"superstitions" poems
Capricorns, Capricorns are ruled and schooled by the planet Saturn, Saturn, Saturn. A bandit with a similar pattern, pattern, pattern. Capricorns, Capricorns are brethren from a legion; a legion of an atmosphere of the southern-hemisphere; in the equatorial region. At an
angle, angle, angle; Capricorns, Capricorns are angels of Aquarius and
Sagittarius. They’re boisterous, courageous, contagious, glamorous,
prestigious, rebellious, various and victorious-goats, goats, goats!
Capricorns, Capricorns cope, devote, note and quote, quote, quote.
They’re ambitions with superstitions and various missions, missions, missions! They’re novelties and poverties, revelations and
revolutionaries, revolutionaries, revolutionaries. Capricorns, Capricorns are theories and visionaries, visionaries, visionaries.
They’re objects, projects and rejects. They’re leaders and readers that are poetically, negatively or positively dictatorial and doctorial! Some are historical, optical, political and radical; authentic, eccentric,
neurotic, poetic, theoretic, theoretic, theoretic. Unicorns, Unicorns are biblical and mythical, mythical, mythical; they’re ****** exotic, iconic, ironic, magic, nostalgic creatures, creatures, creatures. Their features
resembling a horse of course, of course. Furthermore, they’re fierce and a force. They’re a breed and creed of desire, fire and perspire, perspire,
perspire, perspire! They’re viral, viral, viral! This partial, sworn steed;
born awesome, awesome, awesome and too blossom, blossom, blossom. Unicorn’s spiral, crescent horn usually projecting and protruding from their foreheads. Rough and tough enough too pierce,
pierce, pierce! Unicorns, Unicorns are defendants, independents and
pendants. Hark! Hark! Hark! They’re brilliant and resilient sparks, sparks, sparks! They’re told as bold, old art, from the heart, from the start. Unicorns, Unicorns are fillers and pillars of guide, pride and
stride, stride, stride. They’re along for the long, long, long ride...
Unicorns, Unicorns are strong, strong, strong! Some as a song, song,
song, some throng, throng, throng, some wrong, wrong, wrong. As a
child, child, child; wild, wild, wild! Unicorns, Unicorns overwhelm, overwhelm, overwhelm. Their domicile realm, apparently, inherently and originally belonging from India; alleluia, alleluia for India, India,
India! Capricorns and Unicorns; two different creations. Capricorns
and Unicorns; two different relations. Capricorns and Unicorns; two
different situations and superstitions. They’re rainbows that glow, know and show. They’re of borrow, of sorrow and of our tomorrow.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:12 PM UTC
Addicted to diction,
With conflicting
Prescriptions
From competing
Physicians,
I'm dying from sickness
In the wealthcare system.
Our nutrition
Is based on
Corn-laced fiction,
Advertisement
Superstitions,
And a pill for every
Devised affliction.
We're born into life
Under welfare
Conscription,
And destined to die
From dereliction.
Make sure to vote
For the best
Infection in the
Next election,
As they raise
A toast
To their own
Reflections.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 5:33 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt
Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.
From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive. But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.
His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.
Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words, confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mirror by Sylvia Plath
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
Did Lovecraft have it right
no heaven but hell
cold and wet and dark
Wandering insane
not right in the brain
hell having left
it's mark
The slip and the slide
unheard and unseen
creeping just beyond ken
Plausible creaks
and blood that will streak
every now
and then
How do we gauge it's existence
comprehension
just out of reach
Letting our own imaginations
wander and stumble the peaks
Our hair standing up
high on the napes of our neck
Superstitions of myth and of legend
no facts, just fictions
too check
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
The superstitious,
all and about
But who, that gullible?
Come forth ye,
and lend me your ears!
I tell of a superstitious being!
Born and raised she was,
with the superstitious act,
was it external?
Or internal?
She told once her superstitions,
one out of numerous times,
what doubt I was in!
The superstition dumbfound itself,
hearken her superstitions!
The pride she carries within them!
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
these games 2010 vancouver olympics are about performance under tremendous pressure more than they are about sport our expectations destroy us how do athletes possibly in training their entire lives cope with cameras nationalism corporate media mania? these distinguished people fallible humans with frail emotions doubts superstitions insecurities just like everyone else sustain skill phenomenal precision how do they sleep at night? carry on relationships with spouses family friends? endure eminent separateness loneliness? do gold medal winners become bloated rock stars conceited movie stars overpaid professional athletes? do losers become life’s could have been a contender drunk in obscurity casualties? what price in human terms these games? hey when joannie rochette hit ice prayer to mom i cried love watching sports this gorgeous display of human talent yet wonder about underlying meaning consequence sports or spectacle?
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 8:23 PM UTC
The man he sits,
Upon the bed.
Watching his sister die.
"No don't go" he says,
Eyes glowing red.
He's losing his mind.
The house, the house!
Is dark and defied!
He roams about,
Only hearing her cries.
The eyes of gray,
With no sleep.
He has no one to keep; to love.
His heart is very weak.
My dearest,
Fear thy presence.
She has come..
Within the rising storm.
He's gone now,
Blindly chasing a dream,
Her voice.
Insanity now holds his chains,
It won't be long now,
Before the blackness reigns.
Eyes bloodshot,
With a wolfish grin.
He's become thee,
Insane Usher again.
This house, it haunts.
With the dead below...
Where restless souls creep,
Carrying solemn cries.
There Usher Stands,
Lost in his agony...
The land where his sister sleeps.
No diary of his sweet.
His face is written,
In superstitious derail.
Beyond Hells Gates,
His final line frays...
The name of Usher will end,
This day.
No more sons,
To bear thu name.
A sibling is lost,
In this game of fate.
The house has fallen,
Broken and decayed.
Where no life breathes.
The fall of the house of Usher,
The tomb hath stayed.
Exposed by nature.
Never to live again.
Insanity takes thee,
Drowning out the calm.
Superstitions rage wildly,
Within the Ebony storm...
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
I'm not one for superstitions
Generally things are going good
I don't believe in charms or trinkets
You must believe me, knock on wood
Spill some salt, throw over shoulder
Never do that one at all
You have to watch just where you toss it
If you're eating at the mall
You get bad luck for breaking mirrors
The curse has seven years of life
But, marry wrong...it lasts forever
Would you trade your mirror for your wife?
Good luck comes from certain idols
Rabbits feet and lucky charms
If that's true I have one question
Are there three footed rabbit farms?
Voodoo dolls they have bad juju
Zombies coming from the dead
I know I am not superstitious
But, I have garlic round my bed
Black cats and a leaning ladder
bad luck say the witches queen
But if bad luck is all around us
Why do people like 13?
Tea leaf reading and the tarot
Horoscopes and chicken bones
I think that they are just full of blarney
I don't believe but, I'll kiss the stone.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
My mind offers a compromise
Which is instantly refuted
Shot down
I’m absolutely amazed by the sheer
Number of superficial constraints placed
Upon me, my superstitions, my desires, my obligations
Each one currently impossibly to fulfill
Each side impossible to sait
And so,
A stalemate
Sitting here, doing nothing
Unmoving, but
Thoughts whirling about
Fidget spinners, or
Bablades repeatedly clashing
Repeatedly smashing
Till it’s just me and the broken debre
But,
All you see
Is a girl
Too lazy to move
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 7:45 PM UTC
Turn your keys into ignition
Just as a star explodes
Crying babies enter the world
Blades of grass learn to grow
Infinite darkness
Mixed with ominous beauty
The need for reflection
The burden of a curse
Mixed with foreboding air
That you’re not allowed to breathe
Erase all superstitions
Just as a black cat prowls
Lying children enter adulthood
The devil’s stomach growls
Infinite darkness
Mixed with ominous beauty
The need for reflection
The burden of a curse
Mixed with foreboding air
That you’re not allowed to breathe
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
The garbage man came
as I drank my coffee, flavors mixing
with my cigarette and
The Great Gatsby.
I watched him pick up the dumpster,
overturn it in his truck
and I thought of asking
what he could do about
my garbage, my treasures;
a torn bumper on
the corner of 11th and Montana Avenue,
a broken lucky cigarette,
proving my superstitions to be false, maybe,
and a half-full soul
trying to find its way
back into my heart,
that I gave to her
many years ago
but it wasn't my heart I wanted back,
just her, because
she at the time, was elsewhere
and that I couldn't handle.
I stayed silent as
he drove away
with things unwanted
wishing he could too
pick up the things
I so greatly miss
and return them to me.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
the pen is not mighty
the lily is not pure
and blood is not vengeful nor beautiful
it is just red
but i like stories
that white shirt you once wore
now yellow with use
that sweater you've had for years
adorned with the patches
of accidents gone by
that scar on your back
from when you fell off a swing
those lines by your lips
the remnant of a smile
and a smile and a smile
I like stories
i love reading yours
there are rabbits on my moon
divinity in my incense
my oaks stand mighty
my sun rides a chariot
park benches donated in memory
hasty scribbles on classroom benches
superstitions about crows and cows
love stories to make word games
i come from a world of stories
where the people are made
of matter and molecule
of memory and metaphor
i like stories
and this one's my favourite
Feb 22, 2022
Feb 22, 2022 at 2:20 AM UTC
A life is a ladder.
