passed soon to be forgotten, but not by the once mighty oak
I didn't try and rhyme this time not a single line and doesn't seem mine.
Cheyenne Yacono May 2017
The grass is the perfect shade of green
Delicately accessorized by flowers
Each strand lays crisply in its place
Wading through the strong wind
The smell entrances those that walk by
Sending hints of your childhood up your nose
The chickadees' whistle as the trees sway elegantly
Every once in a while an acorn will fall
Rolling onto the pavement wanting to root itself in soil
A squirrel sneakily but sporadically greets it
Jumping around the helpless nut
It drags it only four feet until it is once again distracted
Crawling up the tree, perching itself
Staring at a wooden bench where a young lady sits
With her woven brown scarf wrapped delicately on her head
Writing in a blue book that is filled with experienced drawings
She has a paper bag of safflower seeds in her lap
A nearby dove purrs at her politely
The lady sets her velvety book down
For it is no longer interesting
She spreads the safflower seeds precisely around the off-white animal
Smiling as it gazes suspiciously at its food
Inhaling the powerful smell of the grass and dandelions
She gazes at the field in front of her and tucks her brown curl behind her ear.
Turning a page in her hardback book and writes:
*"The grass is the perfect shade of green"
I wanted to challenge myself in this poem and try to use less first person. I noticed a lot of my poems were quite depressing and were always in the first person. With this poem, i decided to take it to a time many people are familiar with where it almost seems like they are at  a park or lake or something like that
Madeleine Apr 2015
I like to climb trees when it rains
There’s an old tree in my yard
With fungus sporadically coagulating on
The piney smooth bark
And when I feel a storm coming
I strip off my shoes, when it is hot or cold
And I climb up to the very top
Wind shakes the branches that my feet dangle over
In my mind, I plummet over the edge
Like a baby bird or piece of fallen divinity
But sitting in a tree while I lose sensation of my skin
With my lips blue
And hair whipped by gusts and gales
Seeing only the lightning in ****** wars
With rapidly healing wounds of instantaneous radiance
And the growlcrashscreamROAR of cracks in air
Is the closest I will ever get to flying
--or falling
Kìùra Kabiri Mar 2017
Long I remember
When alone I’d run
To the sea side shores
For sandy mud-pun walks
On where waves lengths strength
Stretched and end reached
And never passed
And on cliffs patched
Where nests all sea birds
Was a shamble of noises
And a squabble of fights

Some were stealing from others
Others were killing others
Many were murdering in angers
Little were busy battling hungers
Rest were roosting and resting  
Grooving and grooming

Sporadically, a Tern would call
Kwi! Kwi! Kwi-kwiii!
He would gather his feathers
And fully beautifully display
Their clean preened length
Before her maternal mate
To strengthen their eternal fate
And she would appreciate
With gestures affectionate
Her lover’s majestic exhibit

A pair of Puffins pretty would come-Penguins and Magpies black-white coats
Rainbow beaks, puffed cheeks and orange webbed-feet beautiful creatures
Innocent as ever, active as always with mouthfuls of sea foods-fishes
Irregular, her wobbling gait weighed down by her food and hasty walks home-
Worried hurry to luckily escape being bullied and robbed his foetuses’ foods
Along the long ways home full of lethal ruthless poachers and predators:
Feral opportunists and scavengers lurking near paths to their nests
Pitiful I’d feel at how unfair nature is to these hardworking birds
And helpless how they would surrender their hard-earned meals

With Hornbills’-heavy headed huge beak, Ducks’-webbed feet
Fowls’-heavy flying body and an imbalanced Penguins’ wobbling walks
She can’t match the Petrels and Ravens merciless ruthlessness
The Gulls’, and Kittiwakes’-scissor sharp beaks
The Hawks and Ospreys lethal hooked beaks
The Gannets’ and Kites cheetahs’-top speeds
Or the sitting Sea-Steller swift lift of their wings strength  
Piteously he surrenders his hard worked worth meals
And risks another long journey back to survive

A Gull would run, chasing the receding waves
Fast pick a pebble-like coloured sea shell crustaceans
Then poke his long hooked-edge beak
To peep and see if there was anything worth to peak
Of the wavy tides hustles and the sea-side buzzing bustles
The patience of waiting, of watching and of walking
Before the stealth Stilts, their competitor strides
And another giant wave of waves roars and come calling
And they wiggle as they walk and run to escape his sad slaps on sands

The Walrus and the Otters
The Sea-Lions and the Cormorants
Would all nest to rest invest and reinvests
On their furs and feathers fond interests
The Seals and their pretty Pups all would leisure
In colonies on wet large rocks far and away
From washing-waves and terrible-tides and sea-sands
And their Bellow and low and moo like loud grumbles
The irregular moo-mee! Dins of the fish markets rumbles
Would fill and drown the sea-side sounds
Mother besides kids-compassionate
Protecting its investigative innocence
From the cruel colony crushing crashes

Then there would come the tranquility of twilight
The much awaited time for all sea-lovers and watchers
The last of coastal day’s romantic rushes-lovers large leaving to burn their passions
A time when lovers would leave their cottages comforts hand-in-hand: arm-in-arm
To cuddle and cradle and canoodle-to freely display their amorous love
In the sands and mud’s pads, last before the sun bids them another goodbye
The mother of all coastal auburn burn magnificence-the setting sun
The colours of the coastlines as the sun burns touched the ocean’s horizons
It so an enthralling, captivating sight of the sun and the sea and the scenic serenity

