"swamped" poems
Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant's body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.
I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and nigh swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.
But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breast! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of the ***** Oh your voice, slow and sad!
Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.
129k
Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.
The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?
14.7k
Two decades in and already swamped with memories
And only the desire to make new ones.
Walking to class or coming home
People ask me what I want to do,
What do I want to do with the rest of my life?
I can feel my throat constrict and my heart skid,
Don’t they understand how much of a commitment that is?
The rest of my life.
And what if it’s not something I want to do, but something I want to be?
I’m 20 years old and don’t ever have my head in this atmosphere,
So how can I ever hope to decide the rest of my life?
I want to write with the raindrops that kiss the grass
Or sleep on the waves of the ocean
And hold the stars in my hands.
I want to climb the highest tree or the highest mountain
Just so I can jump and call it flying.
I want to read the faces of others
And put them into stories.
But mostly I want to run,
Not literally,
But running still.
I want to catch time as it passes by
And go to all the places in the pictures
Enjoying adventure upon adventure
Until the end of my days,
Surrounded by the select few that I love.
I want to be nothing short of me,
And who I am isn’t a constant that can be applied to a formula,
It’s constantly changing, growing, fighting, loving.
How dare you ask me to define what I want to be,
When it’s plain that I don’t even know who I am?
I’m 20 years old and what I want to do for the rest of my life
Is nothing sort of a mystery, an adventure,
Like a storyline leading to an epic plot twist,
But it’s wrapped in uncertainty
And the only way to find out where it’s going
Is to keep reading the book.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
i.
today,
i woke up
with my head
swamped with thoughts of you.
a smile started at the corner of my lips
that eventually coursed through my face
like how the first light of the day spreads at sunrise,
or how i feel my body respond
to the first sip of coffee in the morning.
i look at the space beside me that is intended for you,
a space that i have saved just for you.
pillows substitute your presence.
not as warm, but they will do.
for now.
ii.
what gets me through the day,
no matter how difficult it is,
is the idea that there is you
(to look forward to)
at the end of it.
that later that day,
i will be seeing you again;
but i will have to wait for a while.
which i find very difficult to do
because patience was never my virtue.
iii.
if there is one word that lost its appeal to me,
it would definitely be the word forever.
how can someone of ephemeral existence
promise something as pretentious as forever?
i would not tell you that
i will forever love you;
what i would tell you instead is that
i will always love you.
always, meaning all the time.
always, meaning every time.
always, you and i.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
*break
astonishment at perception
of
a third-world child making it
up that totem-pole
amidst paltry conditions
even
beyond the half-way mark*
1.
a standing man
in silent message
and the woman in red
with thin-sling shoulder-bag
holding lipstick, weekly-ticket and purse
oh, how she frightens honchos out their skull
draped round her sister's head
shroud eternal
coughing
sore
2.
grannies recount lively griot-tales
where hope is never barren
young boys play in swamped dirt-trails
drawing absent father-figures in the sand
the wind has carried them off to mines
deep in the crust of earth's ire
adolescent future sits on labour-farms
where keen spirit is dulled with worthless hops
keeps the sly farmer happy
and he tells them the fruit is free
yet they've already paid for it
manifold
when she reaches twenty
she will have at least two kids
whose lives lie in the granny's luxury
while she runs off to the golden city-lites
to jump through higher hoops
for ****** spoils
all cheapened by long-term neglect
3.
there lies hope
unlost
in every girl-child
who goes to school
who finds encouragement
from words kindly given
if but from a stranger
*no hand-me-outs
no forlorn begging*
she...
the empowered mother of boys
will
help them to grow
into young men
of such sensibility
as to keep their hands
to deeds of honour
who, in turn
become fine fathers to daughters
they love and cherish
raise to be
luminary
*each step up
from that totem-pole
such a steep climb
strengthens invisible wings
and unworldly rewards
and when final rung is reached
heralds
untainted take-offffffff*......
S T, 27 aug
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
in the middle of july
i dream of red poppies
it comes out from my baby hole
it's not forming a line
anymore
like one day in april 2015
23:13 i drew a bridge
swamped with lil red poppies
not long enough to reach
the wrist
of my left hand
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 2:14 AM UTC
I am swamped to think
about the massive problem
that the universe has given me.
It only makes me furious
and I think I will get awful day,
but someone whom I love texted me and also supported me
by sending her selfie.
She is gorgeous.
I don't feel
that I've lost my flithy mind.
Everything she gave made my day runs effortless.
She is adorable.
My heart feels comprehensive.
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 10:17 PM UTC
The yellow, early evening sun feels heavy and warm on my legs.
Like a cat curled up to enjoy a small nap,
It rests on my pink and rainbow blanket.
My mother snores in the old blue chair next to me,
******* in worry and exhaustion and the scent of basil,
Oblivious to the small-town sounds of birds and cars and children playing,
Unaware that her daughter is something she claims to not understand.
"Pansexuality, honestly, just sounds
Horrible,"
She had told me.
"I don't understand pansexuality and gender-fluid and stuff,"
She said,
The car sliding smoothly over the highway under grey skies.
I tried to explain, but I was swamped in
Confusion.
"Well...there are more than two genders, like being gender-fluid and agendered and bi-gendered and third-gendered......
And pansexual people like all of those genders."
"That's what I can't understand. I mean, I kinda get the concept, but..." Her voice trails away like blue cigarette smoke, still deadly even after it has dissipated into the clouds.
I feel like I'm choking on it, raw pink lungs tightening and swelling, forcing yellow stars before my eyes,
Not able to explain the way
I don't care what you identify as,
I only care about love.
My mother's grandmother didn't know that non-straight people existed.
My mother's mother didn't know that bisexual people existed.
My mother doesn't believe that more than two genders exist,
Or know that I find all of them attractive.
But she had already dropped the subject,
Instead filling the awkward lull with discussions of
Colleges and books she's reading and and what my younger sister is doing in school.
I could feel my soul bubbling up behind my lips,
Pink and yellow and blue,
I wanted to tell her to stop and listen.
I wanted to tell her to be quiet,
And to be accepting,
And to try to understand.
I wanted to tell her
'I'm pansexual.
There.
Now you know.
Would you have said that it was horrible and that you can't understand?
That, in essence, I am horrible and you can't understand me?'
But I didn't.
I sat, the warm sticky grey leather under my thighs
The same as the warm, sticky grey clouds,
The yellow sun just peeking out into blue skies beyond the pale pink dogwoods.
She wakes up, warm sticky breath catching in her chest
As she opens her eyes.
She mumbles quietly about oversleeping
Before she rushes out the door,
Leaving behind a daughter
She thinks she knows,
As she claims to not understand
My label
That I have hidden inside my closet door,
Next to my pink, yellow, blue scarves.
Maybe tomorrow I'll put it on,
Pin my heart to my sleeve,
Wear my colors proudly.
But not today.
Never today.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
distant hills
drifting
in a sea of grass
waves
slip from stone
grasping nothing
winter evening -
crows glide in and gather
on the roof tops
diesel grit
blackens the fog -
a passing train
sipping dew -
a moth flutters down
the dripping eave
Molokai:
waking up -
a bird calls
- a gecko responds
no wind, no waves -
an empty boat is swamped
by the sunset
(after Dogen)
Tom Spencer © 2018
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 7:38 AM UTC
*I look up to pastel blue skies
that fade into pink clouds
I look to what becomes
a clear black night
a full moon in the sky
stars alight like a four carat ring
a canary diamond so bright
catching all the light from the stars
that surround this Northern star
I picture your face
the ring on your left finger
your smile my saving grace
my only comfort knowing
that as much as I miss you
we both look to the same sky
clinging to your smiles
the feel of your embrace
as we make love through the night
my nails are chipped again
bitten through anxiety
wrapped in the same cashmere
swamped in your scent
I smile.*
© Sia Jane
I am always so so inspired by the beauty of the sun setting outside my bedroom widow & as the sun is hidden, I sit on the ledge & a dark night, that is lit by stars, fills my whole room, & I smile, I remember.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
(Early Mornings)
It is 4:10 AM
Here i am, facing you...
Haven't showered...haven't brushed...haven't gurgled
Too early to look...but, i could not resist seeing
This person with disheveled hair
Eyes are not too willing to open
Avoiding the uncertainty surfacing...slowly but surely
Making itself known, this morning so early...
An empty shell, is what i could see
A looming nonentity...
No coffee yet, but, the eyes already speak
You don't answer, your looks are so bleak
That is how you tell me i am stubborn
But i've been this way since birth...so torn
You tell me, i am just in denial
In front of you, it is like, i am on trial
But, i am just a mortal
Maybe we are both tired
How can we ever go back to being inspired?
Maybe you'd rather shatter into pieces...like i would,
I'd carefully gather your shards...would you gather mine, if you could?
Now, later, tonight, tomorrow...we always face each other
There are days, when i look at you, you make me smile, i feel better!
But, most times, i hate the reflections, they make me glare
And i so despise the thoughts that ensue...i counter your stare
..... I close my eyes, with a plea,
A blink could not erase, the images that i see..
I have never wanted separation
And yet, Fate brought me here, in isolation
You're my silent pal...my silent witness
You say nothing when i become senseless
I leave you in the morning
I come home from work in the evening
And i find you still here... on this wall
Welcoming me home...where i just sit, or stall
Faint jazzy sounds comfort me
A few hours rest...late at night...i sleep...i am free
Then, again, the alarm ruins the stillness of the moment
Robs the dawn of its precious silence
And i rise...to drown anew in despondency...in self pity,
Or is this lunacy?
All i see is gray...and black
Be it dawn...or dusk.
If ever i surrender
I'd be swamped with the stark truth, the reflections you offer
...this can't be a facade,
...in front of you, it's just too bad
I am
U n m a s k e d...
....I am weak, powerless...i crawl
Over and over, i struggle not to fall,
Over and over, i look at you... but, just the same..i fall.
(January 22, 2015)
Sally
Copyright May 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
Part I
No words need be spoken
Inhaling loudly,
She is mindful and content.
The only artifice here
A camera in her gear;
This instant in a frame
As wonders engulf her,
She claims.
I stand at the centre,
Swamped by
The tick of high heels and chatter.
Mindful and composed,
Left aghast
By the mass who walk past.
The right words come up
Binding my feelings to my art.
Part II
Smell the air
Both dig inspiration
Elsewhere;
Differences
Of worldly proportions
Our nature
Do not fit by definition.
Entering each other's realm,
We love to understand.
May this gap
Be bridged with time
For I am afraid
We do not rhyme.
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
If you want to die slowly my friend
Love a person who doesn't love you back;
You treat her as if she's the first bloom rose
In her eyes you're nothing more than a potato sack.
You'll give her your notes before exams
Even if you don't have a copy for your own;
She's call her special friend right in front of you,
"Can we study together? I can't study alone."
You'll offer help when she looks swamped
As you're about to leave office for the day;
She'll smile and move the paper mountain to your desk
"Thanks! I was so worried I was gonna miss his b'day."
She'll mention how some guy is so awesome
When you're just about to express how you feel;
She'll be texting him about tomorrow's plans
As you're paying the "one way romantic" dinner bill.
There are many ways to **** yourself
I urge you to choose your way wisely;
Find something that'll end it fast
Loving such girls will **** you painfully slowly.
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 3:06 AM UTC
Have you ever visited a public *********
When you were really bursting for a dung
And sadly found the only cubicle
Was vile and ill-prepared to meet your needs,
Its stench beyond your wildest nightmare dread?
And yet you bravely held your breath and looking
Down into the cracked, caked enamel bowl
Beheld a horrid, putrid panful there,
The likes of which you never dreamed you'd find
And live to tell the ******* tale to mortal man.
About a hundred people's lurking turds
All heaped and piled up to the very brim,
Some soft and runny, squashed down by the weight
Of countless others, some smudged with blood
Lying there like half-cooked hamburgers.
And there was barely ******* space in the pan
For you to add a steaming trio of your own
To the rancid, obscene horrors lurking there
As you crouched, puking, with your ******* round your ankles
Terrified in case they fell onto the piss-swamped floor.
And you noticed with your reeling senses
That there wasn't any ****** paper either,
Nor had there been for many a long day
Judging from the walls' awesome sorry state
All covered in ****** brown elevens. (SEE NOTE BELOW)
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 1:39 PM UTC
Hey there (if you're there at all),
I sincerely hope all is well.
Guess you're really swamped with work,
honestly no need to explain, I could just tell.
See the thing is... the thing is, there is actually a thing.
Something has come up.
It's quite hard to explain cause I don't yet know what we are,
so if we are kind of a 'thing', then I want to breakup.
You don't write to me any more
and I really miss those emails
witty comments, sarcasm and ******** banter
strung together with immaculate grammar and ample clichés.
You seem to have forgotten that I didn't fall for you back then
and very little had changed since.
So three years later when you contacted me out of the blue
I was hardly convinced.
As a preplanned holiday got in our way
placing you 5 hours behind and 5000 miles apart
it was that daily email exchange over a month
which gave whatever it is we have now, its start
not calls, not facebook nor skype,
just words, simple phrases and our ability to type.
Essence of your raw personality seeped through
enticing me to a very pure, untampered version of you.
Since I returned, since we met, things haven't been the same.
Are you trying to gain the upper hand of this game?
Because, I wasn't even aware we were playing,
so technically neither can win, such a shame.
I appreciate your intellect, ambition, success
and middle class upbringing,
those random gestures of affection
and passionate **********
I understand your commitments
and the hierarchy of your priority que
But just because I get it
doesn't mean I'll agree to put up with them too.
It's true, my future is rather blurry
but that's a different thing.
I might be chronically needy
but I'm not asking you for a ring.
I do however fancy flowers
and would really like to go dancing
a daily doze of 'you're thinking of me'
topped with very large amounts of cuddling.
If all I wanted was to get laid,
there was plenty of opportunity to be swayed.
Time to end this hand has come a little too late
with a Royal Flush in Spades.
I will miss those endearing emails,
and the 12th floor of your office with its magnificent view.
I will miss the idea of having a man in my life,
but I won't so much miss you.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
*******
*******
*******
the sky is *******
******* here
in all the pots of beer
this *******
is really quite queer
*******
*******
*******
the sky is *******
******* on the verandah chairs
******* everywhere
******* without a care
*******
*******
*******
the sky is *******
******* up and down town
******* all around
even in the dog pound
*******
*******
*******
what's that you spray?
I mean say
the sky is *******
yeah! the sky is *******
*******
*******
*******
the sky is *******
it swamped all the Englishmen
and drowned Big Ben
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
In a street swamped by
An abundant sea of darkness
Illuminated by nothing but
The concrete glow of the moon
The shadow of an amorously dangerous man
Came into existence
His ****** aroma heavily polluted the air
With opulent seduction
Making helpless slaves of
All the women in the valley
As well as heightening
Their remaining four senses
He prances around in his
Fancy, black leather jacket
With a pocket chain
Dangling from his waist side
Jet black shades occupying
The masterpiece that is his face
He blows a royal kiss of glitter
Trailing after the runaways
A swift touch to one's forehead
And in seconds she'll be on her knees
Begging and pleading for more
Simply because she can't get enough
It's as if his body was a delectable tower
Of chocolate covered strawberries
Dipped in an ocean of the most
Exquisite tasting honey known to man
Each woman who had been cast
Under his precious spell
Was now imprisoned within
A mind controlling coma
They couldn't seem to lift their inquiring eyes
From the creamy complexion of his skin
Severe urges to kiss and **** his flesh
Possessed their bodies with great power
He lives the life that most men would **** for
With thousands of women wrapped around his finger
Fulfilling his every single wish and command
Tackling him with avalanches of never ending pleasures
In the eyes of these women
He was an icon of majestic worship
They bow down before him
Massaging his toes with kisses
Leaving trails of roses to rest at his feet
And to think this persona was conceived
From his supernaturally seductive abilities
The strangest thing about this man
Was that nobody knew of his name
Nor where his audacious soul
Had so suddenly escaped from
Only that he was unimaginably handsome
His charming hex of temptation
And superior intellect alone
Had transformed stainless virgins
Into despicable nymphomaniacs
Jeopardizing the entire female gender
With his smooth talking scandals
A luxurious craft of extravagant gold
A tragic truth yet to be told
This man was known as
The Poet *** God
By Glenn McCrary
© 2011 Glenn McCrary
(All rights reserved)
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 1:40 AM UTC
I looked up to the night sky
Because me and you both know how much I love the stars
And I saw your face
Sculpted into the dark sky but lit up by the orbs of love.
I looked up at the sun
As I saw its brightness almost blind me
Just like your eyes did
And I felt its warmth on my skin
It was like your hugs wrapped around my body.
I looked up at the rainy clouds
As the darkness engulfed the sky above
It made me think of the silent tears you cried
And the dark thoughts that swamped in your head.
I looked up at the moon
Oh how sad the moon looked
And it made me realize how there is so much you dont know
And so much I wish I could tell you.
I looked up at the galaxies
And how confusing it all was
Just like us
And you’re gonna think this is about her
But little do you know.
“Space was just one of the many things that tore us apart but also brought us together”
© Douglas Stone '16
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
The truth is turning plastic
And politicians spastic
As they dream up fantastic
Ways to be bombastic.
The anti-intellectuals,
Their rhetoric effectual,
Demand a perpetual
And lucrative processional
To a place they know the score
Where they can amass more
Of money and stores
In disregarding the mores
They were elected for
And continue waging war
Like high-priced political ******
The truth has no chance
In this genocidal dance
Of unfortunate circumstance
Created to enhance
Resultant happenstance
When, by the seat of his pants
When we happened to glance
Away for a particular moment
And were swamped by the foment
Of eight long years of torment;
Freedoms arteries turned to cement
And any chance of sanity
For American humanity
Got buried in some inanity
About hanging chads and counts
Giving a fool a chance to pounce;
To squeeze the last pure ounce
Of dignity out of the Presidency
By merely taking up residency.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 6:07 AM UTC
Wind blown hair
May 21, 2015 at 10:34pm
Her hair was the color of coal
But at times it seemed to be
The darkest brown of ebony
Her beauty was from outer space
As if outer space was seen from Mars
She was always in love with the stars
And she was from another time
As one always dreaming
She was never to be finished
She was never to be brought to pass
While she was awake
She was always looking inwardly
As her eyes were always closed
Swamped in feelings to never deny
She could never act
She could never lie
She would drift with every sensation
There was never any middle ground to be found
Because she lived there in her mind
She would go with the joy of silence
There was nothing so deeply from her beauty
It was as if an absence of complete
Absorption was her characteristic of beauty
She would take his breath away
She had wonky wind hair
And she was from another time
When shadows once had echos
She would always fallow
How could she belong to another time
When Echos once belonged to Shadows?
Farwell to sweet tomorrows
She was never brought to pass
She had wonky wind hair
And she was from another time
As the wind would blow
The possessive form
Her beauty would linger on
She was from another era
She was from another time
To hide one's feelings
As one hidden of the clouds
Such terms of a beautiful endearment
Such a beauty of imperfection to be unknown
From an image that was never shown
A victim of stars
From a canvas of sentimental shadows
When colors escaped long ago
from another grey world
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
The loneliness permeate down into the toes, walking along the sidewalk
The streets seem empty, vacant faces, hurried bodies avoiding the solace of a simple hello, their trifling stares stabbing at their incompleteness
Write pain only because the voice cannot verbalize it. We don't understand it. We don't want to
Trifling affairs taking us up, consuming us, completing us, then draining us
Walking life avoiding others, their daring greetings, their trifling
They, too, walk along the sidewalks and the gutters, getting tripped up on their own despairs Listen not to Dante's doom, that abandonment is futile
Futile fallacies, our trifling forays, our misfortunes
Street along, you masses, you unforgettable, delving into yourselves, forgetting
You cannot understand it, those trifling friendships
How do they compare to the miseries you trudge through, swamped in that which hold you back, slows you down, drowns you, chokes you
Your only connect is the carelessness of your incompleteness, contagious of complaints
That cracked sidewalk, tripping you up in its unevenness
Your shoes have rubbed out their souls, toes slamming their unending pressures
You feel defeated and oppressed. Yet you walk on
Why do you not just stop and rest? The lonely road does not end, it continues on and on unceasingly, its seasons one big blur
Year in and year out your days numbered as nothing but trifling affairs, your greetings to fellow walkers rare as encouragement from within. You have become swollen in refusing refuge from those that share that uncaring sidewalk
You balk at accepting a hand to take that lonely walk with you, it is just another pair of loneliness who seeks companionship, who only seeks to cease their own trifling affairs
Lend not your own complaints, but console and be consoled in the greeting of a walk together
Feb 2, 2012
Feb 2, 2012 at 10:37 PM UTC
The feelings that I have
And the feelings that are me
Do wax and wane from time to time
With the rising falling sea
Often swamped within its swell
At the mercy of tidal clocks
One day to dance across a beach
Another dashed on rocks.
Rarely going straight to the point
But approached best from the side
Testing gently, tacitly
Before the pincers are applied
And they can be formidable
With a tenacious grip
So be careful what you wish for
If into the rock pool you do slip.
Evolved with solid outer shell
An armoured place to hide
Because beauty may be skin deep
But emotions lie inside
And the softness of the centre
Can be a dangerous place to go
For it can upset the natural balance
Of what we think we know.
And though we truly feel the pain
Our hearts fight to be true
So we cling on through the stormy days
Just because that’s what ***** do.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 5:12 PM UTC