A hole is to dig.
Everyone must climb up or down.
Your back aches just to stand,
It hurts bad.
You remember meals and women,
You got so close to,
But never had.
But your Life is a ladder,
or so said the King,
as he ordered you
to cling to the rung.
It's quiet out here
if you don't make a move,
If don't lose your mind,
Forget superstitions,
And you keep your groove.
All there is is the climb,
Said Peter the Great,
Their love is their strength,
Their weakness is hate.
Tomorrow morning this time
I will have already crossed
Their biggest river,
You can join me for wine.
Or you can die on your own.
The climb,
The Cimb,
There is only the climb,
And the edge of your most true desire.
Genius lives in the dimes.
You choke the grim air and
Kneel
To the heavens,
And because you can no longer stand.
And
You hack.
You spit.
You crawl and look for the dimes.
Finally,
You collect them,
And stand to spit again.
You walk up to the counter and buy.
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
Just a human being,
Just a ****** up thing.
I'll make up my mind and close on own coffin doors.
I dance with the crowd,
And sleep by myself.
Mounted high upon the hill tops of your superstitions.
I am so gently picked up,
But thrown harshly to the ground.
Your every word causes the balance in me to turn.
I can stare at you for days,
Or blink my eyelids away.
Always thinking of the moment when I will be at peace.
Just a human being,
Just a ****** up thing.
Is there a good reason I can't just be left alone?
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 6:44 AM UTC
It's finally over your draggin this out
This four leaf clover is burning without a
Doubt
Don't you worry there's no need to
Hurry
We can collect the ashes soon
*This Storm is the norm
I hope the sun shines through
Cause maybe maybe
It's finally over your draggin this out
This four leaf clover is burning without a
Doubt
Don't you worry there's no need to
Hurry
Your lucks already (run) out
And about this tomb it's ghost
Haunts these motion pictures that I
See the most
But these silly superstitions are a
Slave to the fame
Don't O don't don't wake me up
Tonight
All these midnight runs consist of
Cheap beer and wasted breath from (on)
cigarettes
And about this time I found
Such a profound phrase
Life is love we live we need it
Life is love we live we need it
Don't be so ashamed, why are you
Afraid
Of
{return to *}
Life is love we live we need it
Life is love we live we need it
Its such a grace, to hear three words
And to say it
It's finally over, your draggin this out
This four leaf clover is burning without a
Doubt
Don't you worry
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
everyone's deep sea fishing,
but i'm out here deep sea wishing,
selling my heart,
and i don't make commission,
feeding off all my superstitions,
like knocking on wood,
will give me the goods,
like i deserved it,
like i did something and it was worth it.
i built a foundation,
possessing mad ambitions,
with a lack of love is malnutrition,
withdrawals and i'm itching.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
Teeth chatter and butts raise above seats,
Riding pickups atop the corduroy road,
Thunder claps of rubber bass beats,
Slapping the undercarriage's rusty odes.
The tires rhythmic riffs are risky,
Clavinet keys echo wood beams over muddy water,
Walter Murphy drinks a Fifth of Beethoven's whiskey,
Leaving superstitions for Stevie to Wander.
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
Blue or black shoes
Skinny jeans
Graphic t-shirts
Wrist-encircling chains and strings
Messy brown hair
Dark skin and darker eyes
Big black bag
This is the outer me
A bubbly quirky girl
Strange smiles and stranger laughter
But inside I'm crazier
Layers of personality
Like an onion or an ogre
The deeper you peel
The curiouser I seem, I'm sure
Made-up superstitions
Good luck charms and rituals
Fear and Hatred for self
Confusion, stress, twisted love
Two outlets alone for my pain and
Tears, do not count
People think I'm bright
A faerie of sunshine
A beam of light
But how does someone so dark
So self-destructive
Become a guiding light?
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
Let's join a whistle band
And light matches with our teeth
Lets ask everyone when they lost track of Waldo
Cuz I havent seen that ************ since the 10th grade
Let's believe in all the superstitions
A little luck is what we've been needing these days
Lets eat sushi and climb on rooftops when we aren't supposed to
Just so we can look at the white lights and hope that the height will give us a little clarity
Lets ask long questions with long answers
And know that to talk you also have to listen
Let's watch creepy **** and wear socks with high heels
We'll be class acts till the day we die
Though not in the way everyone expects
Let's spend way too much time together
And cut through backyards in the snow
Lets pay for our café drinks in change
And ask for favors because we're close
Let's spill our guts and our laughs
Because you're the only one who gets me
Lets spell out words with pennies
And decide life in ****** thrift store dressing rooms
Let's cry and be sad
With the promise to be happy
And healed when the other is near
Lets rip up t-shirts
And change the radio in each others cars
Let's take a million memories
And expect the best out of life and gelato ice cream
Let's dry up flowers in the summer to look at in the winter
And wear too many rings on our fingers
Let's hang out with ******
And rent a red convertible for the summer
Lets read books and watch Mulan
And take walks and get together just so we can nap
Lets play assassins creed
And listen to Bon Iver (or Bone Eyever)
And take a break from thinking too much all the time
Lets join a whistle band
And light matches with our teeth Because all of this has meant more to me than a million everythings
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
She's such a visionary,
she pictures art where peasants revel...
had a near death experience, said she even saw hell...
She sees potential in me, despite the times that i fell..
she convinced me to keep throwing pennies in wells..
not because she believes in myths and superstitions...
but because she sees homeless people dig in after all the wishin..
So on a good day, i throw in a few quarters, she sees i care.
But im no hero i just want Ms. Adeline to be aware..
Everything she sees, and envisions she blesses. & Everyone agrees...
So i tell her.
Never take your lovely eyes off the world, please.
She promised me she wouldn't, ever since she saw God.
What makes her see goodness?, what makes her so kind?.....
if only the world knew, Ms. Adeline was born blind.
-afj
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
A solitary solecism
An evaporating vision
Premonitions and superstitions
Withered hopes
Amorphous, insubstantial
Episodic swings
Digressions and detours
Evasions, deviations
Changing lanes
Accelerating and overtaking
Swerving
Inhibitions colliding.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC
I. Letter 1
You write of sitting in the cold
of anxiety about your grant
not coming & how you lonely
you are & how you'll send the money
for those jeans of yours she paid for
not wanting to come between
her & her mother
& of the growing
distance between you
such a poor, proud country boy
unwilling, still to give up
on what all see as a crazy dream
& talking of emigration
& how you couldn't find
the book she wanted
in the shops, for it was sold out
A letter to your English girlfriend never sent
& poignant all the more for it
I.I Letter 2
You write of your concern
for us, my mother & me,
praying we have enough to eat
saying you wish you were there
to stand in hopeless Russian food queues
for us and how hard it is to be so helpless
You talk of shouting on the phone
& how you didn't mean to do it
& of how love and pain are two sides
of the same coin & how when
you & my mother talk you never
say anything much, just talk about the Museum
& dinosaur bones & how mad this is, how wrong
my mother would say those bones
were your reason for your so-called love
that she should have seen the naked ambition in your eyes
that of a man used to poverty, reaching for more
aiming for notoriety, whilst lying of love
I.I.I Letter 3
You call my mother ' Princess'
(my mother doesn't know this is cliche)
& talk of British superstitions
such as black cats being unlucky
& ask why Russians think
asking for photographs
of people is unlucky
a superstition my mother doesn't recall
when I ask her about it now
Black cats, is that why I ended
up in hospital in Britain
in a land of the free robbed of my freedom
because we had a black cat?
I always thought them lucky,
adhering to the Russian superstition
I guess I might have been wrong
back then you talked of emigration
of wanting to move to Russia to be with us
I.V Letter 4
I can mostly only imagine it
from my mother's words
your letter to her who was 23
named ' Lily' after the flower of death
bringing the death of our family
She calls you ' Day-Day'
like your youth's English girlfriend
in your mid-life crisis
you've turned into a poet
& are talking of your secret
love & nursing memories of love-bites
all else is dust & forgotten
you'd later cry on the Chinese hotel
bed in front of your wife, my mother
' how can I refuse these offerings'
& eleven years go by
occasionally we talk on the phone
it's something you don't deserve
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
Truthfully,
you remind of someone I'd know
in my dreams;
a strangers face made recognizable
by lack of initiative, or curiosity.
Impervious to actualization.
Confidence in nightmares;
reflective of shock-waves of Nagasaki,
mutants in our collective DNA,
monsters wading in the gene pool.
Atheists with superstitions.
A viral nihilism befuddled by
religious idioms and anecdotes,
held together loosely by
scientific mysticism
&
hypocritical moral
superiority.
She reminds me that humanity is just,
"everything that mankind is capable of."
Builds complex doomsday devices in his head,
and plots to rule the world.
Meanwhile Manhattan project seeks
to either rule the world
or open it's
throat.
It pains me to write a puff piece
on hometown, love-life, hope/etc.,
yet I can wax lyric lusting for the apocalypse.
In this fashion, I can look into crowds
[sadistically romantic]
and tell them, aspiring to the Manhattan
in our everyday savage grey matter,
"We all have dreams in our hearts."
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC