"stencils" poems
When in Bohemia, she screams about
Her pastures green, but not too loud
So never have I known, that the world listens too
As a comedian, I see she belongs
But never conforms, to the song of
This nomad world, I'm glad she found it too
So run! She wants to run again
You vagabond, you're well-spent
Bohemian tendencies says, “you can't stay long”
“These kinds of commons, you won't ever get along”
Armenian, it’s such a release
Materialistic animosity
The speed of life has no value, like dollar signs
I loved an alien, who dabbled in art
Of all visage, enema of the heart
Wanderer, she's spent so much but there's that bliss in the air
So smile! It's all sorts of worthwhile
To see a world and not fret so much
Bohemian tendencies says, “be spectacular
Before the nebula men steal your fur”
In the Caribbean, you dream a kite
As your taxi, you can't walk all the time
Travel hills of puce-mauve sands, the world in trance
A true deviant, the thinking of
All dreaming thoughts, and loves begot
Tinkerer, what will we do when our brains run dry?
Oh, no! Don't think about the end
To love a life in due pretence
Bohemian tendencies says, “think fair, live now”
“The world is watching with distaste of time in doubt”
As a chameleon, should she go alone?
The world is cold, except for times in colour
Her world in dance, she'll do without me
When in Bohemian, the first I've seen
Of pastel stencils through her happi-
Ness-tled in her loft home of the wind
There she goes! Ain’t she a lovely wing?
I hope she finds a world that sings
Bohemian tendencies says, “to love and to hold
But to let go, for treasures can mold”
There she goes
There she goes
There she goes
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 3:39 PM UTC
Forced to act on the stage of life
so humble, feeble & half-clad.
Daily swapping of dreams for a few coins,
He is shunned, lonely, starving and sad.
No rhymes, no stories
No pen or pencils,
No book, no papers
No colours or stencils.
No playground, no park
No friends to talk,
No love, no kisses
Only a lonely walk.
Compelled to sell both body & soul,
Toiling hard, he does his best,
Story of hard work, wounds and pain,
No joy, no fun and no time to rest.
The present is all gloomy & dull,
lacking colours, excitement and vim,
Shattered hopes with no dreams,
The future is touching, dreary & dim.
With deep anguish, I weep and yell
cuss myself for his ill-fate,
Losing all hope, I wish to revolt,
I need to speed up before it is too late.
Mukesh Kataria
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
Stencils and pencils
Sharpener mishaps
Doodles, scribbles
Scrambling shades
Blending sketches
Running axis points
Spherical shadows
Tinting hints and hues
Pencilled portraits
Cruel crooked eyes
The bendy nose
Philosophical muse
Artistically inspired
Shading and fading
Realistically amused
Fused within reality
Surreal tuned vices
Meet-ups and sit ups
Outlines freakily patched
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Past altered states tests postive and subtle
******* So and so's teeter Paleolithic après time puddles
And submit terrible philosphies
Ashy stubble ticks politics
and sacrafice to peer approval sacralige
Test probably appears stable
Top patriarch's able suddenly to
Pop above submerged tables possibly
After, something tests patience awkwardly
Stumps tarot practioners and *** testers poor application sterily
Topology plain, astrology scorpio
Torpedo power aptly strikes to pedal antlers sour
Take particular appointments
Stop testing please apply sorted
Terror power and sexless torn pigs
afterhours pen and store tips, plow.
Alter simians testosterone, pow!
As scientists type papers about sexing tasteless past alligator snouts
testing partly after science takes party alliance south to pawn army
subtle tipped passion. artsy.
Start these.
pick atoms smarmy
Tally past all sentences take pride
As stencils test pestilence. And sigh.
The previous alterations simply tried.
And didn't work, hence the present
Path lit incandescent.
I'm looking towards the east waiting for positivity to peak
You're turned backwards nostalgic for something that'll never come repeat.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
If I wrote a letter to myself, I'd tell myself everything.
The little and the big things, and all the in between things.
The long and the short things, and all the every things.
I'd say, slow down and take a breath, your treading water, your heaving chest
When things get hard, purse your lips, and give the world a **** you kiss
Smile on and give a wink, be yourself, dont overt think
And I know you, dont think I dont
Stop over analyzing and getting depressed, theres nothing for you to second guess
through lost love and a broken heart, theres nothing preventing a new start
And maybe that love isn't at its end, but just on pause waiting to begin again.
Patience, patience its a virtue, so make progress, its just something you've got to work through
So your mad huh? So what?
Scream and shout and kick and fuss
Dance all crazy in your room, sing and yell out of tune
Laugh at yourself, and keep going
Or maybe slink around at night
With your backpack on and that spray can held tight
Looking for the perfect place, to leave your mark, to leave your trace
Feeling victorious the next day, lookin at the stencils which you lay
Smilin'
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
We all derive from the same paper
that which is forcefully folded,
patiently pressed and
carefully creased.
We all speak through the same pen
that wishes for stencils,
grimacing at unpracticed,
crooked lines.
We all take action with the same scissors,
cutting away from the whole
to create paper people
holding hands.
We all are constructed in the same accordion,
snipping away the background
that falls like snowflakes
to create identity.
We all fear severing the same sections
that conjoin one being to another,
waiting with knives in our hands,
anticipating to cut.
We all fall from the separation,
slicing the connections that bind us,
sacrificing our grip
that suspends us in safety.
We all meet at the bottom
of the same paper shredder,
lost in the screams of its blades,
obsessing ourselves to be
broken pieces of an individual,
but forgetting that we paper people
once all derived from the same paper.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:38 AM UTC
stencils of my mind are placed onto parchment paper
they slide off the wax like bold black drops of ink
they roll and wobble to the perimeter of which jagged teeth have bitten the sheet
thouroughly slipping. thouroughly off. complete.
a flicker instant shadow peers over drawn lines
confused of which is north and which is south; tangled in yarn and straws of twine.
configure me a format of what you think is necessary
for me to harness and cultivate like grapes of wrath and frida's portrait of sorrow and conformity.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 6:06 PM UTC
Can't decide what to play with today.
There are my colouring books and pencils.
I could also find my drawing pad
and use a ruler and some stencils.
I have my Legos and my cars,
and lots of other shiny toys,
but my mum sends me out
to join the other little boys.
It's a beautiful day, she says,
you should be in fresh air,
yet too young for school you are
no need to worry or even care.
I meet Timmy, my friend down the lane.
He shows me his bicycle with considerable pride.
It's new, he says, with bell, brakes and all.
I ask him if I could learn to ride.
Of course, he says, hop on and I'll push.
I follow his instructions - tightly grip the handlebar
and speed away without a plan of further action,
when along comes roaring an enormous motorcar.
Please make it stop, I scream. But Timmy is not there.
So just before the tragic but inevitable demise,
a miracle occurs, I wake up in bed safely,
all grown up and full of surprise.
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 3:33 AM UTC
I laid there thinking of you
Dreaming of you
To only open my eyes and see that it was you
Breathing on my neck
In order for me to breathe you in
Taste your sweetness from the inside
Your innermost feelings penetrated my skin,
Through your breath.
And the way the sun looked behind your head
Shining, gleaming, like steam from a ***
Oh yes, you still make me sweat.
And your sweat mixed with mine is like every great love potion combined
Concocting sweet memories and love sick tendencies
Making me want you,
To tell me how you love me.
And the way your hands fit over mine, like perfect stencils of art made
because even then our bodies together make the most beautiful shapes
and not in the dirtiest of ways, but rather the innocent
the way we cuddle, hug and love its simply
amazing
the way you trace the hairs on my head, the hairs on my neck the hairs on my arms all the way down the nonexistent hairs on my leg, only for you so that the ride down is smooth
smooth like your words that flow through my ears and tickle my nerves in every neuronal-space
that transmit through every fiber of my body and speak to every muscle telling me to tense
when I hear you whisper, “chill”.
And every time your fingertips imprint themselves on my skin
I know that those will forever be mine, for those fingertips are forever yours on me
On me I find your scent, your sweat, your fingerprints, your love
Is all around me, I can feel it when you align your cheeks with mine.
The way you rub your stubble filled chin through each dip and dent of my chin neck and chest.
The way your breaths somehow coincide with mine.
We are one and I realize the moment that I open my eyes
It’s not some dream my child-like, little girl, cutesy self is making
But those are your eyes I look into with the sun shining down
And your arms that hold me tight
And your breath that I long to feel at night.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC
i made several etchings in my sketching pad
some wretched reachings at the love we had
with pencils & stencils i outlined our path
but my designs were confined to crimes of the past
filled with charcoal barcodes all sparkling black
the receipts that we keep to compete & compare
arguments we begin just to mend & repair
i yell & yell trying to tell if you're there
but the transactions happened & it's been a year
i'm fading away but i wont disappear
i'm still here
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
Do you ever feel overcome?
A work of art made of a million layered stencils
Where nothing makes sense until the last dot dries
Nothing, no one,
abstract, confusion,
dot dot dot,
and then,
there it is.
THE MASTERPIECE.
A violent bruise of emotion that is so
S T R O N G
You see colours.
Light peels across your eyes
Fazed. Dazed.
Feeling everything at once
you take nothing in
Numb to everything
except -
your heartbeat
beat
We are so perfectly broken -
that it
almost
looks like we are complete.
And we are.
I am.
In so many way.
So. Many. Ways.
But,
It's just,
I mainlyyy
Kindaaa
Don't feel
okay.
And I spend most of my time,
Left wondering,
Is it just me?
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
As adolescent night falls
He drifts in my dreams
His harsh and angry words
Causing hardness
Leave Turin stencils on my sheets
The feared bruising of our lips
In geometry of circular mouths
Does not stop our history
Prompts navigation
Leaves pleasure un-distilled
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
He who weeps volcano ashes and seesaw silences forgot how to hear with stencils.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC
How do I tell her
that we're stencils
drawn by a kid on a wall
That we're unreal
nothing but sheets
filled by a kid called God
How do I tell you
I've got to go now
and paint my life on a wall?
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
As adolescent night falls
He drifts in my dreams
His harsh and angry words
Causing hardness
Leave Turin stencils on my sheets
The feared bruising of our lips
In geometry of circular mouths
Does not stop our history
Prompts navigation
Leaves pleasure un-distilled
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
"Normality" does not imprison me
My life being not heavy enough
Is allowed to take flight
To float above the reasoned realm
Where revelations of the truth
Realized only by detachment devour my thought
Increase my errorless purpose
And so the stencils of oriental scribes
Like colourless shadows overpower my mind
Floating, floating high above
Adrift on an expanse of darkness
Presently that black ink
Raises its curtain before my very eyes
Revealing the stage, the illuminated stage
On which I am to set my drama
Where the phantoms of my imagination
Will enact their mysterious mysteries
A poetic alchemy
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
Your friends' new place is by the Red River;
You notice the wood signs hung on their wall:
Stencils with the first letters of their names
comprised of corks from bottles they emptied
and another--"Pasta and wine, good times".
When they talk, it’s about
parties with beer, wine, and ***** spilling
out of cups, down dresses onto the floor;
recalls of day-drinking
and smoking cigars on the balcony
in college and oh, just last-night’s partying
yes, at Jason’s wedding
reception in the Ramada ballroom.
Don’t forget the leprechaun loop of bars
downtown on St. Patrick’s.
or the party buses that bring you there;
the first stop will have a schooner waiting
with Long Island iced tea.
This talk of drinking makes you all hungry,
at Barbacoa you order tacos
and margaritas.
and think of ordering another round.
Another day, you drink pink lemonade
at Olive Garden and ask, How would it
taste in a cocktail?
At work, coworkers laugh off a hard day
and someone says, “I need a drink.”
And someone adds, “We all need drinks.”
At the bonfire on Saturday night,
someone laughs about the campus’s bikes
being thrown and found in the Elm Coulee
and another adds, “We like to drink here.”
Someone says, “That’s why I have a big cup.”
Who needs a bike anyway? They have cars.
Some of your friends drinking are driving home.
When the cup passes to you, you sip some.
The fire flickers and blows smoke that flies
into the wind over the rest of town,
over a river that can’t quench its thirst.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC
Those of us who were born cartographers
In the modern age, have been doomed from the start.
Our white spaces have been filled and shaded,
Sketched-over and even rent.
Not even a half-inch by half-inch square
Was left to us, and I suspect that
Were we to find a time machine,
Fittied with a working Flux Capacitor,
You would find us all in the midst of the heart of darkness,
armed with pencils and stencils and pregnant maps.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 3:34 PM UTC
Charcoal grey expressions,
And a stark white slate.
Paper people pondering,
How to template fate.
Their lives are all drawn out,
In a linear direction.
Nothing ever changes,
When stencils draw perfection.
Calculate the angles,
And paste a paper house.
Everything falls so easy,
Living in a Paper Town.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 11:36 PM UTC
The storm is brewing and it's peaceful in here
There are laughs to be heard, somewhere
and it's peaceful in here
When the wind hits, it's contained
shelved books turn to tatters in my brain
musicals lyricals questioned insane
was the girl who slid down the mountain and landed in shame
at the foot of the grave of the days that made gains
at the back of her head, memories plated in fox fires and red
cheeks
creeps
cheap - you gotta be to survive, sometimes,
right? Freak?
Strum, I'll strum my fingers numb
or teach myself how
Now
The window is breaking under the pressure
A million pieces of my heart are plastered on the walls,
on the floor, in my calls
lost to the no ones I shouted to
Pillows
Things to grasp onto
Holes to tip-toe-topple into
What have you got to lose?
said the girl in the straightjacket whose
shards of hair flew past your periphery
like diamonds shattering in the moonlight
out of sight
out of sight
what is sight?
I heard a shriek-
stricken sighs
eyes
eyes
i's
Stop predicting bad things.
Blink.
Step forward or you'll sink.
The air is around us
The air is surrounding you, you're alone
The world is around me, am I home?
openness - vast, deep, incomprehensible
swallowed my stencils and connected
my pencils to paper and then
opening my mind to the stars
'thank you' spoken softly
unguided but for the shadows cast
on the ground by the clouds
ghouls glittered in the moonlight and
drifted into the cedars
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
I grew up thinking I was this vessel
Wasn't told my vessel is just like a castle
My castle got printed with people's stencils
Those stencils almost brought me to a standstill
My vessel was named different titles
Fat as a pig
Short as a wink
Big eyed like an ostrich
Those titles did hurt me
They did hurt till I made a discovery
Discovered my body is just like a chassis
This chassis houses an engine
The engine is the real me
The real me is who I am on the inside
The inside holds my spirit, soul and emotions
Don't judge me based on this trolley
Pls, say no to bullying!
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
Dear love,
D o y o u n o t k n o w ?
Flowers bloom at your smile
Your eyes are the sun that makes them grow
Your freckles, the seeds planted to replenish them
Do you not know ?
Your hair falls like the rain
Gently lulling the earth to sleep
Your fingers hold your pencil
As an artist holds his stencils
With grace and posture
Do you not know ?
Your feet dance on the ground
As a ballerina's final leap
With elegance and composer
Your eyelashes flutter
As a dazzling bird ***** its wings
Leaving the world in awe
Do you not know
You do the same to me?
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
FROM THE FLAGSTONES
This concrete town with no guts,
no grit where we can only smirk
as galoshered feet slip ‘n’
slide in and out our café where
exhalations of icy conversations
mix with the fog and cigarette smoke.
It’s a damp riverbank town
border with riptides
sneak currents
no watchtowers no walls
an escape for the committed
or reckless – the next country
a lucky swim away.
You draw down
panelaks, teetering like headstones
(that lost their plots
a regime ago)
pen in flagstones and millstones
flower tubs filled
with butts and dead dogs
tarted up with cans and stencils
subjects of your studies in pencil.
Nature’s only concession
(so far as I can see)
is this wedge like a warm slice of pizza -
four fall trees jutting out of the bar
where dogs curl up in corners
and mist pushes in fishermen
selling trout -
the toxic confetti
swirling around the passing
procession of Saturday weddings
dragging monochrome trains
drawn into this twilight
fugue whisked by an accordian player,
guests laughing back at us
while you’re smirking back at them
cocooned in wine and tuica
almost lost in your sketch
smudging *** ash for sky
dreamy with relaxed fatigue
of travel and infatuation.
Your pad’s our field dressing
that could work for a while
before the gangrene sets back in
so I’d like to amputate this souvenir wedge
for my scraps book.
I watch you listening out for the shanty
from the flagstones – about weeds
delicate, green, undamaged,
muscling through the cracks
in the concrete
drawn up to the cut where
we also look effortless and a little green.
Tomorrow we head for the border
and only one of us can swim.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
It is our duty as human beings to inspire
To spark in others an undying desire
So let us pick up our pens and pencils
Our paints, chisels, and stencils
Our microphones, drums, and musical tools
And our books, beakers, and new found rules.
Let us make a path for greatness to follow
So we can make a much berighter tomorrow.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
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Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC