"starker" poems
his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged
this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words
his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light
there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive
you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry
suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night
understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?
no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride
and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light
©2016janetaylor
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
There's an apartment filled with drugs
Somewhere in the past
Where I'd roll around on my rug
With a body of little mass
I was malnourished
And felt like a tourist
I protected embarrassing ****** desires
And felt like I couldn't speak
I thought I'd stay silent until I retired
But the pressure got too deep
I was afraid of what they think
And the Kool-Aid they drink
I made mistakes
And tried to act straight
I felt fake
Which engendered hate
My friends stopped seeing me
After I stopped being me
When everything got too cold
I reached out for somewhere to hold
And grasped a syringe
To erase my cringe
I didn't sleep on a pallet
Or get beat by a mallet
My parents loved me
Isn't that lovely?
I felt pain all the same
I felt like I had fame
And everybody was watching
And grenade launching
I tried to foolishly avoid it
Which proved to be ineffective
I thought drugs might destroy it
Which led to countless injections
I've seen interesting things
Like wives selling rings
To be drug dealer bling
And the constant scheming
Of the get-rich-quick dreaming
These events become boring
After you see girls *******
And homeless people looting up
And pregnant women shooting up
And pulverizing police pulling up
The difference becomes starker
Once things get even darker
My life had no worth
Back and forth
Between rehab and relapse
So much time had elapsed
Life became about learning how one thing leads to another
Like a caring mother who gives birth to two brothers
One is of use to society
For he has proper propriety
The other is a poet
But doesn't know it
He can carve out a peaceful existence
That can be his righteous resistance
He needs to be nurtured
By someone he collides with
Somewhere in the future
At a location to be decided
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
I never got to know who I would really be.
The day was pure, I went to play and lift me brown-eyed brave;
I never got to know who I would really be.
My cousin was not home, but his father was,
who offered to show curious me something;
I never got to know who I would really be.
Taking my hand, up we went into that shadowed bedroom;
I never got to know who I would really be.
There I cried and nearly died as breath and trust drained away,
and then he finished;
I never got to know who I would really be.
With all my four-year might, I barely stood,
trembling friendless for a lifetime,
waiting and wishing for the end of me that never came,
frozen by the echoes of his whistling;
I never got to know who I would really be.
My light and trust twisted numb, and I became,
in that sacrificial horror, unwantedly wise;
I never got to know who I would really be.
My nature heart and caring head left for other worlds,
replaced by unwanted imitations,
strange deliveries from the unknown;
I never got to know who I would really be.
The rest of my life unfolded in starker silence,
hidden tears, and lurking fears, later liberated
for short, surprised, and sublime times
by the fairest love of two women,
safe children, their adoring little ones,
and a few determined adventures now and then,
hinting of the lost;
I never got to know who I would really be.
But now I write it all, and from my defiant and disobedient depth
consider, when I can, what imagining did for me
and never came true,
to stand and say and show
who I have become anyway.
This is my private anthem to my beloved self,
though
I never got to know
who that boy might really be.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
A woman telt me good today
"why do you look so feckin' gay?
Yer a bonny lad an' no mistake
but yez look like up yer doup ye' take!"
Now Scots women don't tend to be too soft
before I came here I would have scoffed
but being telt at point blank range
is kind of nice but very strange
Pointing, poking and checking my teeth
inspecting my body above and beneath
shaking their heads and whispering "oh,
the poor wee boy, disnae' he know?
Our women don't like your poems of poo
an' each of my girls is starker than you,
if they was to woo ye, you'd wintle all day
a scraich an'a scriegh you'll be sklented away!"
So quietly here in my flat I will hide
from the women who are making me so terrified.
A handful take pity and treat me quite well,
but I' m blate, buggert an' libbet the rest will all tell!
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 1:45 PM UTC
*his writing caught everyone’s attention
like an artist i once saw on the street in québec
he stood out amongst the crowd in montréal
i asked to take his picture
he obliged
this writer is also canadian
and paints masterpieces
with words
his colorful lines sometimes float on jagged edges
brushes of sticky sugar coating are exchanged
for starker strokes of reality
tinged with weathered wisdom
creating shadows in his work
accentuating the light
there’s not a write of his
that does not stir emotions
his words linger
rolling around in your head
bumping into each other
morphing into new connotations
his easel alive
you wonder if he did that on purpose?
could anyone have that kind of talent?
yes…..his brush continues flowing
even after the paint is dry
suddenly at midnight i awaken
and hear another morsel
a word, a phrase, a color
that only made itself known
in the dark of night
understanding he's a favorite
i imagined audibly hearing a collective sigh
when he contracted cancer
would he now leave his canvas dry?
no, this courageous artist
bravely took his palette
and continued painting
his words that us awaken
now e’vn more radiant
with tragedy astride
and ‘tho he talks of dying
i pray that he will stay
but should his spirit fly
we have seen a master show us
how to walk into the light
©2016janetaylorhardy*
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
If you followed me on a walk,
In the sunshine of my mind,
What would you see?
Who would I be?
Would I be a yellow fairy,
Skipping between rows of sunflowers,
Higher than high,
Taller than tall?
Would I be a gargoyle,
Grinning hideously at the top of my
Great, grey stone wall?
If you followed me on a walk,
Through the tempest of myself,
What would you see?
Who would I be?
Would I be a giant black wolf,
Prowling the dense forests of Scotland,
Dimmer than dim,
Darker than dark?
Would I be the ghost of a lady,
All dressed in white, in an empty room,
Barer than bare,
Starker than stark?
If you followed me on a walk,
Through the corridors in my head,
What would you see?
Who would I be?
Would I be a great horse,
Pounding with my silver hooves the earth of a road that never ends,
Over and over,
On and on?
Would I be a painting,
A landscape,
My colour fading,
Paint peeling,
Rough and old,
Gloomy and wan?
If you followed me on a walk,
Through my own sweet fragile world,
I don't know what you'd see,
Or to you who I'd be,
But I know who I am,
No one knows more than me.
Would you like me to tell you?
13/09/2006
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
A touch so familiar for a thousand or so years
drifts away slowly...and abruptly disappears.
Waves crashing dully and precious pearls just waste
the bottom dwellers have a taste.
Disguised as a hero, he dressed highly as a prince
left alone to discover, yet again, she was amiss.
Her eyes led astray in a rosy tinted way
her heart followed loyally, what else was there to say?
Flowers lined the path, daisies, roses, and tulips
each faded and couldn't last, that princess didn't get the hint.
Blindly she continued down that growing starker road
that prince was returning to a toad.
Longer she walked not realizing she was alone
her head held high like a candle in a cone.
She followed crooked trees and dried up yesterdaisies
no one really knew what became of princess Lynn Phasey
She traveled days, weeks, and months
searching for something, she couldn't say just what.
A heart through hell and a dreary twisted forest
beating to swell for a promise once more, yes.
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
Shadows
by Michael R. Burch
Alone again as evening falls,
I join gaunt shadows and we crawl
up and down my room's dark walls.
Up and down and up and down,
against starlight—strange, mirthless clowns—
we merge, emerge, submerge . . . then drown.
We drown in shadows starker still,
shadows of the somber hills,
shadows of sad selves we spill,
tumbling, to the ground below.
There, caked in grimy, clinging snow,
we flutter feebly, moaning low
for days dreamed once an age ago
when we weren't shadows, but were men . . .
when we were men, or almost so.
Published by Homespun and Mind in Motion. This poem was written either in high school or my first two years of college because it appeared in the 1979 issue of my college literary journal, Homespun. Keywords/Tags: shadows, dark, walls, evening, starlight, moonlight, men, souls, drowning, phantoms, shades
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 5:40 AM UTC
Deeply thrown to the maw of the earth
A gaze could own there all it’s worth
Never have extremes before been too depthless
And Transformed.
Light and darkness swallow one
As positivism is garbled and undone
Such a void of the ****** the saved
For neither have such slopes they braved
Or bedlam tamed.
Blesséd teeth of the darker cave
Lend me my voice, though starker, back
And echoed song sung,
Though lost in its ribs
Its to have in that chorus, black:
Harpish wings trickling bells and
Harmonious little sightless things
Loosed from dear Apollo’s light
Darkness scares Phoebus’ chariots
On which the fire-stallions ride.
In their flaming stead and ruthless might,
My frightful heels turned and taken flight.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:35 AM UTC
Every day gets a little bit darker
Every thought even starker
It takes control of me
Giving me no space to breathe
Each breath is harder to take
Each smile a little more fake
It manipulates my mind
And whispers "you're mine"
Most times I no longer have hope
Most moments I can't even cope
It has latched on firmly
Telling me dark lies in the night
Many thoughts scream in my mind
Many joys now hard to find
It confuses me
Making my life like a black hole
All my dreams have faded away
All my days turned a desolate grey
It's over
It's done
Depression has finally won
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
love roams starker
naked
with her every
candlelit thought
of him.
milky moon maiden
at loosest ends.
beams a riot of departing
sanity, and a longed
for scream.
firmly rooted to the perfect
mound of her clearing.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 12:46 PM UTC
It's okay to stumble,
Try not to fall,
Dreams can be more,
You can have it all.
It's okay that you fell,
Just don't let it get darker,
Don't go back to hell,
That place is much starker.
You're in hell but it's fine,
You still have your life,
Just don't cross that line,
Please put down that knife.
It could be worse just clean up the blood,
Tell yourself not to die,
Pull down your sleeves and put up your hood,
Is your life not worth a try?
The pills are in you and the rope in your hand,
Your heart starts to pound,
It's not about hatred, life is so bland,
Next thing you know you're a foot off the ground.
A week later your sister is hungry,
Her belly starts to rumble,
She starves herself because she is angry,
Then next thing you know she starts to stumble.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
january in jersey is painted with globs of oils
all icicles and sharp edges and unmixed colors --
the view from my window when i lean out
to breathe smoke through my oscillating fan
is starker than greek statues (we know now to be garishly painted)
and every fractal dropping on my sloping roof
provokes me to paranoid thoughts of the matrix
and how close to death these dissolving shapes
spun me, sledding in my car, into a ditch off the highway
next week i bid goodbye to the atlantic and chase
watercolor scenery and exhaustively organized color pallets
and every breath that manifests in front of me
reminds me to leave.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
Much madness
is divinest sense –
An eye that hath discerned the severest madness,
according to Emily’s judicious eyes, hath much sense –
The starker lunacy
be equated to divinity –
‘Tis common, unwritten law that we assent common beliefs
And ‘tis uncommon beliefs that common law demurs –
In this, as all overcome,
The stoic few as she will come –
Sanity hath common sanction
Or, you’re forthwith a risk –
Touched by a chain
And bound in shame –
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
I.
Inside emotions build
and thoughts grow darker,
as my body tires
and my mind becomes starker.
As the time ticks on
my sanity slips away,
and i can't let it out
until some other day.
II.
screaming and shouting
whining and pouting
my emotions poor out
along with tear after tear
it hurts so much
i hate to let it all go
but i have to sit down
and just let it happen
III.
empty
hurt
confused
i know what it feels like
to feel absolutely nothing and
this is it
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
It use to be the color of the sea
At the surface, it was light as could be
Calm, like the sky, the sweetest high.
Did it make me see or did it make me believe, the difference is so little it's hard to concede its existence without a little futile resistance. Go deeper, go darker, more intense, feels a little starker. This is the middle, where the cat plays the fiddle. It looks like velvet but feels of familiar cotton. Smells just comfortably rotten. You've almost forgotten the color of the sky... Was that really the sweetest high? Here you can't even feel the time go by. It does however, have quite an annoying why It's festers and pesters occasionally but I cage it with my in sane ity. Pulse drops, blood stops. What happened? I was coming up for air and .... I got pulled deeper into its lair. You look around for he who dare make you victim, with boiling anger the beast gets sicker. You want to hear the heart stopper? The jaw dropper? There is no monster. You weren't pulled in, you fell in. You were blind this entire time, why is reality so unkind? Days turn into years, fear forgets those tears. So unsettled, living a lie, the blackest of kettles. You are at the bottom of the ocean, drank Ursulas potions, thought it was wine ? Now look what you've left behind. The fruit of life has become a rind. Now what? Will you hold onto your breathe and swim to the top, or is this where it stops ?
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 4:04 AM UTC
Farewell Leonard Cohen
whose every lyric was a poem,
Whose life, the wand'ring minstrel's song,
The Buddhist monk's meditative gong,
Courtly and earthy kneeling on stage
to his lovers, our servant,
In his dashing 70s, still the rage, more fervent,
At the last, asking if we wanted "it darker," *
Life still coursing, but starker,
Of his salad days, at the Chelsea hotel, **
A place he met Janis, perhaps not yet in hell
and knew her devotionally and well,
Contemplative star with amorous groupies,
Passionate, ephemerally loopy,
His irony, sans derision or slight
Helping me me through many a night.
For you now, Leonard C, we
"Ring the bells that still can ring," **
And silently sing,
Staying in motion,
Letting go of the "perfect offering" notion, ***
Rememb'ring withal and despite,
Those fissures in all which let in the light,**
Your house is in order, a graceful good night.
Nov 13, 2016
Nov 13, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
The leaves on the tree have now a different shade.
They were green and orange and red.
Now they are green, orange, red and ache.
Not dark, deep ache.
Ache with a tinge of nostalgia.
Light.
Something between missing and longing.
Not so light that it stands plain against all other shades
Because that new one,
that ache,
though light,
stands starker than the rest.
The leaves on the tree have now another shade.
Green, orange, red and ache.
Light, conspicuous ache.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 8:53 AM UTC
Before Christmas
there was Christ.
Before the sleigh.
Before the conifers.
Before candles.
Before the paper decor.
Before Christmas became
about lesser gifts.
Before basted turkeys
and Santa myths.
There was Christ.
Before he became the suffix
to the festive.
Before he became less Christ
and more Chris.
Before we suppressed his divinity
and took away his dignity.
Before we replaced him
with a capital merry Me.
There was Christ.
Before Christmas, Christ gifted himself
and took the part that was key
to making a mercy path back
(by way of a much starker tree)
to His eternal city.
Where the crowns aren’t paper.
Where the feast lasts longer.
Where Christ is rightfully King.
That’s where the true party will begin.
Nov 30, 2024
Nov 30, 2024 at 2:43 PM UTC
The woods just keep getting darker,
As I am ever so starker than the invincible Mr. Lake,
And I'll the climb to the top of the branches,
So the moon can shine a little light,
On what is left of my life.
Be concerned,
I might have crossed the line,
I will be disappointing to you.
Get myself together,
Twist the vines as I make my way down,
Back to the wood's underbrush,
And the demons make the ground rumble.
Be concerned,
They will be here for me,
My soul will be theirs.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC