"suspends" poems
making love
suspends gravity
and time
seconds expand
into eternity
we are
on top of the universe
floating
in the fourth dimension
feeling
the birth of a new solar system
amidst convulsive explosions
whose brilliance
light years into the future
may be observed
by keen astronomers
we do not mind
our system
radiates and shines
in its time
nothing else matters
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
Her lover's gone
his souls departed
her devastation fills the air.
Lost in an abyss of time
forsaking all
she walks alone
raking thoughts In her head.
Their souls where entwined
to be forever enbind,
now dreams are shattered
fragments scattered
she gazes in despair.
Unfamiliar scenes close all around her,
crestfallen
her soul goes dormant,
the pains two deep
cuts into each heartbeat.
As day light starts to fade
she suspends herself
in the night air
longing to go to the other land,
ready to take her lovers hand.
She doesn't care to breathe
nor does she weep
as she slips into her
forever
sleep.
(SW)
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC
lighten up the load,
replace it with stone.
one rock
of the densest sort
breaks through my glass ribs
suspends in hollow silence
void of a beat.
keeps me comfort,
in a life with no soul.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
859
A doubt if it be Us
Assists the staggering Mind
In an extremer Anguish
Until it footing find.
An Unreality is lent,
A merciful Mirage
That makes the living possible
While it suspends the lives.
2.7k
Leave if You Can II
I live in the house of poetry.
I ascend her stairs slowly
and leap back down.
I sit in the chair of poetry,
sleep in her bed, eat from her plate.
Poetry has windows
through which mornings and afternoons
fall, and how well she suspends a teardrop
how well she blows until I tumble / With this
I mean to say that
one basket brings
both wounds and bandages.
I love poetry so much that sometimes I think
I don’t love her / She looks at me,
inclines her head and keeps knitting
poetry.
As always, I’ll be the bigger person.
But how to say it / How to tell her
I want to leave / honestly I want to
fry my asparagus…
I see her coming near
with her bottle of oil
and crazed skillet.
I see her,
her little bundle of asparagus
slipping out her sleeve.
Ah her freshness / her chaotic glint
and the way she approaches with relentless meter.
I surrender / I surrender always because I live
in the house of poetry / because I ascend
the stairs of poetry
and also because
I come back down.
— Translated by Lisa Allen Ortiz & Sara Daniele Rivera
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 9:02 AM UTC
What is it that kills creativity?
Some say pain and oppression,
others say that it's the false constructs,
forced upon us by society.
But it is much simpler than that,
for creativity thrives under pain,
it paints its pain into words or pictures.
When happy,
creativity blossoms with inspiration,
and hope to share through pen and brush.
What kills creativity,
is the lack of emotion.
Numbness that suspends time,
disregards all wonder and presences,
for there is nothing to create when there is no dream.
So creativity floats in a sea
of numbness until new feeling is discovered.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 10:58 PM UTC
Her lips, now draw so near mine—
static hums,
lightning sings,
my fingertips zing.
Our breath suspends in flight,
threads pulled oh so tight;
My hunger coils—
her taste, pure starlight.
Our flesh enraptures,
trembles nearly bare—
a storm unfolds,
surging ever slowly— there.
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 12:02 PM UTC
monstrous sound slashes silence
the bellow of a giant beast,
the flutter of a thousand wings
elevation and indiscriminate creed will not heed
sinister stirs the mix, the rise of wicked extravagance
black feathers flutter to bewilder against the pale frontier
the mock of a starlings flight, the fall in a sparrow’s might
countless sullen wings unfold, to rally their squadrons for show
a mobbing cry meets a redeeming sky,
their rising tones mimic heaven heralding high
contrast to the core, countless black rap-tor destroy
the fading blue sapphire display
a rebel twist in the storm suspends them again
harbingers dawning
a verge of wonder, stands close
the small dark outlines, bask a golden shine
peripheries slight motion, a graceful shimmer
perched as an alert, the slight snap of the fingers
a single feather cascades
turning in the elegant dance of a ballerina's descent
laying at the step vaguely pointing to the entrance,
the pride of a black bird,
there is no place for an Omen here,
one last frailty, is my secret near and dear
Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
The Divide as it whispers:
"borderline," and calls you
to the throne of denigration,
like a hawk soars towards
a cute quivering corpse.
We all must eat to live.
Loving only to be loved,
your Love is Fear that,
spreads the thighs of Hate,
suspends the golden rule,
and dips the tip of Trust.
Light bends in clear waters.
The border of "neurosis"
and "psychosis" never met
your gentle river eyes, that
twirl like a child's, hugging
the silent shivering creature.
Squeeze tight until it dies.
"Researchers coined the term “borderline” in the first half of this century, when they thought that people who exhibited behaviors we now associate with BPD were on the border between neurosis and psychosis. Although this concept was discarded in the 1970s, the name stuck." - Paul T. Mason, M.S. and Randi Kreger
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
Regretfully crawling out of a warm blanket to meet a snow covered field.
My cheeks absorb the cold as it seeps through the window.
Begging for no attention, living for nothing but my gaze, a lonely fire grows out of a healthy little pile of embers, nuzzled away in the snow.
The growing stillness over the untouched field reaches through my window and meets me with embrace.
You are the captivating landscape that suspends me in time.
You are the fire that dances only for me.
Jul 14, 2022
Jul 14, 2022 at 11:02 PM UTC
Progress
by Michael R. Burch
There is no sense of urgency
at the local Burger King.
Birds and squirrels squabble outside
for the last scraps of autumn:
remnants of buns,
goopy pulps of dill pickles,
mucousy lettuce,
sesame seeds.
Inside, the workers all move
with the same très-glamorous lethargy,
conserving their energy, one assumes,
for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms,
pep rallies, keg parties,
reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.
The manager, as usual, is on the phone,
talking to her boyfriend.
She gently smiles,
brushing back wisps of insouciant hair,
ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.
Through her filmy white blouse
an indiscreet strap
suspends a lace cup
through which somehow the ****** still shows.
Progress, we guess, ...
and wait patiently in line,
hoping the Pokémons hold out.
NOTE: This poem is almost entirely fiction. There was a Pokemon craze when my son Jeremy was a little boy, and I did see birds and squirrels foraging in parking lots from time to time (and sometimes fed them myself from my car’s window), but everything else is fiction. On the rare occasions that I went to a Burger King, I would go through the drive-in, so I wouldn’t have known who the manager was, or how much time ***** spent on the phone. I think the poem probably started with the image of birds and squirrels squabbling for scraps of food in a parking lot as I waited in a line of slow-moving cars, then evolved as I imagined the hassle of going inside to “speed things up.” Keywords/Tags: America, Americana, American, culture, society, vanity, youth, progress, fast food, video games, Pokemon, MTV, music videos, glamour, models, supermodels, fashion, transparency, see-through, bra, breast, *******
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 9:43 PM UTC
Before her, I was
South-facing as a loose tooth plucked from sore gums.
There is a affinity shared with her
In this gloomy hair, like graphite
Fingerprints anointed on my featureless cranium; and how
Before me, she was
Broken as the noon's fever. Her boyish hips fanning out,
Abdicating space for my anemone palms
To measure their wingspan.
Jellylike expectancy
Suspends us in a flood of adrenaline.
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 1:28 AM UTC
Stars pulled from their suspends,
I watched the night bleed onto me.
The moon is just as dangerous to your
naked body,
as it still is to my naked heart;
a misfit artist perched softly in starlight,
reeling in hearts with faulty chambers.
Two aortas and the taste of your neck.
Two empty bottles of red wine
and the dark smothering something
I was never taught could shine.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
swallow the stars
whole.
glow from the inside out
as the pain of what you've done
spreads seeping through your body
filling your veins
with excruciating light.
close your eyes against it and
find it's to no avail
the bright follows, the light suspends
behind your eyes, pinpricks
finding their way out
working their way in.
sell yourself for borrowed silver
scatter it on the ground as later
you cry out for a redemption
that never came.
finally
submit to the silence
you've swallowed the stars now
and there is no one else
there is just becoming
numb.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 2:32 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
The old man tempts smoke down
The throat of green beer bottles
From the night before.
Cigarette a tool of precision,
Smoke falls like a lozenge
Until the bottom is occluded; endless.
When viewing art he takes to the moor,
Emergent properties of flocking birds,
Overhead patterns he can understand
Without knowing what it means.
Creation is ongoing, cumulative.
Bone upon bone, centuries of death
To build a monument for living.
The old man paints fissures on the foundations
That cultivate famous skylines,
Smoked windows interrupt sunlight;
No one is looking out for him.
The flocking birds circle the air;
Static black on the page - angry, restless.
When making art he suspends disbelief,
Essence of life locked in time,
No beauty in the fault-lines of a face
If no one has seen it smile.
Empires are falling, unknowing submission-
Tower of Babel, Interstate Highway;
All roads lead to terminal erosion.
The old man bites the skin
Around his weathered fingernails,
Fear is his mantra.
Cigarette a tool for soothing,
Smoke falls like a lozenge,
His hunger is permanent; endless.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
They say you’re mobile now,
but like a cartoon, the
ghost of your outline suspends
behind you on the road.
How long it hangs before it is the
same stuff as breath on a cold day,
only God knows; and He
cannot be found for looking.
You have read every rule the
great poets and philosophers
have etched. Your technical
grasp of love is paramount.
But to the quiet tremble
of the skin, to the warm and
unfearing heart, you are the
sweetest of novices. Go, drive away
and read no more of love.
You have studied enough.
Go drive away until you
remember why you ever
coughed the ignition into life
in the first place. And take
it as a sign that the reverse
gear refuses to play along.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
i look up to you tonight,
feel my breath rise and fall
with each inch that suspends
me from this earth and leads me
to a greater understanding
that we are all comprised of rising tides
controlled by the beams that
move the deepest reaches
within the very essence of
our truest selves
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
The thought of you
Hooks into my flesh
And suspends me
Just above the surface
Of the waters of unconsciousness.
The mists above the surface tease my lips,
Thirsting for the stilled depths
That lay just beyond their reach.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:23 PM UTC
To the moon, my sweet eclipse of gale.
Tread soundly, have reason spilled upon you.
As sweet white skin drilled with creators upon your face seem new though games of time play tricks upon you.
Have no tricks cloud your new expression while your face is shown.
Shedding reflected light upon the pieces of my past, connected with a spear impaled through the heart of time... still lost along the way.
Have I known the way to reach you, spilling blood on my coffins door. Liquid stained through generations, a starlight yet to show true mornings canvases, past you, reflecting your light of whitest, through red, blue or harvest, thee suspends me above sadness.
Past the frail illusions of day.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
Rain slides on the window panes,
I read about knights and dragons slain,
Outside of the glass, it's foggy and grey,
And inside the drawing room, the children play.
Fog suspends in space in curls,
The sky outside is white like pearls.
Candle light reflects soft yellow on the glass
Thick dusty books are stacked up for class.
The carpet is soft and fluffy and warm
In the corners of the wall spiders hide from the storm.
It's magical and I suppose if you look out to the street,
you'd think you saw Gandalf making his way through the sleet.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
The cut's too deep I'll not survive
so I'll keep spewing til i die
This ****** water tastes like wine
and all the drunkards come to dine
Their plates sit full upon my spine
the sustenance my very mind
A feast for those who seek to bind
the souls that they can somehow blind
And I'm the host, it's come my time
to pour the life out of my vines
Their fork an axe, it draws the line
suspends the truth they cannot find
I close my eyes to hide the crime
the one they want is not inside
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
Heart beat,
bruised bittersweetened, bent;
passion’s capillary action
relaxes then contracts again-
a seed beneath,
muscle fatigued,
toils and spends;
roots, a web of arteries extend,
branching tree stemmed,
leaves shedding red oxygen;
veins shredded to the thread,
frayed strands bleed,
unweave and unhem;
rivulets spill, unquenched,
hemorrhaging hands,
their fingers search to mingle, blend;
a crimson cardiac attack, defend-
for a moment, pressure wavering, suspends,
then pulled back, we cauterize
and mend our loose ends;
every line a vine of growth we tend-
surrounding blossoms rose gardens.
Aug 28, 2023
Aug 28, 2023 at 6:29 AM UTC