"suppressive" poems
Darling,
in the event of a zombie apocalypse,
I’m gonna marry you.
I know, that romantic testimonial
isn’t quite the matrimonial proposition
you were expecting,
but I’m projecting a lovely future for us!
You see, when the dead break free,
I’ll come save you.
I’ll be your knight in shining Kevlar,
your cranium-crushing crusader,
and safe in our barricaded bungalow,
we’ll match moans for groans
with the shambling horde outside.
We’ll make love ’til death do we part,
or at least til we start
to run out of supplies,
and if we get in a pinch,
I’ve got a surprise:
see, I’ll paralyze them with poetry,
’cause if there’s anything
a zombie understands, it’s desire.
Meanwhile,
you lay down suppressive fire
and we’ll take out as many as we can.
If in the end we are overrun,
I’ll let them take me
so you can get away.
They can have my brain–
it’s my heart that beats for you.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
I'm tired
Tired of feeling this way
Tired of fighting
Of trying
Of lying
That I'm fine
I want to sleep
For days
But dreams haunt me
Daunting
I'm treading water
Drowning, drowsy
In a vast pool
Of memories
Experiences
Emotions
Suppressive weights
Heavier than the
Sleep
That draws my eyelids
To a close
Fighting to let myself
Drift away
Fighting to keep
My eyes open
But I'm too
****
Tired
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
How do you perceive the world
A world as dark and happy,
Suppressive and full of opportunity,
As another headache or painkiller,
Or as much of a heartbreak
Or heart-filler?
Where does one draw the line
In the figurative dirt of
Trust or mistrust,
Of isolation and lust?
How have you been conditioned to view this world?
Through two windows to a compact machine
Cogs and gears turning, calculating...
What am I seeing?
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
Ganjgal, September 8, 2009
They had a job to do that day
in the Valley of Ganjgal.
Afghani and Americans
walked into a metal hail.
An ambush had been laid for them
as they approached the town
Every light was darkened
Taliban held the high ground.
One squad was pinned
Behind a wall and
was taking Casualties.
The gunny Sergeant
for sure was dead
and perhaps the other three.
Corporal Meyer on the radio
called for suppressive fire
but was denied because brass feared
to rouse the natives ire.
With no air support available
and the situation looking grim
Corporal Meyer told his Sergeant
They should take the Humvee in.
They drove into the ambush zone
time and time again
Engaging with the enemy
and rescuing their friends.
Corporal Meyer killed one enemy
at close range with his M-4
He then engaged with a machine gun
and killed or wounded several more.
When air support, at last, arrived
and held the foe at bay
Corporal Meyer entered the killing zone
to take the dead away.
He came across four bodies
that had been stripped of guns and gear
All four had been shot at close range
the postmortems make that clear..
On his broad shoulders he bore a friend
Who’d paid the price of war.
He ran between the bullets
until he had retrieved all four.
Disregarding his own safety
and heedless of his Shrapnel wound
He displayed great personal bravery
without which our cause is doomed.
Corporal Meyer wears an honor now
that few men living bear
The Medal of Honor on his chest
for conspicuous Gallantry there.
He will tell you he’s no hero.
He just had a job to do.
A proud United States Marine
to their motto ever true.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 11:42 PM UTC
The unimpeachable glasses are fogging,
as they tentatively ignore the premonition,
while ignoring the suppressive partition,
that defends themselves from submission.
The eyes detect,
with unreasonable rest,
the hazy, shadowy terrain,
that prevents them from pain.
If the mugginess stays,
and the heart embellishes the fade,
then the glasses maintain,
their authoritarian reign.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
The root of all evil, set to victimize the people
Keep us separate but equal, justification is lethal
But the system isn’t see through, it’s affecting you and me too
And now we must redo everything that made us feeble.
Now we must all give in to this suppressive prison
This world in which we live in has been filled with premonition
Oppose our own volition, our morals and our cognition
Listen to the vision of new accepted fiscal rhetorician
You claim to be a Christian with no moral intuition
But I don’t envision a Christian to think with his commission
But I may be incorrect and I may need to reflect
Nevertheless, it’s a greedy world what can you expect?
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 10:29 PM UTC
Poetry is that flutter in your heart
Poetry is when you finally get a start
Poetry is...... child birth
Poetry is your search for self-worth
Poetry is concrete, and the cracks within it
Poetry is what the DJ is spinning
Poetry revolutionary or cliche
Poetry is experienced day by day
Poetry is my scuffed up wood floor
Poetry it the newly-cleaned **** on my door
Poetry is the meeting, the breakup, and anticipation
Poetry is the person, the feeling, and the situation
Poetry is worked on, poetry is rushed
Poetry is neat, or grammar that's ****** up
Poetry is new or heard before
A million different ways, or possibly more
Poetry is heaven, poetry is hell
Poetry is nouns and symbols
Is poetry the words, the rhythms, or the feelings?
Or is it the process of personal heeling?
Poetry is all, poetry is a blanket
Poets are poetry and I'd like to thank them
For true poets know it's not a competition of words
But an embrace of the the different layers of worlds
that exist within one conscious being
and the makeup of things whether suppressive or freeing
or the concrete unemotional state of a thing
But even to a poet that leaves a ring
whether emotionally, or within the lack-of
(see concrete vs. crack, written above)
I don't know why I struggle so hard with writing right
because in the end it's not black or white
Instead poetry just IS with it's existence
It's up to you if it's poetry or if it isn't
A poem may be tacky, but that could be the twist
Poetry isn't vague, just has it's own way to exist
Shout-out to "Hello Poetry", we, poets stand united
It's a state of poetry whether or not you write it.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
I want to face the world
Hidden by fear
Brick wall surround
But I must climb
Stand up against it all
Cave into the suppressive fire
Smoke filled iron lung
Cough up the soot
Stomped by society
Insect view from the pavement
Black sole screams down
Body cracks in half
Pushed to the brink
With scarlet hair
Selfish *****
cares no less
Depravity controls
dark desires
Twenty hands silent
applauds no more
Life and Death
we do not choose
We all die alone
after we faced the world
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
Is the sky falling
just because she's
soaked to the skin,
half-naked,
and with pixie smile
knows so little
of the affect
her bloom has,
here in the open fields?
Her evanescent day,
caught between
the suppressive cloud
of a mother's
mindful shaming,
and what it should
rightfully be,
an ingénue
let play in the rain.
Dec 2, 2019
Dec 2, 2019 at 11:35 PM UTC
My name is intangible, its recited or sung, a verse from old folk poetry or the beautiful Quran. I’m remembered when a Zajjalin sings, words of poetry, rhythms and feelings. I'm the makeup of things whether suppressive or freeing and the concrete emotions that a poet leaves ringing.
My name is the voices of change in Lebanon’s civil war. A wounded country where the people is its soul. I was the hope and granddaughter my grandfather wished to call. I carry the name proudly waiting for Lebanon’s sun to return home.
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 5:58 AM UTC
The blood moon beckons a bitter hue
Rising above the frothy winter dew.
In the night- luminated a single room.
My only solace in the suppressive city gloom.
(Staring in the nocturnal vacuity:
A grey hazy mirror passing in my soul.)
Blades of silver steel
Puncture my mind, with
Seething desire I long to wield.
Withholding the bitter sorrow
I take the blade in hand,
To cleanse me from the ‘morrow.
Slitting of flesh ensue,
The ****** begins.
Skinning to the bone to make me anew.
From head to toe,
Cut to shreds.
No one will feel the pleasure I know.
Squirting from my anatomy.
The warm gush of fluid.
The spermatozoa-blood spewing over me.
For the final incision-
Off with my ****** “member.”
Pressure relieved.
****** achieved.
THE END…
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 10:11 PM UTC
Asking, "where's my mind?" wears my mind, you see?
fallacy's alive and I permit it.
Idly rightfully, stand I, abiding
Its suppressive whim I cannot forfeit.
Shall I ponder what scurries so discreet?
Maybe rather it exists to roam Rome.
If I squander, it wonders Italy.
And I, in Portland, await it, alone.
Upon this reluctant reuniting
its lost sense of home, anxious though welcomed.
My mind lost itself, separated me.
I am without it again, so I sit.
I snicker, shamed and amused by my claim:
"My mind?" it lacks the restraint necessary to belong in such a way.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC
I creep upon the shadows that do nothing but follow.
I lift above the ground like the angels, I have found.
A failure to results but a successor in the making, I'm battling through the crowd but somehow I'm still smiling and faking.
Hope, I still carry
Faith, I am not in a hurry
Courage, I am still building
Wisdom, I am still learning
To all that life has to offer, I am just accepting...
Pain; self doubt
Drain; a sad pout
Broken; Fixing myself up
Unspoken; I am learning to let it all out
Selfish and sinful, stubborn and hard to fulfil,
but through the cracks within me, I am trying to focus where I want to be.
Dark and depressive, lost and suppressive, misunderstood and aggressive...
HELP... I call out
Fix me... I shout
Make me fly... I just want to let it out
But unfortunately I fear...
I fear what people may say
I fear things will not go my way
I fear the darkest day
I fear my emotions won't go away.
I have not treated my ghost well
I have kept my deep secrets hidden
and this left me feeling dark and dull.
I chose Satan because he gave me power, then I saw the light, now it is my god that I pray to every hour.
Invincibility and visibility is what I craved
The feeling made me well behaved
But deep within me I am not well
Sick; strange, and hiding like a shell.
But I need to break the shell...
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
One eye open , in the pill box , tantamount to tugging on Mothers robe , trigging yet needing recognition , laying down suppressive fire for the entire division , marching through enemy lines , planes at treetop level make the ground shudder , Rottweiler at my bed won't leave me be , shadows growing larger , R.E.M. sleep . Both eyes open , panning into the tree line , five pills to choke down , a long days travel , trying to make it until Noon , meet the combat medic , pick up fresh chemical to cure a soldiers blues .. Across the water a heron monitors the surface , hours on end without movement , stoic and proud or frozen with fear just like me !
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
*Explosive wrath called into play
The odor of decomposition on a hot ,
bitter day
The rancor and confusion of 'Broken Arrow'
Mercurial Lieutenants ordering suppressive
fire on false objectives , exposing location
in a counter-offensive
Alpha , Niner , One call for fire
Copy-get small on the wire*
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 11:54 PM UTC
Made it, it's another day.
Despite the crippling notions,
Suppressive rain drenching my head,
Detail-oriented accounts of you,
Hours locked in a bed.
Another day.
Food degrading to ash,
Your voice inside my cortex,
Gutting emotions,
A dull machete
"Just give me what's next"
It's another day
Hauntings, a ghostly other lover,
Begging to sleep between,
Because to me there is no other,
"Don't forget me" was said
Thank God, another day
Pleading up a universe,
Disintegrate all agony,
If only for a minute, "let me sleep"
"Let me believe I can feel again in my dreams"
A morrow makes a heart mend, right?
So far, another day
The next day compromise.
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 3:01 AM UTC
As dawn breaks upon the silent sylvan, the sun pierces the clouds with a mighty phalanx of shimmering sarissas.
The ravens cackle their clamorous, cacophonous call.
The sun’s skirmish over the solemn sea of nebulous nimbi forces the gray void to a rout.
The radiant beams of the victorious sun permeate life into the sylvan.
The trees and flowers sway with delight feeling the sultry presence of their victorious King. That all-seeing eye of heaven, the sun, burns at a distance despite his ruddy touch. Then comes dusk, the inexorable coming of darkness, drinking away the vibrant vat of the heavens. The ebon ink restores the suppressive tranquility that intoxicates the sylvan.
Feb 3, 2020
Feb 3, 2020 at 4:17 PM UTC
Laying hands
Faraway lands
The times of gone before
The lore of what appeased us
What teases us
The spell of hell etched in your veins
To bring out the pains
The aches of heartbreaks
The suppressive shakes
The broken haze
As the energy speaks it sinks into each vessel
It flows from high the source sky
The energy releasing into the body
To clear
As the tears pour out
and
down
The heaviness takes a lighter tone
And the men women and souls from now and before and who we have felt to be before find more peace
To release
What has been and gone before
And breathe
Jan 5, 2022
Jan 5, 2022 at 7:20 AM UTC