The nights quiet with billions lights of signaling stars
and the midnight’s silent with the gleaning moons
These are the nights of the most patient, passionate, romantic passengers-the night watchers
Beautiful! Munificent! Glamorous! Awesome! Splendid! Spectacular!
I’d use all the adjectives there is to describe the alluring scenery of the moments  
So precious-so peaceful to the mind, to the soul and to the heart-a holistic healing
The captured memories of the stars studded nights and the magnificent moonlit midnights
Alone in the nights with just the silences of the soothing breezes on the palms fronds-restful!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Hanna Baleine Jul 2014
My dear, I assure you, this was not my deed. No, my dear, I am innocent. I awoke this morning from a genius dream to darkness, as my windows were covered with grayed curtains from my mother’s gold childhood. I stepped out onto the terrace without notice of the body. Perhaps it was not there yet. However, doctors soon established the lady had been dead for more than thirteen hours. I was not aware of her presence the entire time I took eloquent drags from my cigarette, only noticing the smell of the pollen-filled wind and, now I know, mistaking the sound of her blood hitting the concrete tiles as a mild shower from the south. Had I been aware of her presence, I’d have saved her, separated the handle from the clench of her body, and called the authorities. I’d have cried if only I remembered how. I’d have made love to her while I was still alone. Let her rest in ecstasy.
          Do you understand now, my dear? Do you understand the good that lies within me? I am not a man of killing; perhaps somewhere, a man like me is, but not I, dear friend, not I. Do you believe me? My God, if only the officers believed me. Instead they tied my hands behind my back and forced my lips shut so that I can not even yell of my innocence, all while dragging me into a cellar that now I must call my home because of an action I did not commit. That I did not commit! That I would never dare to commit! Atrocious, they call me. Atrocious, I call them for engraving lies into my brain, fragile to dementia but not to crime. No, never to crime.
         My dear, please note, they say I am who I am not. Devils! They paint pictures of a filthy man unrecognizable and insist it is me. *******! I have felt my skin tingle in manners unimaginable and a sensation of a new body rise within me, a new body whose deeds I have no control over. I am not the producer of this crime. I am innocent. This was my only confession to the officers who came into my apartment due to the neighbors’ complaints of screams unlike those of ******* coming from somewhere near my establishment. Indeed, I found, along with my new workmates, a bloodied woman looking down to the floor, lipstick mouth and tired eyes, impaled. Horrific! Was written on the notepad of the chief of police. Now I am strained on electrical mattresses, obliged to believe what I never would have dared to believe, obliged to reminisce my last taste of self-government: as I stood in the doorway of my terrace along with five police officers realizing they were not prepared for this grotesque imagery, I became aware of a fragile young woman, perhaps in her early 20s, hanging upside down with a rotten handle sticking from her mouth. Indeed, around her disentangled body were the satin sheets of my bed, drenched in her brown substance that shimmered in the snug afternoon sunlight. The officers hurriedly disregarded this fact and focused on the removal of the woman’s body from the handle, only to have her legs detach and fall onto the wet concrete. An officer yelled. Another grimaced. I giggled, watched, focused, determined. Upon further distant inspection, I observed that the handle had been ferociously inserted into her soft, delicate genital, forced through her dry ******, passing along the large and small intestines, only to finally pierce her stomach and come back up through her mouth. The beauty of the crime was terrifying.
          The beauty of the crime is terrifying. It is a blissful poem written by finesse, workmanship, delicacy. There is no manner for this legendary craft to be produced by me: I am a sufferer of mediocrity and its dreadful boredom. The father of the crime was a genius, the one I have always dreamt of being. Now, my friend, since my last day of freedom, I have no beauty to witness anymore. Confined, I befriend insects whose exoskeletons allow for strength and resistance to remain a part of them. I am incompatible to these powers; I am innocent. At many times, I howl for a touch at night; I awake with cut nails and scars between my thighs. Guards insist on restraining me. They sabotage me until I see Hell. Then, I am finally able to stay calm. No more do I sporadically feel my skin tear from my bones as if it were attempting to evaporate from me as a slight sting overcomes these unfamiliar ligaments. They ask me how? They ask me why? I remain silent fore I do not recall how or why. I remain silent fore I desire to know how or why. I desire the brilliance of the unspeakable act. Unspeakable in its grandeur; unspeakable in its cruelty. The filthy man the officers paint now becomes attributed to the crime’s brilliance to me. I see him more everyday. He wanders in mirrors and speaks to me when I am not aware of time and presence.
        However, disappointed, I remain with no explanation for the officers but that sunsets are composed of separations of wavelengths that shine differently onto each ray of existence than onto any other globular star. And, as this occurs, the identical wavelengths spray themselves among the individuals who are most vulnerable to hysteria in order to reflect themselves in unsuitable manners. That is how my mother explained to me the illness her womb inflicted onto my sacred hemisphere. That is how I began to call the foul insects who dared to climb into my cellar, my sole companions.
Zak Krug Dec 2012
I’m sporadically pinging
bouncing off mental walls.
Take a deep breath
In and out.
Doesn’t help at all.
My mind is racing
100,000 miles a minute.
Looking at street lights
out library windows,
burning and bursting with
anxiety.
This structure is crumbling into
anarchy of the mind.
It’s about **** time.
My mind forgets
about reality
and remembers
the
worst
possible
scenarios.
The world stands still.
Figuratively,
of course the world is still spinning on its axis.
I can feel it in my bones.
Constantly in motion.
The law of conservation of energy states,
“That energy can be neither created nor destroyed.”
Therefore, it must change forms.
The mind is a powerful tool.
A powerful weapon
against oneself.
There is no way of stopping
what is to come.
The paths get wider and I stay the same.
It’s all in my head.
Nothing is changing.
Everything is the same.
In a world full of atoms
we are all in this
til the end.
Connor Reid Jun 2015
From the stem of the brain comes spiders
Already dead and ground
Into black arachnid paste
Filling up a small white polystyrene cup

Precariously balanced atop
A faux wood computer desk
2ft from the ground and shoved in
The corner of a dingy, sterile office space

Twelve floors up and three streets from wherever
Seemingly, and willingly
Standing still, waiting, to be thrown
Across the room and crushed

By the thick rubber so(u)le of conscience
Peering into the nebula of hot exhume
Each grain of plastic simultaneously
Destroying and creating infinite space
As the bigger pieces shard sporadically.

It's cold tonight
Breath could be seen in the damp
Air of every extending cubicle
If only anyone were there
To see such a thing...

Begging for a question could only it be asked
Obscurity fills the halls and laughs
Across the windows, creating an organic
Incandescent glow, which broods
Around the ankles...

But only to those who are there...or were

The angles, the geometry
Of this vast open space - Seem to bend
When not observed, as if omni-present
And transformative - Shaping itself to jest
With the known & unknown
This midnight city is hot, buttery and populated

But stretching down, splaying -
The idea, the presence, the cold

Never seems to leak into the real world
Not even when a window opens by itself
And an outside wind rushes in,
It is escorted without even the softest sombre

All that is left is foundations creaking
In the high winds, as the battered bricks cry,
Yet this seems to only be heard from the outside
As the air settles, the structure sags
And shifts with every push - spinning almost
From under itself

Yet, we cannot see this or feel it...
SamBee May 2013
Bouncing from thought to thought,
Acting sporadically,
Making sure my mind is as unstable as a committed patient,
Checking out with 5 more disorders that I had checking in....
renea lee Mar 2017
in the infernal uproar of possibilities when the universe halted an alternative course of movement (to which eternity might be possible in a cosmic place as a confirmation congruent to a derivative of consciousness), there lies an ephemeral mind; at a certain point in time being, who thinks that everything will be plausible in a galaxy of transcendence.

if a particle moves alongside this ephemeral consciousness to which it caused a disturbance, every particle of the latter might be in flux.

[you are that particle]

and if and when, in a conscious state of space and time you sporadically moved and pulled the orbit to which i constantly managed to retain the equilibrium, then should the universe permit us to drift into the internal immobility of togetherness, we became infinitesimal--
but only through the metaphysics of time being.

[at least we had]

(03/09/17)
Amanda Blomquist Oct 2015
Standing here withered, with clenched fist and a dented tongue.
Cracked teeth and a collapsed lung.
My nerves jumping the gun and firing sporadically,
... A million jolts to the body at once.

I'm here, with wide eyes and a broken jaw.
My heart races in anticipation.
A battle against myself.

A war I've never won.
2015
Nigel Morgan Jun 2014
Who lives a still life? he asked.
It was the end of the day,
he was alone.
He could think of a few souls
living quietly, not doing much,
letting the days go by.
They would say they were busy
exercising their minds,
reading sporadically,
worrying a little about distant children,
noisy neighbours, absent friends,
the state of the house.
But they espoused stillness,
enjoyed the afternoon light
as it fell across the windowed sill
illuminating that Venetian vase.
They were not anxious about making tea,
just yet. It was good, this being still.

She often wondered about the still life,
the artists’ ultimate challenge, duty even
to that most particular of genres;
the attempt to catch the moment,
the fleeting moment, it could only be
a moment when light fell
sharp or diffused on objects chosen
or arranged, a never to be recovered
moment, except by the painter’s hand.

Here was a chair,
a red armchair in a room
almost certainly in Gordon Square,
Bloomsbury, a Vanessa Bell, she said,
painted in, well, 1934 or 5,
and very characteristic then,
its dark blue cushion
plumped for a soon-to-be sitter.
It stands in front of her painted screen,
obscuring the lower part of the window
open to the morning, yesterday’s flowers
in a vase nearby, on a table with books.

And above the chair,
a small painting hangs,
an intimate scene,
left of the window where
the long curtains fall
to a still pool of fabric
gathered on the wooden floor.
Brian Oarr Feb 2012
Dusk and dust envelop this intriguing Amish couple,
as she watches through the windshield of her parked car.
She's been observing sporadically for well on seven weeks,
as they've taken the old relic of a house
from disrepair to today's refurbished splendor.
It will be their home.

Away in the adjacent field, his straw hat barely visible,
an elder guides a team of Belgians five across
from the furrows of the tract toward the dying sunlight.
She follows them with her eyes, marveling their magnificence
and his unassuming control of their power.
They are the source of the dust.

Outside the house another Amish woman, perhaps
their mother, unhanging clothes, while a baby
plays upon a blanket on the ground. Black bonnet on her head,
flowing soft blue dress, and bib apron, she works
serenely as the sun melts warmly down the western sky,
leaving in its wake the dusk.

