"stomping" poems
Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky
And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...
Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe,
..in wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,
Finding depth and height
out in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze
...as I am reaching
High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground
Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen
peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with steady tap)
the snouts high
on grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack
folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 1:11 PM UTC
Depression is hard to understand. The dictionary naively refers to it as, "feelings of severe despondency and dejection." But what does the dictionary know about depression? I think depression is more complicated than that. But I don't quite know what that consists of. I've been trying to figure it out for months now, and I just can't seem to understand. I don't know what depression is, but I can tell you what it's not.
Depression is not polite. Depression doesn't knock before he barges in. He just lets himself in, unannounced and unexpected, and leaves me gasping for what little air is left in the room.
Depression isn't clean. He doesn't tidy up after he makes a mess. He comes into my life like a hurricane, and leaves me to pick up the crumbled pieces of my rubbled life.
Depression isn't moral. He steals my happiness and kills my spirit. He doesn't abide by any common rules or laws, he makes his own rules and I have to play by them.
Depression isn't popular. The only "friends" he has are his victims. He drags me away from everyone who used to love me, and leaves me isolated in a cold, dark place.
Depression isn't respectful. He claws his way into the lives of so many genuine people and drives them to the brink of insanity. He has no regard for my thoughts or my feelings, stomping all over me until there's nothing decent left to salvage.
Depression isn't creative. He tells you everything as it is and makes you see all of the terrible things poisoning the world. He doesn't sugarcoat the truth, no matter how much it hurts, and he helped me clearly see even my smallest of flaws.
Depression isn't nice. He calls me ugly and tells me I'm worthless. The words he whispers ring in my ears: **** yourself, **** yourself, **** yourself."
It's hard to define depression. It doesn't fit into a small box. I've practically driven myself crazy trying to figure out what it is and why this is happening to me. I don't understand depression, and no matter how hard I try to define it, I always fall short. I don't know if depression can ever be defined. While I try aimlessly to define the undefinable, depression ruthlessly takes advantage of me. I can try as much as I'd like, but I don't define depression, depression defines me.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
**The band starts playing at a ***** and crowded backyard.
Rebellious youth gather to cast their vote with the stomping of their doc martin boots.
Beer cans everywhere, everyone's trying to let loose the raw stranglehold their society has produced.
The guitars go off and the ritual begins.
First they assemble in the heart of the pit.
In the center individual tragedies bring fourth the wrath of a God's army.
Anarchy you call it, Ha! I call it reassurance, reassurance that this anger is surely communal.
I never saw it more clearer, the youth's power to resist: If the government wont hear us, we will create our own sound even under the batons of fascism, we spit on your rule, your control of our art.
We wont bow down to a law with our names written all over it, while another politician walks free from corruption.
While another officer guns down an un armed child and calls it self-defense.
While suspicious mass shootings continue to occur and mass cameras grow in recording.
While you send more people off to war for another countries resources.
These thoughts explode out of me into shoves, screams, ****** cuts, reckless behavior, and then finally release. Pure psychiatric release.**
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
Its my body, my money, its up to me what I do with it.
But everyone else is wearing it.
I cant help the way I feel.
Blonde
Red
Orange
Brown
Purple
DMs purple with pink laces
school skirt altered in the textile lab 3" shorter
hormones racing, zipping, vibrating, fizzing till the top pops
stairs made for stomping and storming
cackling laughter crackling down the telephone wire
clothes left on the bedroom floor abandoned for a girl crisis.
You cant read my mind
read my lips
read my body
read my journal sandwiched between the midriff covering cottons gran bought for Christmas and the skimpy lace thong I'd be grounded for buying
Mother's mattress sanitary towels tossed aside
for shamefully purchased tampons
instructions included
and time has passed
and masks have fallen
and I find you there in the muck and the mire
and dust you off
until
I see your face - all mothers lipstick and glittering pink eye shadow
and the smile that stores secrets in a treasure chest.
Your legs shake like Bambi's but you get to your feet
and nestle yourself into me warmly, strongly until you fall right into me
and you run and you run and you run and you run and you run
right through my veins
giggles throbbing through my pulse
pajama parties and homemade perfume radiating in my eyes
and there you are
and there I am.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
Running for his life, he made his courage known
Turning to try to turn the tide, his strong stance surely shown
Frowning upon the enemy face, he waited for the fight
pounding, stomping around the corner, his foe came into sight
...Questioning the crying kid...
he hug'd his brother tight
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
breathing the turquoise like lavender,
and sipping the blue summer.
bitter cold clouds glide and morph lava lather,
floating whispers cut by sweet pineapple sunshine.
soon, a moment, now
rhythms ripple the sky like skipping stones
we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.
cobalt bass rumbles the earth hungry,
pumps the air with springing spirals
pushing and pulling the senses,
reverberating through cells.
heavy mud humming, stomping
echoes through our atoms dizzy;
balancing tuned body to innate electricity
the fizz of circulating lemonade energy.
we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.
strawberry melodies spilling ribbons,
dolphin leaps of the spaces inbetween beats,
lines of colours overlapping,
colliding, mixing, merging, blending
in with the forest.
washing over souls the life fire sparkles
like a clear water cleansing harmonies,
sound waves crashing against inertia.
phosphorescent glow of re-charged love
for the world, for being, animation
flowing through burnt smoky ashes
of sapphire charcoal skies;
dimmed radiation of chlorophyll emerald days.
the smell of salt, dry bark, fluffy carbon mists,
trembling lights softening the eyes'
grip on outlines, loosening lies.
watching the cycles of patterns
tumbling colours through a mill rotating,
and the silence of listening
when the music comes to an end.
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
tall red rubber boots on this rainy morning
bring me joy, happiness.
stomping in the puddles,
hiking in the wet wet leaves.
standing still as the raindrops
pour down over umbrella,
drops pounding the pond with intensity,
watching mother nature in action.
still winter but with little
signs of spring emerging.
green green shoots of jonquil leaves,
a bit of sun and warm will bring color.
for now the trunks of the trees are grey
and branches bare.
crows caw on this quiet wet morning
flitting from branch to branch before taking flight.
raindrops mix with creek water,
rushing down over rocks
and logs,
dams created.
such beauty and peace
on this raw morning,
such profound love is found
in the stillness and silence...
in Mother Nature
in the Tao.....
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 8:51 AM UTC
Strings, strings, wrapping around porcelain skin,
For why does the bruises not show?
With a waist, hip, and two legs that are so thin,
For why does the skin always glow?
Hair that never sheds, nor grows, nor messes,
For why does the girl not wash it?
With a merry face that still never truly expresses,
For why does the face not show even a slight fit?
Stoic, conjoined, the feet never stomping,
For why does the limbs never feel frostbit?
Perhaps it is a lie that the being is a girl,
As it is only with strings that she can ever twirl.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 6:43 AM UTC
"QUIT."
"QUIT."
"QUIT!"
Is all that I can think!
Quit stomping!
You're creating unwanted anxiety.
Why are you walking so harshly!?
Are you, maybe, angry?
I don't want to know.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
i
you say i am honestly not the same person
i say one day i woke up honest
and i do not know how to undo experience
my own eyes and ears and nose and mouth
cannot be undone at the moment
how do you do it?
push that pressure to the back of your mind
like that
how do you all manage to laugh with a straight face
at things that you know aren't really funny
i can't fathom it. where you go
when you are stomping and ripping
and ****** and jeering
and laughing and running
it's exhausting to watch you
ii
i apologize if it doesn't make sense
that i can't play along
but playing along
doesn't make sense
i could never win a grammy
with this tight lipped smile
laughing at the expense of others
makes me feel more like a paparazzi
placating insecurities for currency
leeching off the vulnerability
you may not think i'm smart but
i am smart enough to know this is not 'normal'
and there is nothing wrong with staring at you in the rearview
and saying "i wish that was really sarcasm"
i'll tell you the truth
and you don't have to like it
and you don't have to like me
and i don't have to like you
because if there's one thing i know about myself
it's that i don't dislike anybody
until they show off their callousness
hoping it's the right party trick
to gain respect
iii
we watch comedy tv, and you are worried
by the way my spine cracks
when i let out a uncontrollable laugh
dragging on, beginning to spill, and as i try to quell it
my whole body shakes with the pressure
of it bubbling inside of me
you feel all of this beside of me
a small volcano with a bent back
quaking absorbed by pillows and flowers and cushions
not quite right for you
wondering why i couldn't laugh like this earlier
when we were not alone
everyone is looking for something more porous
more willing to let in effortlessly
and absorb tirelessly
that can simply laugh like a stream bubbles
and let go of the undercurrent
yet we are sharp and uneven and course like logs
and the weight of our actions carries much further
being shunted downstream by tides of gravity
every intention runs it's course
every intention speaks volumes
if you feel that in your core
every day you will uncontrollably think of how
every intention defines the quality of the laughter
stuck in someone else's head
and you will save it for things that are funny
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
i always find myself
laying my heart out to
the people who love stomping
on my heart for the pure fun of
watching blood pour out
but it wasn't always this way
it all started when my dad started
promising me security to constantly
watch him walk out the door
but every time that promise was
proposed, I always accepted it
even when I knew it was a **** lie
hopeful little me, how adorable
manipulation, that's what it is
finding reasons to get rid of me
i guess i do that too
but when it's consistently happening
to you with every new friendship
or relationship?
you find clarity and warmth
in the words
"i won't be leaving anytime soon"
and it becomes a twisted cycle
of just
constant
manipulation
the manipulated becomes the manipulator
when your newest begins the manipulation
tactic that you were taught at the age
of 5 when your dad said
"I'll be right back" and doesn't for days
that's when you're all ears to your newest victim who says
"it's so nice to find someone like you"
i wish you didn't say that
ever
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
Love feels like coming home
But I've found homes in many people
Every home I make is different, fit to hold the looks and laughs between us
Love is like taking a hot shower when the cold has seeped in from all of the cracks in your broken armor
After feeling like a dog licking at empty water dishes it's like realizing you have thumbs to turn on the faucet
It cannot be fit in a poem
People are not lists or metaphors but shelves of novels, walls full of paintings, flaws and idiosyncrasies.
Love is warm blood, messy mad hearts, and wild wolf loyalty.
It's faltering footsteps and tears after the moon has risen.
It's campfire pops and crackles, twisted bed sheets, and moments intertwined like fingers
Love isn't finding your way through a hurricane or boots stomping through a garden.
Love is like coming home.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC
One fine morning
on my way to work
I met a real dinosaur
in big boots and a mischievous smirk
I’m kinda lonely he said
just visiting this town
I don’t have any friends
and thats bringing me kinda down
He looked kinda sad
with his tiny Dino eyes
I’d have to call in late
and explain it to the office guys
First we went out for ice cream
then we played a video game
He cracked a lot of dinosaur jokes
which were all kinda lame
When he would laugh
his mouth would open wide
Which sorta kinda scared me
and made me want to hide
His Dino tail would wiggle
and his laces would always come loose
It was funny trying to watch him
tie up his dinosaur shoes
Then we went to Iceland
and all the rides were cool
It was really spectacular seeing a dinosaur
floating in the swimming pool
Then we were really hungry
and we went out to dine
He scared all the waiters and waitresses
and drank up all the wine
I climbed up on his back
and he went for a run
Omigosh this day was perfect
I was having so much fun
Everywhere we walked
people screamed and ran
at the big stomping dinosaur
causing all the traffic jams
If only they would listen
If only they could see
Mr. Dinosaur is just a nice guy
just like you and me
Our perfect day was over
Dino had to go back home
probably back to Jurassic Park
and left me here alone
Next morning at work was a ******
such a tiresome bore
I just wanted to leave the office
and run out the office door
When the clock stuck five
I finally decided to leave
I left my dull office
and Lo & behold I just could not believe
Standing before me
in front of my very eyes
stood my dinosaur buddy
what a nice surprise!
We talked and talked for hours
even after dark
and when the day was over
I decided to move in to Jurassic Park
Now we’re never lonely
Dinosaur and me
Dinosaur has a friend
and I have family
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
Society is a clay mold
Taking every newborn into its fold
Kissing each brow with insecurity, shame
Releasing it's victims, carbon-copies, all the same
Society is a line graph's slope
Plotting point ever upwards in hope
Shunning those who are different, who fight
Loving only those who are "normal", all outliers denied
Society is a disease, nipping at the soul
Filing and wearing down on the young and old
Breaking every innocent into a pessimistic, jaded mess
Rending, tearing, stomping, destroying whatever is left
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
Have you been bad my friend
as you seem to be on the naughty list
let me just check for you
see all that you have claimed to do
Can I look at your pass again
sir by this your seven foot tall
and to boot, great with child
you can kiss it, you are on the naughty list
Oh don't give us this and that
I smell the bull, you're full of crap
you are on the naughty list
maggot, just one off the wrist
Now move over sir
as you are not welcome here
no point stomping your feet
you sir are not getting in
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
i hear her
crackle and her
cackle and her
clomping and
her stomping and
i feel her
silver hair and
her
rotten
air
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
I dance out my anger in the name of the priestess,
draw in her power to extinguish my unrest.
I worship my body in a state of undress,
let my rage break free in radical protest.
I surrender myself to this sacred process,
stomping my feet like an unbridled tempest.
Aug 26, 2022
Aug 26, 2022 at 3:34 AM UTC
I hear the foot steps coming… stomping down the hall,
In my room I shut my eyes and wait for the blow to fall.
From the uneven walking and the swearing that I hear,
I know it’s not you I can expect, as I slowly dry a tear.
He’d come home drunk, having lost his job, and started hitting you mom,
You had simply asked him how we’d live without him making tom.
But he lost his rag, maybe stress, and pulled you by your hair,
Next thing you knew you couldn’t move and he’d broken another chair.
This time you knew he’d gone too far, but you could just painfully stare,
As he kicked and beat your numb body till you lay there bare.
To scream from the pain in your back you opened your mouth, but not a word came out,
Then you closed it again, afraid to loose the rest of your teeth as down came another clout.
Now downstairs there’s silence, as he realizes what he’s done,
Then in fear and anger he makes his way upstairs to finish what he’s began.
His drunken mind tells him that if he’s ever found out,
He’ll spend his years in a jail, having to sit it out.
So now I sit here mom, with only a few seconds to go,
My heart trembling and the tears begin to flow.
It’s not how I expected the end to come, from a man I once called “dad”,
But I know tomorrow when he’s sobered up, he’s the one who’ll be sad.
And that’s why these tears I’m crying, it’s for him, cause I know he’s not bad,
And now when me and mom are gone, I hope he’ll remember all the good times we’ve had.
I don’t blame him at all for this thing he’s done… no, not at all,
Drinking is many people’s weakness, it’s many’s downfall.
But the man I really blame is the one behind the bar,
He stands there watching, giving him drink, knowing he’s gone too far.
He’s only there for the money and couldn’t care for his life,
So may it be on him, the blood of his daughter and his wife.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
I want to know what's it like to fly
I bet it feels great
To have that rush coursing through your veins
Followed by the high pleasure of feeling alive
I want to know whats its like to fly
To stand on the edge without hesitation
Knowing you can't go back and not wanting to either
To lean back and just fall
I want to know what it's like to fly
How just like life, everything rushes past you
In a blur of pictures missing the finer details
All within a blink of an eye
I want to know what's it like to fly
Opening my wings for the first and final time
Like a bird getting pushed out of a nest
I too will fall without fear
I want to know what's it like to fly
Being disconnect from the earth
That you came out of
And the body you grew to hate
I want to know what's it like to fly
No I won't soar but sink
Dropping like an anchor made of steel
Faster and faster and faster
I want to know what's it like to fly
But we were created with two hands and feet
Feet for stomping a pond the ground
And hands for doing horrible remarkable things
I want to know what's it like to fly
My feet lean back into nothingness
All my troubles vanish into happiness
No more, for I am weightless
I hit the concrete
I want to know what's it like to fly
To fly is to be free
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
I step outside and feel my nose crinkle
Look to the sky and watch the V’s fly south
Walk through the woods and hear the leaves whistle
Take a deep breath and taste fall in my mouth.
A start to the happiest time of year
Everything’s changing like wind where it blows.
Squirrels hide acorns, scarecrows create fear,
Pumpkins make faces at kids and their clothes.
Delectable treats in bags and buckets,
Scary films to watch on the edge of your seat.
Kids running around creating ruckus,
Stomping on leaves in the street with their feet.
Lets not forget Oktoberfest and beer;
Where people gather ‘round to celebrate
A special event that’s held every year,
Something so special you can’t replicate.
Delicious mystery looms in the air
While evil spirits meander ‘round town.
Libra gives the torch to Scorpions heir
And leaves pile up into one big mound.
The autumn harvest is now creeping up
Making food to put on everyone’s plate.
A great time of year where change is a must
Because without change, nothing can be re-made.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
a love poem, of new & old,
why I am the summer-man!^
summer is winding down,
sky’s multi blues freezer safe stored in ziplock see thru bags,
marked and named by hue, the where and the when,
so when the eyes finally fail, when the squinting don’t help,
when the good things those good blues aroused,
poems, lush and morning thanks for being alive come-not-at-all,
quite the opposite, these cold blues
may help, to recall why it was worth breathing
summer is winding down,
so am I, the synchrony no accident, time,
the Pharmacy kitchen calendar
claiming another victim, willing or not,
those cars and the blue eyed models,
are now but blurred wishes and hopes, even these words, spoken,
not finger scribed, for the keyboard a
jumbled jungle of alpha-numerical
of confusion hellish and
my sons don’t come to clean up my pathetic messes, sending
their little children, beloved concubines of my heart
the daytime watcher, spanglish her native lingo,
tho single words she’s pretty good at too, but that don’t help much;
the grands, toddlers to pre-teens, the eldest a womanly eight,
tries but soon frustration bored, slips away quiet like
replacing her with her two year old sister, who knows her alphabet
which ain’t an exactly a help, but her five pencils stored^ nearby,
tagged with her name, awaiting her poems, her one true legacy
try to imagine her as a grandmother, farseeing the day when she
occupied this too too hard to-get-out-of-by-myself “easy” chair,
making rhymes with her next-next generational descendants,
faint remembering the silliness sorcery that I secreted in her brain;
zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo,
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes, gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!
which she acts out with giggles galore,
adding a teacup embellishment,
a creme fraiche pearly teeth smile topping,
the day watcher agrees, verrry verrry funny,
but time to me *** and take a needed morning *****
no poppy! no poppy! no poppy!
no nap, no *** no *****
thinking the call out is for her,
stomping her feet in an alternating rhythm and rhymes
I, happy poppy, ecstatics drooling out,
foreseeing the rhyme is strong in her,
get wheeled away crinkled and crackling,
*zingo, bingo, lingo
tango, ginkgo, jingo
** ** oh no, oh no!
ashes gray hairy poppy is a silly,
when he is not a grumpy,
old man all fall down!*
a new genre me of gibberish summertime love poems
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 5:11 PM UTC
*chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’*
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
He struts down the sidewalk
With a hint of a frown
His spoon swings beside him
Jaunty hat as his crown.
Childers peep with a gasp
As they watch him strut down
The musk that follows him
The stains on his gown.
There he goes, they whisper,
As the sun settles down
The Badass Chef, they say,
Of this Badass Town.
He pounds dough to a pulp
Whisking eggs beyond shape
Beets up on the salad
Stomping vatfulls of grape.
Skewers meat without thought
Chops neat through a bone
Flays sharks without care
Needs no sous, works alone
The Badass Chef
Of this Badass Town.
He hangs up his cleaver
At the end of the day
Dripping droplets of what
None have courage to say
He blows out his flambe
Spoon back at his side
Turns back to his war zone
Fists clenched with quiet pride
There he goes, they whisper,
As the sun settles down
The Badass Chef
Of this Badass Town.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC