"swampy" poems
At night-the light turned off, the filament
Unburdened of its atom-eating charge,
His wife asleep, her breathing dipping low
To touch a swampy source-he thought of death.
Her father's hilltop home allowed him time
To sense the nothing standing like a sheet
Of speckless glass behind his human future.
He had two comforts he could see, just two.
One was the cheerful fullness of most things:
Plump stones and clouds, expectant pods, the soil
Offering up pressure to his knees and hands.
The other was burning the trash each day.
He liked the heat, the imitation danger,
And the way, as he tossed in used-up news,
String, napkins, envelopes, and paper cups,
Hypnotic tongues of order intervened.
5.9k
It's dark outside except for the pale glow of a fingernail moon sailing through the starry sea of night.
The wind has tucked itself to sleep with the birds, weary of bustling about and playing with my hair.
The whippet snuffles his way along the rabbit trails, delighted with this late night walk, white tail wagging in the air.
I wander down by the edge of the swamp, grass all soft and dewy 'neath my feet and spy the pallid uoow reflected upside down,
between the reeds along the creek.
The constant, shrilling chorus of frogs and crickets drills my ears yet I find it strangely soothing - a well known voice across the years.
I turn to walk back, whistling the dog and notice in the low fields, the usual ethereal fog begin to form.
I look up at the dark shape of the house and see light from my
kitchen window painting squares upon the lawn.
Amphibean bodies seek the brightness, bellies pressed against the glass and if you warm them with your finger on the other side, they move.
My man and I bet kisses on whose frog would move the most - one of those silly games you play when you're in love.
As I close the door behind me, grabbing logs to feed the fire, the dog flops down upon the hearthrug letting warmth dry swampy mire.
I make cocoa in my blue mug then pull down the kitchen blind - cutting off the froggy light source - abruptly silencing the choir.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 8:42 AM UTC
The white cells,
seemingly not fearful of
oozing,
festering,
metastasizing,
fear black cells,
wearing hijabs or dreads.
The white cells
are fearful of the brown cells
that **** and process their chickens
and mow their lawns for them.
The white cells fear the red cells
though they like moccasins, canoes,
and wild rice soup,
fear yellow cells
may be smarter than them
so they label them
***** and Chinks.
The white cells
don’t seem to mind
asphalt-coating,
starlight-stealing,
convenience store sprawl
devouring healthy green cells--
alfalfa cells,
forest cells,
swampy, boggy cells,
black-eyed susan cells.
The Chamber of Commerce
calls it growth,
progress;
but this town
needs a tourniquet,
maybe chemotherapy.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 3:17 PM UTC
I open the window
And the cool air glides to the floor,
Waltzing around my room
Sweeping past my ankles like ladies skirts,
While the room above
Leaks off hot air from stifled whispers
Then, the music stops
And the whole room sits
In a swampy,
Soapy silence
Until the clock strikes twelve
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
Inception Transcribed (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
==Inception Transcribed ==
by
SassyJ
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Copy the link below to your browser)
Inception and intersection of human life are diverse. We are ushered as a blank canvas to the shores of life. Socialised with values, beliefs and cultures. Our acclimatised acculturation. Submerged in the swampy lowlands each sunk and wandering through and through.
This morning I woke and left my house...... looked up to the horizons of nature. And there it was.... a revolving camera smiling at each stride I take... following me and taunting me. Unreserved in institutions, submerged in the ever decaying social structures.
Why do we do what we do everyday?
Is it part of the human processes and functions?
To exist and be absolutely absent but present. I fret, then I smile. Trying to join the puzzles in the mazes. Ever questioning if I am here to learn or to be polluted by bureaucracy.
Lets call for an assembly, announce that the town is dead. Yet, its people are gasping, breathing to fill their lives with a new paradigm. Look at me all cyanosed , the blueness of the dying veins... sunk in the redistribution and social panic. Re-engaged in the demoralised democracy. Look at me asking....
What is the meaning of life?
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
Becoming... hmmm...
what am I... becoming...
is this the enlightenment
of my trip? hmm...
journeying through the seasons
of inner time and place...
therein which lies... a space....
not that sort.... not the sort of the
spicky icky spacky... space...
it's the... hmmm... sleepy space...
I sit and wonder... this place is where I... ponder...
fabric... the fabric of this life...
I AM FLOATING INTO THIS CHAIR
CONCEPT BANDS
CONCEPT ALBUMS
THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO SEE I AM JUST LIKE TIMOTHY LEARY
... but that... that is only a character.. the outlook I assume in..certain moods...
that state of worry... that's what I mean.
I am the wind
the sea
...
speak friend,
enter...
speak...
speak to me.
'I see we meet again... hmmmm...'
The music keeps changing my moods, you see...
Subconscious... I must be more mindful...
'Increase mindfulness'
I must bring the feelings... out
don't shove them away...
don't shove me away...
on this normal
squashy day
Love your dark shadow love the wolves
streams of consciousness I must cut up all of these streams
I worry too much about the future... am I crazy? or just afraid of being...
telepathy
Here's this concept that I have that represents all of these feelings that I have that I tell
to you and you receive as whatever feelings you associate with said concept
and hope they match up
I only write when I have something to preach... a sermon, you see..
yet I write every day...
to preach a sermon to me
'Does it make me bad?' this way I am?
does it make you.. mad?
mushy swampy bog filled mushrooms
I sag into the soppy plants in me
this world is my swamp
and this swamp is me
into the swampy swamp I romp
All day I ravage roam
I stomp
jive my vibe...
Exotic exodus execution
into the deep reeds
paddling the little cellophane canoe
Must... move...
Must... go...
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 1:21 PM UTC
Booming Rhetorics (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
==Booming Rhetorics ==
by
Checkered Darks
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Copy the link below to your browser)
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/boomingrhetorics
Human nature itself is a smash of contractual responsibility. A splash of rights afloat as we sink in our psychological rooted moral panics. All I see is a cascading titanic of ventures our mislaid adventures one after another. The criss cross of chains, we bonded in tax measures, reserve treasures...... It's not my leisure I beg you don't make your pleasure.
I sink in pressure, resolving Karl Mark ideology of conflicted power. Is it our born nature or nurture to live in a world of social polarisation. A pole to pole, a tug of war. Each owning and holding a rope.Is it our task to cage in boxes, fencing notions of inequalities within our society. Is it our right this notion Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.
Help me out as as I wade in the swampy lowland. Treading through and through, head afloat, the submerging walk me to the shores..... Help me find my way through this dark tunnel. Help me see the light, let the sun ray penetrate my blight.
In our dichotomy of democracy we have made it right. A rolling ball of ........
1. Stock them high sell them cheap is the order of the day.
2. Social warehousing of merging demand and supply chain.
3. A disintegration of socialist entrepreneurship.
4. Re-distribution of Export Production Zones in marginalised countries.
5. A surge of capitalism on this patch we call the universe.
6.Conortions of monopoly colluding sustainability.
I pass this ball to you. As the industrial revolution fades and debates of "STEEL" revolves.
My Speech is a mere consideration, our contradiction. The contractual complications that we have grounded and granted ourselves as humanity. My voice is an exchange, my gift, a cloud of thoughts, an arousing hope our haunting costs.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
A blast from some dark past sounds quite murky. Swampy shallows we shallowly swim in, like *** my brand new $2000 dress just got ***** Spend another $1000 on a trendy fashion, or 30. This poem sounds funny, but your selfish ******** sounds quirky.
A little birdie flew by and chirped for me to share the mashed potatoes AND the turkey.
Good advice guy! Once bitten, twice shy they say. Oh my! Nice try.
I'll look up at the sky and wish to live and not die. Wallow in YOUR misery and fry, the fish for YOUR mind.
Blame YOUR fuck-ups on the World while millions perish in the night. **** YOUR fright.
Let's fight the good fight, while we step out of the dark, and into the light. Sounds tight!
You ***** and complain, while others are tortured in blind sight. You only focus on your muscles and might.
I'll focus on my mind, cause I'm right. Here's a cigarette, need a light? Pay it forward, while the Sun is still bright.
Might I inquire to en-light a lost flame? Take your baggage and keep walking, cause WE are all the ******** to blame.
This lion will never be tamed. **** over greedy people and feel shamed. I'll switch my face and my name and wash the past away in the rain. Pain makes you stronger. Never let your patience escape down the sink, or the drain.
Refrain from the wall that reflects sunshine from the stain. I hope this poem speaks to your brain, like ancient wisdom to lost claims.
Insane in the membrane, feelings are brought out in the day. Saying what's on your mind should not be thought lame.
I'm Dave and let's pay it forward and be brave.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Check errata, pressure chests,
minds of razors edges, vie to
stress knowledge for the win:
You second guess yourself, then.
Flip the cold and oddly coded
engine as if you're blind to it.
It's happening again, now.
Verses nurse the wounds.
Wounds nurse the verses.
Pain's slyly subjective hooks
have hooked the meat of me.
Like accountants slicing numbers,
I slice the mountains into soft shapes.
Earth and water, earthen urns, hold
Life to carry, to gift, or, to displace.
Choirs sing on high, of rightful things.
I was frightful, once. With enough
ignorant vehemence poured upon me,
poured upon me, a bath in love's less
eager refuse, has turned my dreams, too,
into excrement, excrement. Utter ****
I was excited, once. I swear I was.
Holding out for ****** touch, left cold,
hopeless and wanting when the only
validation, validation I was taught
set my value in cash and beauty, cash
and beauty, two matters of strict
adherence to social standards, but what
if two fat, hairy legs make my tongue wet?
What if otherness keeps me lonely?
What if it keeps me lonely? Can I take
that pain, after all, into the ground of my grave?
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 9:16 AM UTC
(G)
Life as a burden is decent
Treading in hatched up waterways
Swimming in the green brine ebbing tides
Drowned in emotive stances
A being intensified in rapid torrents
Ohh my…fickleness soaked in curiosity
(J)
Decent sounds pretty substantial
I lay acquainted to swampy lowlands
My footsteps have tasted salty waters
Stepped, wadding inside the muddy landscape
Inch by inch, halfway, fully submerged
Overloaded by the tide gasping for oxygen
(G)
Populaces catwalk with intellectual deficit
Footsteps bereft of creativity and eloquence
The grounds lay dry strangling the in-between
The desert begging to lose their sandy dry skin
The forest whispers with a revolt of transformation
The luscious green splash life sparking drones
(J)
Your analogy sways the natured array of trees
The inspiration stings the sun to radiate warmth
All patched in the blueness of bellowing skies
My lungs deflate even on intense inhalation
I tarmac on the passage of time, differently wired
Intermittently cyanosed in faded lived moments
(G)
For poetry and art scaffolds and shapes reality
It sparks life and eliminates the drone mentality
Artists arouse inspiration and boost human nature
It bridges the narrowing ledge of ( human diversity/ instead of/ diverse species)
It drives conversation and deepens basic pleasantries
Rotating notions, promoted to a present and active human
(J)
I object not, for human essence is essential
A foundation of humanity that inspires and frees
A deed that dips in the depth of a lush oasis
Most sunk and waving “a celebration of celebrities”
Falsified lionization, a control of master puppeteer
Amused by insight, the reciprocal contract of empathy
G= Graff1980
J=SassyJ
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 7:01 AM UTC
Wandering through the bayou,
wrapped in its eerie embrace.
Mysterious and strange,
a magical place.
Never seeming to change,
even as seasons come and go,
swampy waters ebb to and fro.
Like long-lost daughters,
gnarled courtly cypress trees,
rise from black murky waters.
Draped lovingly in Spanish moss,
swaying softly in the breeze.
Butterflies seem to float across,
as gentle winds ruffle their leaves.
Bouquets of wild hibiscus fill the air,
mingled with sweet azaleas blooming there.
Bullfrogs croak and crickets chirp,
the bayou is awash with soothing music.
As dragonflies flit the cattails, elusive,
water moccasins slithering at your feet
or lurk above you in the trees.
Just as, the sun begins to sink low,
comes the faint sound of a fiddle and bow.
The gator comes out of hiding,
rising from the dark waters below.
Looking for his meal and smiling,
with snapping jaws, a deer is caught,
then taken below where he will rot.
The moon rises high into the night,
as fireflies glow in the twilight.
A voodoo queen slips into sight,
with gnarled hands, she rolls the bones.
Whispering cryptic words, she softly moans.
Tenderly she caresses her snake,
wrapped around and about her neck.
A coon-hound whoops it up.
The gnarled trees cast spooky shadows.
Is that the ghostly apparition of Jean Lafitte?
Who managed to escape prison and gallows.
Did you bury your treasure in the water or weeds?
As the wind moans softly, time to turn home,
where you can fill your belly with spicy gumbo.
ALesiach © 10/12/2014
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 8:51 PM UTC
Times tackle on the threads.
We beat the strand seahorse
Dashed, unfurl the curling
Toes, your body twists
In the boat, only ribs
From the spirit waters.
Your fish fins from the net,
My rod pins on the pine
And the hooked meat, your barb,
Reels as it plays the swampy
Moan of the gutted bait.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
My head in hands
My weeping stifled
the creatures in my head
swirling screaming tormenting each and every thought daring enough to cross my mind.
each comment a blow to my character.
These spiraling insecurities unthinkably true.
Could it be true?
Swampy hands pulling me under
under civilization
a whirlpool of consumerism
selling the next thing
selling me
I DON'T WANT TO BE SOLD
I battle these ideas, these values being forced upon me
They lock me in jail.
I plead
They only stare back at me with stone hard eyes.
I pout.
I will not be sold
I will not be some media **********
I am me.
I cannot be advertised.
I cannot be owned.
"Take your commanding hold of me"
I will not succumb to your sickly media culture
I will not hold off for you.
You may hold me in this suffocating cell for as long as you please
I may live and die a captive
But I will never be yours
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
I'm having a dozen dreams a night; fluid and lucid.
I prefer this imagination and fantasy in my bed.
It's a lot of fun, also terrifying,
All in black and red...
Deep diving indoor pools with oil rigs and sea monsters.
I butterfly and sidestroke across the unfathomable chlorine waters.
Gliding downstream through swampy, vine-roped forests.
I end up in mangrove lakes, a canopy of bright glowing mushrooms.
Zombie hordes making me hide in closets at my parent's house.
They never break down the door, I don't understand why they carouse.
Being in a place without time, space, colors, physics or floors,
Talking to people I barely know, with no names or faces. Am I bored?
Sitting in my underwear on a dock, waiting for the bus
The others don't even seen me, but the cute girl next to me does.
I learn to fly, jump off a roof, start falling, then forget.
I twitch in my covers from a concrete slab, comical to wake up dead.
Sometimes I just sit in a cave with a reflection of myself
Talking to my ego; arguing and reasoning with nobody else.
Every time I close my eyes and lay my head,
I feel like a mad-hatter, locked in wonderland.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
What is love,
if not told to the heavens?
What I feel for you,
is locked deep in the ocean.
The more I know you,
the Deeper I go into your forest.
What I want is not empty,
like weathered plains.
It’s not murky nor dead,
as I step through your swampy past.
It’s whole and true,
as the smell of rain in April.
Its beauty is among the sun,
in spring.
All I want for you,
for us.
Is an adventure,
of love everlasting.
Aug 28, 2024
Aug 28, 2024 at 7:45 AM UTC
We crossed into Louisiana
Right about witching hour
The energy there
Invades the aura
Years of compacted sorrow
Combined with the
Old ways of root doctors
And esoteric power
You take the Hoodoo
To the crossroads
We're in the back roads
Of Monroe
They talk to you there
Ya know
I put my bare feet
To the swampy grasses
At the railroad tracks
Illuminated by the waxing moon
Hail Hecate!
We envoke thee
Commit this wax and ash
To the earth
Blessed be )0(
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 8:29 PM UTC
I sat hard-pressed against
the plastic seat on the Metro,
green line to Branch Ave,
feeling the heat
of all the dozens of bodies that surrounded me,
5:30 PM and everyone
making headway for home after a
long, hot work day.
The swampy humidity
clung to my arms like sticky tack.
I wiped my brow with the sleeve of my
blazer
and listened to some 90s
R & B on my iPod as I
c
o
u
n
t
e
d
d
o
w
n
the exits till I could
free myself from
the suffocating crowd.
It was no day that was even remotely extraordinary,
no life-changing series of events,
no incredible people I had met;
nope, just commuting back to the SE quadrant of
town as I had
every day that summer.
I looked up and took
a snapshot with my mind;
I remember exactly
how that sliver of time
felt to me,
how it looked,
smelledsoundedtasted
as I realized my days in D.C. had begun to feel
like the norm,
that I had grown accustomed to the
claustrophobic train cabins,
the repetitive street names,
and
10% sales tax.
So suddenly there was this
catastrophic
timeturning
momentous magnanimous monumental magic
of the most mundanely minuscule moment,
as ordinary crawled up my veins
and absorbed me in it.
Somehow
squeezed.in.between
the rush-hour,
the annoyance, impatience, and near-suffocation
felt like
home.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
the flock of ominous black birds,
in a plethora of numbers beyond words,
lands in swarms on swampy, dark mud
as the dead yellow grass is washed away by the flood.
the sky is heavy, low, and gray,
with a gravitational force of depression and dismay.
our vision clouded, we no longer can gaze
upon the warmth of the sun's sweet rays.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
King Rat gnawed at the piece of wood for to bite and dine!
God's pure name was inscribed upon the battered sign,
But King Rat continued to snack like it was the flesh of freshly caught cod,
What was this then, maybe Rat was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came slinky Mistress Cat!
So quick and nimble was she, up she snapped and gobbled up fat King Rat,
She licked her lips upon a fallen slab of greasy salty lard,
What was this then, maybe Mistress Cat was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came faithful Master Dog!
Away he chased crafty Mistress Cat into the swampy mired bog,
Hardworking Master Dog surveyed his domain and his tail stood up to attention like a rigid rod,
What was this then, maybe Master Dog was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came Chief Wolf!
He bites and shakes hard into the collar of Master Dog, the neck tears like fleecy wool,
Blood ran down Chief Wolf's chin and he smiled with victory as he sat down by the warm coal road,
What was this then, maybe Chief Wolf was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came the Queen of Fire!
Into Chief Wolf she passionately burns, into ashes was he burnt upon her sultry bed of burning pyre,
The gleaming Queen of Fire burned with glowing glory, there was red life yet in her pulsating bud,
What was this then, maybe the Queen of Fire was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came a river of Mighty Water!
The fiery Queen of Fire hisses and fizzles and soon she is nothing more than steam, all slaughtered,
Mighty Water flows vast and rampant, he rules his oceanic valley just like a pea in a pod,
What was then, maybe Mighty Water was God?
Aha, oh no, but along came a pure-hearted Man!
Very thirsty was he and so away he gulps and guzzles the Mighty Water in the glen,
He channels the Mighty Water to quench his dry farmlands, this was indeed a smart farming lad,
What was this then, maybe Man was God?
Aha, oh no, but along went the Man licking a ripe red cherry ****
Into the hallowed building of prayer he does go and gently picks up the Rat bitten name of God,
Down falls the Man upon his knees, he prays, he bows, he silently nods, he wishes his soul was resting in the blissful garden of his beloved God,
What was this then? Maybe...
*God
IS
God!*
©Rangzeb Hussain
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 11:08 PM UTC
Her cigarette laced breath,
her promises that she'd quit,
broken,
I remember it clearly.
Hair bleached with the roots brown,
fried,
I remember it clearly.
Green of her eyes murked with swampy brown,
Surrounded by eyeshadow and poorly drawn eyeliner,
Surrounded by crows feet and clogged pores,
I remember them clearly.
Barbie nose,
Bridge lithe,
sharp,
I remember it clearly.
Everything about her was frail.
Wrists of a 9 year old,
bones of a 70 year old,
her body wasn't her age.
I remember.
I remember,
Her crooked back,
Stooped with age and baddened posture,
I remember it clearly.
Her rotten teeth,
Her eating disorder,
What did you eat today?
It was a habit to ask
She doesn't think I remember,
But,
I remember.
I remember my mother.
You left me.
but I remember.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 7:02 AM UTC
While Rachel slept lost in twisted sheets,
I fixed myself a drink.
I sat outside for an hour to breathe
cigarette smoke -- my mind on the brink.
All my time spent with couples,
my wanderings tamed for privacy fences--
a third wheel in groups of four rubble,
am I ***** prophet, poet or menace?
I thought as the stars coughed across
the acidic sky; I wish for a spark to ignite--
the powder trail of ambition I lost
in swampy suburban repetition cries.
On the steps of my porch, I felt no God.
In the arms of worship or between a lover's thighs,
no sanctity, nor blessing, just scattered dirt clods--
I miss the old ignorance -- kept my heart from whys.
But now those same whys taunt and entice.
A supreme darkness surrounds me--
one my eyes have adjusted to--
one my justifications turn free--
leaving me hungry for new dark territories
and the kind of knowledge that never
lets you sleep.
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 9:52 AM UTC
My brother, he was small once
But I don't remember that
I'm tough and he's big
(good thing cause in reality I'm freaked)
I love him even though he stinks
and on my birthday he dropped my cake
Mom shouldn't have given him the responsibility, what with his webbed hands and feet
He'll never forget it, neither will we
My brother, King of Swampy Pond
My brother the hippopotamus
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 11:48 PM UTC
What a fix to be stuck on
A sea of remotes
Controlling their channels
(Channels really know
How to pull people in.
But not me. I just watch news.)
Piles and piles and stacks
Of remotes
Mangled up in cords
Around the main event:
The TV.
Back to that pile of remotes -
All different kinds & controls
There's a pink one
With polka dots or chicken pox
There's a swampy soggy one
A grey tomb-stony one
Etc., and whatnots
What to do with all them?
Control the tube, of course,
But they all do that
A little bit differently.
"To hell with this white noise"
I ****** up a chrome looking remote
Soapstone it wasn't
But cold cold cold still
I pressed the red button near the front
Blinked it didn't
But got stuck.
I just stared in frustration
For a long while, into that fuzzy screen.
And then
Out of the white noise
A gigantic chrome razor-hand
Came crashing through
Pulling me in.
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC