"supplants" poems
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.
Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and loneliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.
Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.
These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees, those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.
So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.
The water-trough falls to where the electric line banishes, connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 9:02 AM UTC
A Few lines etched where no words give weight.
Good riddance say the veterans
Of a nation gone sour with grief
Like a lemon slice evaporating onto the tongue of the sick.
But when the young yearn for White Nights,
The old claim they are blinding lights to the cold sugary substance
That supplants an easy path.
The bullithole rush of renewal and lonliness and progress thwarted and abandoned,
Inertia seeping through
Into a cold summer's day.
Between the cursing slant of sleek paved roadstrips,
And the burning briars that thresh the border's haunt,
What is picture postcard emerald
Is in that same instance soviet architect gray.
These are the sleepers bereft of the dream
whose twenty-five stories high
or ghost estates
are domes to cast out the howling banshees,those suffrage of the real
to be re-thought as mere props which surround the haloed glowing screen.
So sheen the Motherland glows in untarnished eyes
Familiar solely with glass behemoths parading with their reflections
In grey water-drizzled streets,
Only to be replaced by iridescent rainbows that foster a hope.
A hope that was packaged and sold two decades back
Since it was not worth carrying into the New World.
The water-trough delving where the electric line banishes,connects a spike,
"rejuvenate the breakfast table"-some far-off God reports, Hades still waiting,
Intel-chip Blue, epiphany at the gates.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
605
The Spider holds a Silver Ball
In unperceived Hands—
And dancing softly to Himself
His Yarn of Pearl—unwinds—
He plies from Nought to Nought—
In unsubstantial Trade—
Supplants our Tapestries with His—
In half the period—
An Hour to rear supreme
His Continents of Light—
Then dangle from the Housewife’s Broom—
His Boundaries—forgot—
4k
The insanity that you left with me with
has become all-consuming.
It has eviscerated me and I have no organs left,
only maniacal thoughts and illness.
The lunacy is my epidemic,
the madness is my disease.
The inferno where my heart once was,
supplants the warmth that your wicked love used to fill me with.
My mind has been dethroned by ghoulish memories and succubus visions.
My two lungs no longer breathe air,
but rather intake black roses and expel brimstone.
The deranged delirium is my only comfort.
The hysteria, in lieu of love,
is now what keeps me intoxicated.
The most garish part of all,
is that I've never felt more alive.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 4:47 PM UTC
The world belongs to the nocturnal, the ever present reflexive vanguard whose presence elicits attention,
be it negative or positive.
The crawl to a standstill, the distractions, the regrets:
These are as naught to those whose focus supplants physical duress.
Success is the only road, the path to failure can only be trod by idle feet, hot coals to the promised kingdom of recognition and praise, this must be traversed at all lengths, at all levels, by all means:
Take it.
Hatred or envy does not compare to the rush of achievement, real effort brought to fruition.
Be not afraid to raise your expectations, be afraid that they never rise.
Most of all, love unashamedly and furiously as if no one could weigh in,
the universe bends to the warrior's perspective
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
As we very reluctantly parted, he queried whether he was just another of my whims. Ignorantly, I replied I guessed so, provided we never saw each other again. Erm. Months later the fire is still burning brightly in the absence of any good reason. Interesting eh? Needing a topic as usual, and weary of nature tributes (hahaha, can you believe it?!) I tackled this beloved thread, writing it in the present tense as if from our first days then altering to the present in the second (linked) sonnet.
(sonnet #'s CCCCXLVIII, CCCCXLIX)
You play my heartstrings like a puppeteer
Methinks. Quite deftly pluck and gently twang
To immelod'ous strains whilst I half hang
'Twixt hope and fear, life's balance near
Precar'ous in that cur'ous dance. By mere
Sweet words or grim I'm tossed, a boomerang
That can't be lost to you though ev'ry pang
Estranges reason in this game too dear.
All yours because those unseen chords have caught
My heart that like a harp you seem to use,
As sans my will, in strumming half distraught
Or with such ecstasies, howe'er you choose
You ply, in your winds varied whims 'non fraught,
This hapless leaf. To what end? Just t'amuse?
# II
To what end? Just t'amuse, we tried romance?
Who fell in love? I did. Did you? In vain?
Oh, why'd we play that game? What now remains?
Behold: a live coal, frosted black, whose stance
Seems quite the opposite; wherein the dance
Of Love's hot passion plays anon, aye reigns
Sans you, and any reason. Its refrain
Nigh hopeless, sings your name where none supplants.
Because you knew it would. You told me so.
And while I scoffed, that's how it goes, I see.
Who ******* that hopeful thread, oh sweetness Beau?
'Twas "love at first sight," a rare golden key.
That never quite died but e'er seems to glow.
At least that's how it 'pears in Love's debris.
08Jan12
D67a,b
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 6:00 PM UTC
1296
Death’s Waylaying not the sharpest
Of the thefts of Time—
There Marauds a sorer Robber,
Silence—is his name—
No Assault, nor any Menace
Doth betoken him.
But from Life’s consummate Cluster—
He supplants the Balm.
1.6k
Romancing the theories obviated by practice
Cryptic names in the fiasco
Work supplants play for the new actors
So time is technology?
Mass ethics supersede reason
Who are the cornerstone language guardians?
Radical superordination is for all
Ancient mystery can still delineate precise uncertinty
Shall edicts manifest by resurrection?
The conundrum must be isolated from protocol
In an analysis suddenly unframed
Compromise only promises compounded civility
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Doesn't it bother anyone else: that by simply participating in our current culture of mindless, resource exhaustive consumer capitalism, we're directly perpetuating a model of conduct that will eventually lead to the loss of our habitat, and the decline of our species; one whose remorseless self indulgence now guarantees a rise of global sea level up to 10 feet?
Doesn't it bother anyone else: that we live in a society run by people who we don't know, who don't care about us, but only their own short term gain, regardless of the negative impact that their actions may and often do have on entire generations of people, present and future?
Doesn't it bother anyone else: that our economy thrives on war, and has since the 1940's, that the total for defense contracts this year has been $253,802,074,353, and that 19% of our federal budget goes to defense, with a meager 1% funding education, that we have a president who calls our congress "ceremonial," wins the Nobel Peace Prize, and then unilaterally commits acts of international terrorism without breaking a sweat?
Doesn't it bother anyone else that we're on camera all the time, that our government spies on all of our communications 24/7 as well as those of other countries, or that people who reveal these injustices are shut up in prisons for life, tortured, or exiled?
Doesn't it bother anyone else that our police force is increasingly hostile to innocent people, that they carry AR-15 assault rifles to peaceful protests, and that they constantly abuse their power? I have never ONCE consented to search, but has that ever stopped them?
Doesn't it bother anyone else that our lives are essentially meaningless in the grander scheme of things, that we all dance like puppets, and jump through hoops like dogs, working at jobs we don't like for people we can't stand, to earn money that often barely supplants our basic needs?
Doesn't it bother anyone else?
Doesn't it bother anyone else?
DOESN'T IT BOTHER ANYONE ELSE?!?!?!?
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
She is robed in beauty
Singing of the dawn
Shades and hues
Of innocence and color
Make her glow
Like new found love
Sparkling like dew
She has captivated my heart
And captured my eyes
But not my spirit
Even she is not enough
To quell my dark desire
Pity and mercy
Have left my primal soul
I am born to ****
Purpose supplants passion
Gaze becomes focus
As I set to destroy her
Her death to come
In one moment
Frozen in my heart
Will destroy me
But I do it anyway
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
"gravity has taken better men than me
just keep me where the light is"...John Clayton Mayer
where the light is...
this lyric gets carried from midnight to midnight next,
from troubled sleep to the bus stop, to and from work,
onto, back to, the homebound bus stop once again,
from solitary man to father to grandfather and cycles back
to once again a troubled sleeper poem writer,
who just wants to know, John,
when I find it, will, does the light fill, complete and heal the cracks...when I find that light...
in the city, starlight been banished by street lamps pointed downward, far too often it is believable that the whole world has been wrapped in white crinkled, filmy, wax paper, then,
how will the light know where it is needed most,
how will it find the empty chest cavity that writes these lines
there is real and artificial they say, nature vs. man made,
sun upon the face that heals for but an eight minute
bandaid summer ferry crossing, the fluorescent that says here, here is the bus stop, tarry, sit and rest, while you wait for
answer unscheduled, on a bench beneath to the street light
that illuminates a small swatch of street
between the dark spots on the x-ray of
this patient patient's soul awaiting,
are either of those
the light I need John?
no worries man, I'm just teasing, well knowing, neither of us,
tables turned, know where the light is, up high, down low,
if it is yellow or gold, if light is real or imagined,
only the sensation of the curettage needed to be healed when the
chest drained and the light supplants the drained fluids,
when it interferes, interpolates, how it found me or I it,
how I recognized it, how it reignited the home fire, and
I'll drop you line how light, lightly to find or be heavy found,
how light supersedes, defeats, the gravity of daily tugging,
and how what happens afterwards is golightly
up to us
2:10am **** it
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:21 AM UTC
Our bodies lie next to eachother
Juxtaposing
In such contrasting perfection
Your shoulder supplants as my pillow
Our lips touching satisfy my every urge
Each nibble on the neck acts as a reminder of why we are here
Love.
So practical and enjoyable
But you can see in my eyes, I wonder why.
My mind questions my bodies
And its desire, its yearning, in its simplest form, its want to be held.
Though- I am able to turn my back toward you, curl my legs to yours
and forget this question for one more minute.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
i wake up in the middle of the night with
the ghost of god pressing his hand
against my face, buttoning my collar too
tight and telling me to smile even though
i cannot breathe. there are those who
look to him for mercy, but i know the
truth--he is a trickster, a jester, and he
makes me the fool. he supplants self-
worth with loneliness; he holds up your
desires up to let the light shine through
them, so that you see all you ever wanted
become translucent and frail, bloodless
veins in full view, twitching in an effort to
live again.
sometimes, i still beg him, i still fall to my
knees and clasp my hands together, a
tableau of faith. i ask him to spare me,
the words thin and metallic on my tongue,
needles swimming with the diseases of all
those who used them before me. i put all
my chips on the table, bartering this and
that for the simple feeling of being whole.
but in the end, i am left with nothing but
a shadow and a doubt, wondering why i
let myself have any hope when i know
how easily it can turn from lifeline to
anchor.
i have held my heart out and watched as
the devil feasted on it, spitting it out again
and showing me love-stained teeth. my
dreams are choked with desire and fear,
the sunlight is bleached black by my dread
of yet another day.
there is passion trapped in the heat of my
skin, bravery caught on the tips of my
teeth, but i cannot possibly pretend that
i have any strength left. god knows i am
finished; i have lost my words in floods
and torrents, i am scraping along the
furrows of my mind just for one more
verse. if i have lost you, tell me, what
sort of loving god would take this from
me, too?
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 4:25 PM UTC
1.
The trembling of a maple tree:
Autumn buries spring.
Not everything
Hoped for came to be.
2.
The future happened and was not a sum
Of my earlier projections;
Newer directions
Proved I took stock in the obscurely dumb.
3.
If a pathway to another life
Could be fashioned immediately
I'd have no need to be
Treading the edge of a knife.
4.
The crooked palms, the bleached concrete—
All mine. My eyes have usurped them,
Just as the hacked phlegm
Of a *** supplants the street.
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
A barrel cast of porcelain I bear
A white-furred bull upon my waist reclines
The alabaster eggshell buried there
A hollow suffocated by design
I am, by ring, the oldest living tree
With form bereft of grace or limber charm
A prairie pale rolls forth atop my knees
Of silent waves composed into my arms
But ring and ring again supplants my will
As heat with yeast and dough will slowly swell
A tabby cat loved lazy, sweet and still
A sleeping pulse within a clownish shell
The valley miles above my buried chest
A place where, lying still, his head may rest
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
When just a child the poet's mom said "Son,
Throughout your life beware the sin of pride.
Remember this when every day is done,
What counts the most is who you are inside."
At first he thought his mother's words unfair
For recognition surely has its place.
In time he witnessed prideful thoughts can flare
When undue adulation supplants grace.
The poet took to heart his mother's words
Too many accolades can turn your head.
Vainglory flits away on wings of birds
What's left is mostly emptiness and dread.
Life immersed in modest exhibition
Satisfied with honorable mention
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 8:11 PM UTC
Shadows falling
I scale back the grip on the reigns
Her smile possesses me,
It forsakes me, then retakes me
Careless caregiving
I cannot fathom my own peril
For her slender fingers entice me,
They chase me, then erase me
Stave off regret
For another hour, two at most
Her voice is beautiful slander,
It directs me, then infects me
Tempestuous
Building shelter is my priority
For her storm consumes me,
It supplants me, then replants me
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 9:09 AM UTC
it there was not a shallow
mighty as the waters hang
payloads fell and footpaths gave
to mercy they will never ask
whom murmurs softly send sincere
this sinking fife and drum
of burden's restless hum
calling wishing for a storm
remember summer and
gin and vague brotherhood
rising from coma with effervescence
(now look what you've done)
killer of the noble herdsmen
making nightmares should
not be this effortless
calm brings dear ones in
light embraces you
remember summer and
see it forever
rest your lids on that image
before darkness supplants tears
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC
Calmer than I could be but more hyper than I should be
A still pond, ripples growing
My mind flowing and coalescing
Always going, confessing
Singing a truth into the world
A whirlwind of expression
Suggestions and impressions
My most honest confessions
Spending sessions crafting verses, masking the mundanity of humanity with rhymes and wit, because when times are **** we need verbal skits to help us forget
And when times are great I use words to celebrate, relate experience with eloquence and mount a defense against the sad times with these mad rhymes, counting my blessings as I undress the distress, caress these careless thoughts that plague me and harangue me, using language as a cage to contain and restrain the darkness because it’s far less work than acceptance. Language is the way out, reason supplants doubt and I can shout in the face of death, deface him with each breath, replace the fear with here, with now, with this moment and foment a rebellion against evolution, a thought revolution, and finally see that the solutions are the problems, every day you are solving them by being here, holding what is dear near to your heart and living as a part of this, as art instead of artifice.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 9:21 AM UTC
When dissonance supplants her wing
these hearts will color her sound, today
she's become maiden madness, if
Maximilian who has her refrain will eat her filet.
Whence her allure from the moon
how she can make doctrine famous as her eagle
that will enchant woods destined with her fortune.
As her first day break in November is relic
while she does rely with splendid Utopia
only found glory in her eye; amid game
where she can play under the gun
with breakneck speed that really know her best.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC