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Poetoftheway Aug 2018
,how do you know when
(a human is too broken?)




<•>

human too broken?

like the light bulb, removal from its fixture, a simple shaking revelation of the tinkling filament spent, something that cannot be repaired, the only option is replacement and that makes
you cry

the empty box of oatmeal raisin cookies, you find secret’d,
hid by you, not to be found by you
at the bottom of the kitchen garbage,
but box betrayal, by the chartreuse tipped box lid sided
peeking upwards, asking, silencing screaming,
what did I do to deserve
this degrading

like the blouse now too tight that it brings stares as the buttons strain, unwelcome attention unintended,
you know it but still pretend not to see,
for you both once loved that silky guise that so
heightened the high tender, the match of your pink rose skin letting, no! making
your eyes glisten, like broken filament glass, on the sidewalk,
recalling the pleasured admiration,
rain remembered from the
prior priority of a life consisting of only
perfect gifts

so mean revert to the poseur question; this is how...

remove the human from a fixed place, whimpering-threatened,
you may hear clear the crackle cackling  of the innard shards against the misperception of a body intact,
even if you do,
no repair service you want,  can be found, see it nowhere,
is it even
anywhere advertised?

the body presumed intact is secret’d under a tactile coverlet,
holey scupperrd holy cuttered
so that the cells and bicuspids, the threads
no longer function in a tandem,
you keep it in the closet closed,
in the back, deep hid, where,
when it screams why,
it can be safe ignored,
because  ‘betrayed’ is no longer a word,
in your globe's dictionary,
the parental controls activated by you to
save your own inner child’s unconstrained confusion,
it has been removed


so the broken glass, the clothes you dressed each other,
if not weep-well,
well enough hid,
the fit is off,
the fit is off,
the coverlet ripped so bad and neither cares
an unexpected poem, unplanned, needing work
aug 4-5
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
HIS WOODEN LEG STARES AT ME...

Grandfather Gordon
scratches his wooden leg
insists: "It...itches!"

always a different explanation
how he lost the leg
enough to fill a book

Grandfather Gordon
scratches the air
where his leg should be

Grandfather Gordon's
wooden leg now
a tommy gun...a sword...a unicorn's horn

"Give me back me leg
ya daft wee buggers!"
pleading for his leg back

Grandfather Gordon's gone
his wooden leg lives on
dusty in a corner
e Mar 2018
countless stares and empty chairs.
a newfound solace in this empty space.
this was my ig post’s caption. i got inspired with the photo i took yesterday.
Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.



























BANG!





















An artificial cloud.

































“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.

The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;

indoors,

apart,

he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
       a
           beast
                      crashed
                                       in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.


"FERMIN!"






















He hurdles the stares
and explodes
when it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.

He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass,
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering

pavement

It


peters


off


into





the







street.





"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"





Hands bleed
and flesh breathes.

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.

"Podria haber sido peor"
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
Sebastian Nov 2018
You turn around,
You call my name
But I no longer believe the same;
There's paper stacked upon your window pane.

The clocks are worn,
My boots are torn,
They've come some way since they were born
And things that shine often do not conform.

A whisper here
Is a thunder there,
A glass of wine to lay it bare;
Don't tell me silence dwells behind that stare.

You don't run fast
Because you must;
It's fine to break out from your crust
And build a smile that's free from all your lust.

We're far apart
But all the same;
Forget the shapes and forms and blame
And you will see we walk down the same lane.

I walk through eyes
So close and distant
Depending on how long the instant;
Some grow warm while others grow resistant.
Thom Jamieson Jul 2018
"Over here"...
but nothing.
The scene continues
unabated by my presence.
Plastic smiles and lustful eyes
bountiful but not for me..never me.
In the mirror' s unforgiving gaze
I am unrecognizable
Replaced with a crude rendering
of my previous likeness
fashioned by children
with lumpy imperfect clay.
Silence replaces loving laughter
that used to follow my witty banter.
Silence and stares.  Sympathetic stares
tinged with smugness and fear.
"Over here...over here..."
still nothing.
I recently received a message from a composer named joe drzewiecki who was interested in putting this poem to music.  Here are the results.  I didnt know my words could sound so good. Thank you joe drzewiecki, I am flattered.

https://soundcloud.com/jomama-2/invisible
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
Blind Willie Johnson strums six strings a day
He drinks with the woman who taught him to play
He spells out his secrets in the songs that he sings
And breathes his life onto six rusty strings
Blind Willie Johnson brings home the blues
Blind Willie Johnson will wail the blues to you

The brothel he grew up in is tearing down the walls
He's got so many memories of those smokey halls
His mama could be there or she could be dead
He's got no pictures, just anecdotes instead
Blind Willie Johnson said he don't know a thing
Except for the truth in the blues that he sings

Blind Willie Johnson ain't really blind at all
He's just got those gray eyes from years of alcohol
He stares into the smoke of a Friday night crowd
Who stare back at him as his stories ring out
Blind Willie Johnson doesn't cover up a thing
Listen to his pain in the blues that he sings

"Blind Willie Johnson" reads the graveyard stone
Under the blanket of the sky, Willie rests alone
Though his voice is lost underneath the ground
The world will never forget Blind Willie's sound
Blind Willie Johnson sang the way he felt
He never complained about the hand he was dealt
yogirlturkey Sep 13
he looks at me as if
i were a precious jewl
he locks his eyes on me
when im not looking
mesmerizing
he passes by as if he
couldn't see me
he is shy to do more
than wave
he is prideful
but his beautiful
sparkly eyes
they trap me & hold me
his curly, dark, fluffy
hair has my thoughts
wanting my hands to
play with it
his nice, bright, big smile
makes me want to kiss
him all day long . . .
2:15 p.m.  8/19/19
DIPTI DHAKUL Jun 20
Sun stares at Mercury.
Mercury stares at Venus.
Venus stares at Earth.
Earth stares at Mars.
Mars states at Jupiter.
Jupiter stares at Saturn.
Saturn stares at Uranus.
Uranus stares at Neptune.
Neptune stares at Moon.
Moon stares at me.
Me stare at Sun.


©Feelings Coated
©Feelings Coated
laura Jul 2018
stone cold killa
knockin' fellas off
they feet, ****** on the bay
writing poetry and
pushing bodies in the lake

she's a killa, man
get off on false promises
of commitment
no 5-o's, no weapon clues
no witness

i'm dead broke
i'm her next target
spending money on happiness
a poem like a wandering outlaw
us, causing sinister stares under the sunset
PC classic Oct 2016
He opens the fridge and stares at his own face.

"Always the cooler one" he grins at his own joke.

No sharing birthdays from now on.
Osiria Melody Feb 14
With nimble hands, the opening of a plastic
bag transpires,
Dire need to consume food, edge of bag rips
A roar of condemnation, sneering at you
Contents of food fly out from its captivity,
Dispersed across the floor like lawn sprinkler
water

With frightened eyes, overcome with the rush
of tears as if they were competing to fall out of
them,
Food stares at you and relishes in its final
moments,
Should I abide by the five-second ru–
A gargantuan foot bears down on food, like one
slamming his foot abruptly on car brakes
Cccrunchhhh, cccrunchhh...

Such a tragedy!
But, by the way, this pair of shoes sure look
better than mine
With nimble hands, you seize the individual by
the neck and–
Sssnapppp, ppopppp...
Dire need to feel remorse, but none embraces
you

With nimble hands, the opening of a plastic bag
transpires,
Don't ever touch my food.
Thank you.



Melody
2/14/19
Don't you hate it when you eat a snack from a plastic bag, open it up, only to witness one of the edges ripping?
Jordan Rowan Nov 2015
As the choir breathes and fires freeze
As the sun kneels on the highways of what's real
There's a soldier of broken love
Standing on the King's Landing above

There's dim lights on his skin-tight
jeans, and it's reflected in Ray-Ban eyes
He stares off as the coffee drops
Into her cup and she doesn't even look up

And now is now somehow

The night cries as the winter dyes
The windows in frost and loss
The LED is bad company
Its arms aren't warm and it dies in storms

And now is now somehow

Words inside the head are never said
Life beyond the grave is never saved
The door is never opened by the wind
Love never fought for never begins
Jamie Riley Aug 2018
The black horizon stares

at me like a fatal wound.

I might now know to

respect the sunrise.

The void will always

brighten eventually.
avalon Apr 2018
i am worn books and french vocabulary, ice cold chai and steaming earl grey. i am stone stares and eyes watering, uncertainty in silence and sharp decisive conversation. i am shaking hands and reciting poetry during anxiety attacks and i am indie rock showers and top-of-your-lungs pop radio in the car. i am empathy without sympathy, crying in the bathroom stall and i am childhood cartoons and your favorite stuffed animal and the beach in the summer. i am desperate to be alone and desperate to scream and desperate to find someone who knows what i mean and still likes me. i am comfort zone constellations, Orion's belt on every nighttime stroll, i am the hollow tree in the backyard of the house we don't own and i am my handwriting and the words in my poems. i am everything you have made me out to be and i hate that; hate that you see all my flaws so clearly but that isn't all of me and i know that now.

i am the trinkets my grandmother left me and her eyes when she looked at me and the way she cried when she read my poetry. i am a thousand ways i have loved those dear to me and the children who fall asleep on me and the way my cat runs to me and i don't need your or anyone's approval but God's and my own. thanks anyway.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018
A GHAOTH ANEAS!
( O SOUTH WIND! )

My six year old father
stares from a photograph

splendid in  his sailor suit
standing outside time.

He will not survive
Ypres.

There is no photograph to show
him as a soldier.

Mother couldn't bear them.
Burned them.

She forever talking to
him in her head

loving his Devonshire
accent.

A thrush is singing from behind
enemy lines.

Spring can't understand
humans and their ways

dresses the trees
in their freshest  green.

"Jack...Jack Jack!" she cries
to the wind from the south.

A Ghaoth Aneas!
( O South Wind )

"Sin chugaibh mo phóg ar rith ins an ród
Leigim le seol gaoithe í."

( Here goes my kiss to you rushing along the road
I send it on the wings of the wind.)
South Wind was written in the 1700s by Domhnall Meir-geach Mac Con Mara( "Freckled Donal Macnamara" )in homesickness for his homeland( after he was banished for some 'misdoings' )in County Mayo. This sublime melody has a very Carolan-ish air about it...essence of my Irish childhood. I used to hum it to myself for comfort when my sister Junie was killed in a bus crash back in the world of '67.

A Ghaoth Aneas!

A Ghaoth Aneas na mbraon mbog glas
A ní gach faiche féarmhar
Bheir iasc ar eas is grian i dteas
Is líon is meas ar ghéagaibh

Más síos ar fad mar mbínn féin seal
Is mianach leat-sa séide
Cuirim Rí na bhFeart dhod chaomhaint ar neart
‘S túir don tír sin blas mo bhéil-se!

Sínim aneas ag díonamh cleas
Nach ndíonann neach san saol so
Mar íslím gaimh is scaoilim leac
Is díbrim sneachta as sléibhte

Ó taoi tú ar lear go bhfuí tú mo neart
‘S gur mian liom do leas a dhéanamh
Go bhfúigfe mé mo bheannacht ins gach aon tslí ar mhaith leat
Is choíche i gCathair Éamoinn!

A Chonnachta an tseoid, an tsuilt ‘s an spóirt
I n-imirt ‘s i n-ól an fhíona
Sin chugaibh mo phóg ar rith ins an ród
Leigim le seol gaoithe í

Tá mise beo i mboige na seod
Mar a mbrúitear gach sórt bídh dhom
Ach is mian liom fós tarraing d’bhur gcomhair
Muna gcluine mé ach ceól píopa!

O South Wind!

O South Wind with the soft clear drops
You that make every sword grassy
Bring the fish to the waterfall, give heat to the sun
And abundance of fruit to the branches

If it is far to the north where I once lived
That you are minded to blow
May the King of Power preserve your strength
And give the taste of my mouth to that country!

I blow from the south, performing feats
Which no one else on earth can do
For I lay winter low and scatter the ice
And banish the snow from the mountains

Since you are in need you shall have my strength
And I want nothing more than to help you
I shall leave my blessing in every place you choose
And always in Cathair Éamoinn!

O blissful, joyous, sporting Connacht
Home of gaming and of wine-drinking
Here goes my kiss to you rushing along the road
I send it on the wings of the wind

I am living in splendid luxury
Where every kind of food is dressed for me
But yet I am fain to draw towards you
If I should hear but the music of the pipes!
Johannes Coetzee Sep 2016
I love the way you wrap your eyes around me
Your kitten eyes, snow white smile and innocent face
I love the way you and I hold hands and talk for hours
Our deep empty stares; ending with passionate kisses
I love it when you call me baby
Your eyes must be a reflection of your love for me
It seems to be the only thing linking your heart to me
I love the way you and I make love
So passionate
I love the way you appear in my dreams; bringing about light into my dreams
You and I
Just you and I
Like lovers do
#love
Lewis Hyden Dec 2018
A pale green Siren
With fair skin, and the distant
Aroma of coffee beans...

Behind her, a broad,
White-bearded old man
Grinning, stares through my head...

And above, the dull hum
Of an apple, a single bite missing,
Penetrates me with its glare...

My eyes sting with tears.

It's almost like they need
To force us to be human.
A poem about advertising.
#30 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
delilah Jun 2018
i have sadly ingrained an old version of myself so deeply in others' minds that i can't be viewed as anything else

they think i don't love

they think i won't love

they think this because for the longest time love is all i craved and all i feared

my fear of being unloved by more outweighed my desire to make more love me

they think i don't want affection (platonic and otherwise)

they think this because for the longest time i couldn't stand others' hands near me

i fear the vulnerability more than i desire the comfort

they think i don't care

they think this because i walk with my head higher than their stares

they think this because it's easier to say i don't

every bad thought and misconception is in their heads
because
i
put
it
there
i'm not sure this properly portrayed the point i wanted to make
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