Dwindling moments of a day that mark a turning point
for the young couple and their unseen spectator.
For them a place to make a loving home amongst
their brethren and for her a revelation in her life.
She's committed once again to love's entanglements.
Dusk and dust have claimed another.
"Counting Coup" was a game played by the Native Americans of the Great Plains. And while it meant to them a non-violent way of counting battle victories, I thought it appropriate for the victory achieved by the "Dusk and dust", when they claimed her heart
Kinsey Clark Jun 2010
Summer’s silence sent your whispers up my spine
Lightning flashed, in fluorescent twists
The night you made me unwind
Our pretentious walls and our secret codes—
The ones we’d crafted with time
Washed away that night in the storm
When your eyes burned into mine

And with the bed as my frame
I painted you a picture
Of my diaphanous figure
An arousing compunction that caused you no shame
Our friction
Your aggression
The contours of my thighs
The grinding of our hips
My concupiscent sighs
That penetrated your skin, burning like a flame
As you released your ambitions and moaned my name

Fall’s fleeting force sent my heart flittering to the sky
Skipping beats sporadically
At the thought of saying goodbye
You were my baby; I, your sweet girl
Your yearning gaze tangible before I’d caught your eye
Intermittent kisses, giggling all the while—
Finding fruition in simply making me smile

Your touch gentle and my movements slow,
We melded together in hedonic harmony
Your body, a piece of me—
Like an anomaly I’d never known
Your inhales
My fingernails
Our internal temperatures heating a degree
You whispered, “I love you”
A curiously rational impetuosity
Your love, a beautiful and delicious glow
Tempting me into oblivion below
Copyright Kinsey Clark
Maeve Sep 2013
He scrunches his eyelids.
Peers through the half-closed curtains,
Which cover those big eyes with a color that has yet to be named,
At the bright light of lovely advancement
That connects him to me.
He's sleep stubborn.
Refuses to cave.
Until those curtains close themselves,
Until only sporadically does the bright light seem to shine.
Lit up with my awake little talks,
While he tries his very best to hide his sleepy eyes.
But he can't.
I know it, I do.
Even from behind those distanced bright screens of ours,
I can feel those sleepy eyes closing.
And the countdown begins.
Until I receive the message that tells me what I already knew.
He's sleep stubborn.
And that's something he never wants to admit to.
Miranda Lopez Dec 2013
For many years we were planted in this soil together.
We grew from seeds to saplings, our roots entangled.
Now there are thick forests separating us,
and I have been replanted into such foreign ground.
Sporadically I catch your leaves on a gust of wind.
They tell of how you are no longer a young seedling.
They tell of  how you are thriving in our soil,
even with my roots no longer intertwined into yours.

We have learned to blossom in our own earth.
And someday we will become only stumps of what we once were.
We will no longer flourish with fruits and flowers on our branches.
But my roots will still know yours,
and they will remember where they were once interlaced in our beginnings.
Lendon Partain Mar 2014
All of these human can be nothing but be basic and face it
It's tracing the lines of the facade that's been spliced hundreds of strides and on mauve colors lines placed then
Retraced to the grid full of masterfully hid fingers stagnant and bent tripping placid and flaccid like ***** that are emaciated and crypt ****** and splattered like pavement placed upon pickled waves strafed across walled like cinder blocks half way through baking
Entombed youth encased in the catwalk of toxins
Ensuing and spewing no lines not concrete times and dimed up in baggy a sporadically creased into godsends.
There is no god in the streets he's illegal and should have bend the taxes been spread towards all the youth it's intwined threads. The volumous illusion of writing. Put into cursive this is not my writing ******* stop hacking my account you credophile.
The only way to live is the high life.
It is thing overcoming the tops of woven rugs covered so that beneath there's a heap of root vegetation growth so deep seeded it grows in the sand it is mired in. Below the seep of the sin it's been trampled in. These horses don't have legs. Just *****. To just braid yourself in them.
"Braid yourself in the *****"-Gautama Buddha
Anna Devereux Jun 2013
A crystal drop upon glistening leaves;
A wale through bark upon towering trees.  
A fresh gust of air with a simple breeze;
A livid set of clouds will hide skies keys.

Day desaturates and forms low degrees.
A sun falls down with a storms great displease.
Within the rain, plants will sink to their knees,
And wait patiently for a howl to seize.

A quite bird approaches cold with a sneeze,
Hunkering down to avoid late nights freeze.
Sporadically, winds form a silly tease,
‘Til gales quiet down and prepare with flees.

In morning’s clear rise, new day brings release,
Upon wishful flowers, which plant new seeds.
A wall of bad brings a gateway of ease,
Allowing grateful life to keep on sprees.  
Pisceanesque Jul 2015
Concurrent sessions of geometric,
(explicitly whimsical)
liquified squares
arose from patterned nether regions
of ‘somewhere else out there’
in smothering particles of
truest radiant flares.

And sat I upon the visible dreamscape space
that existed no-where
but outside of my illusory plan,
and cherished, I, the pictorial preempted
in the moment of my after-life birthing
of which polite demand
again beseeched me ride.

Yet not a one of the graphical displays
(filtered fresh from infinite dimensions)
approached me like a complete whole
– neither a partial whole –
but as a synchronistic sphere
of clouded systemic rumours
made to halt to keen attention
but one light-bodied and mirrored virtual soul
such as the sporadically alter-egoed I.

Flowing from one source to the next,
beyond the simple measure of a single point
a blast of knowing flagged a recognition spark
that folded time and space
betwixt one universal structure
unto the
(not unlike symbiotic)
self instructioned mind –
and so to Mind Exist described another route
for Love to spread It’s fastest cycle;
birthing cells and growing rife,
to yield a fresh creation.

And hereupon I watch/ed with hunger
that which transpired time before,
providing what is harnessed now,
with will to still repeat again,
and so again to knot forever
into chains of new momentum;
weaving,
waving,
slipping through and marking too,
another path to God.
© Tamara Natividad
www.pisceanesque.com
Written 11 June, 2009
-
sweet ridicule Feb 2016
I can't walk in
flowered printed heels
I've watched you study yourself in
the mirror
steady neck leading down to
gentle shoulders and halcyon hands
sour ideas filling my brain I'm
imagining my hands
sweetening your concerned
soft-muscled legs
into certainty
bronze-brown strands of curly hair
on dark grey seats
I sense dancing trees behind me
and savor the beautiful bitterness
of abyssal secrets
on my saccharine tongue
your collar bones are silken
and veiled with Taurus-led
misunderstandings.
mine are always veiled with
uncertainty and
sporadically veiled with
you
this was nice to write
The thought of it horrifies me,
Even more so than what death entails,
It forces me to sporadically awaken.

I visualize myself taken away to a cold grotto,
Where I'm violated by strangers
And alienated, rather than uplifted,
For an unknown duration of time

I knew what might happen,
The consuming fervor,
My behavior will not be understood

Haven't I alienated myself all along?
Was it not I who voluntarily auditioned
For the infamous role of the outcast
As well as the acclaimed role of the golden child?
The critics may write their reviews of my performances

My petite hands peruse
Through the drawer's treasure,
The prescription pill bottle is
Considered as a future reference.

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith

8/2/14
Don Bouchard Apr 2012
Beneath the wind-blown clouds,
Shadows promise rain
But not today.

Sealed water bearers bluster by,
Too driven and too high to quench
Panting prairies where they lie.

Thin skirts of rain begin descent...
Devoured in the desiccated air.

The parched land waits,
Inhabitants determined to survive,
Perhaps to thrive,
When slower, heavier clouds arrive.

Persistent genes of prairie dwellers
Early ripen to store quick growth
Within their husky seeds,
Bear children to mature
At lightning speeds,
Live rugged lives
Blessed sporadically with green
That quickly fades to brown,
Wait patiently to send
Their children on ahead.

So life remains and waits
Beneath the scuttling clouds
Enduring sun and shade,
In hope of rains.
J Allen Bertsch Sep 2011
Even in the dark clings meaning
“It’s all futile,” is all she’ll tell me
But she’s still floundering
Along this midnight coastline
What we perceive is so unreal
Fragmented realities
We fill the blanks, all unknowing
That we create our own cells
I wish she heard me the way
I imagine myself heard
This is all but impossible

Blessings fall from unknown lands
She tore down these stubborn walls
To wake me from depthless dream
I breathe deeply of her scent
And so bittersweet savor this
Breath of sea mist and beggar’s grave
She speaks novels with silken touch
The danger lies in returning back
Staying thoughts of easy death
The temptation seems so clear
She resists and trudges on

I let her once again flee
Thinking it a diversion
But never from my window
Shall I see the shore again
She visits still, sporadically
I recount my doubtful suffering
She nods as if she understands
But they took her tongue and hands
The grief in me comes naturally
As I begin to weave a tale  
To feed the future my lies
James Dec 2017
I know you promised to be always be true, never leaving your ideal diplomacy
Yet here you stand, half naked and breathing sporadically
I'll let you play me like every other nobody who just wants to touch my body
You'll **** me over and leave but I'll still thank you, wiping my mouth on my sleeve
Cause I can't help but wonder where you'd go if you didn't have me

My mind begs a simple question
Does your chastity know just where you are tonight
Does your single life know that you'd much rather lay between my thighs
Cause everyone knows what you want except for you, so use me gently
Please kiss me numb, then you can let me down and break me some

Maybe I'm just overreacting, but the way you let her climb all over you says otherwise
Perhaps I've misunderstood what you meant by cutting all ties
Cause you seemed so very comfortable with resting your hands on my body
You don't know what you're into except when you're ******* around with me in someone else's bedroom
I don't know what I've done to deserve getting so brutally slew, so please just **** and leave me tonight
Even if we both know you'll never fully look me in the eyes after you've finished between my thighs

So when you refuse to kiss me but later lay your hands on me, I'll pretend I'm surprised
I understand you have personal boundaries, I can never force a greedy man to give
So when you brush a fingertip against my lips, I should just smile
Because heaven forbid I should try to extract what I want from an unforgiving heart
Because you're happy to use me when you want some late night company, careless when you leave me to seek new
Through all this I have to wonder
You seemed so  wed to these ideals of being single but
Are you still married?
C E Ford Nov 2013
I could never capture
the face of the one I love
with a paintbrush.

The thin strokes of midnight
which adorn his eyes by the hundreds
would never be fully justified
by my inartistic hand.

I could never capture
the blades of winter grass
that sprout from his face
and dot his cheeks,
bundling around his jawline
sporadically,

Nor the cluster of roses
that attach themselves
at his apples,
and around his nose.

Constellations
are strewn about his face
as if the stars had fallen on to
the snow covered hills
and valleys
that make up his visage.

Though he is not without blemish,
to me he is perfection;
as if God created him
from divine clay
and holy water,
and sent him to me
to place under my care and affection,

So when the porcelain cracks,
or the swirls of earth above his head
lose their shine,
I will be there,
with chisel and brush in hand
to fill in the crevasses
and repaint forgotten smiles,
and to remind him
that he is beautifully
and wonderfully made.
Traveler Sep 2014
Pick up one grain of sand from the Atlantic coast
Carried it to the Pacific coast and set it down
Repeat until every last grain has been moved
This is but a drop of time in the bucket of eternity

In the overall scheme of the universe
We are equivalent to a single subatomic particle
Spinning sporadically inside one of the many atom
Which make up a single grain of sand
Yet the possession of our soul somehow
Makes us very significant!
Traveler Tim re to 02/19
David W Jones Nov 2013
He sits there
Hoping she will
Say something

She says nothing
Hoping he will
Say something

He sits there
Quietly observing
The way she pretenses
Her thoughts
Erratically

She says nothing
Listening to his silence
Create a vocabulary of
Unspoken words

His sits there
Silently watching
The way she changes
Her moods
Sporadically

She says nothing
About the text message
She received with
His words of affection

*Meant for someone else
Zachary Helland Mar 2014
Right foot pressed to the accelerator
racing ahead of every car
in your vicinity
to slide into the left lane
and watch the following cars
through your rear-view mirror
honk and scream alone in vain

There’s a wayward shift in speed
followed by an anxious whip
of a commuter’s head to assure himself
that his wagon will clear
the space between two cars to his left
that come and go sporadically
driving quicker as the distant merge begins to appear

So when that day rolls around
when you find yourself reading bumpers
keeping a tenacious grip on that steering wheel
racing alongside silhouettes of commuters
each determined to be the first one
to merge into to left lane
and set the speed for following *******.

— The End —