"synch" poems
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I wasn’t supposed to fall so hard
I wasn’t supposed to call out for your arms in the night
And my lips weren’t supposed to search for yours
As if they would actually be there.
I wasn’t supposed to nuzzle into my pillow at night
pretending that your hands were nestled in my hair
I wasn’t supposed to make small talk
just so I could hypnotize myself with that something in your eyes
I wasn’t supposed to wake up cold in the gray morning
with the strong urge to be bruised and bitten
In fits of slow, languid passion.
Unreal how our bodies match and move together,
Uncanny how our minds meld and play in synch.
My youthful love for life,
Your chuckling maturity, still unsure what life is.
Now I play soft ballads full of aching, yearning,
I can wrap myself in a blanket on the floor
With a mug of tea, and think silently on you
And the shadows I wish I could conjure into existence…
They live inside, dancing to burst free from our guilty bodies
Too ethereal, too beautiful, to be abandoned
When we (artists) know we live for such wonders.
I wish I had any other option but forgetting,
or descending into madness.
(I’m currently choosing madness..?)
And it wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I wasn’t supposed to fall so hard.
I’m so sorry,
My summer love.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
running
deliquescing into nature
i am engulfed in stillness
i encounter a deer as i round a corner
its chestnut eyes intensely sense
something wild within me
transfixed
we meld palpably
whispering our essence
myopic views warp into acute focus
golden flowers stretch and arch
and yawning into the sun
swell with bursts of luster
whilst violets polka dot the path
with lilac luminescence
dead tree trunks
mutating into masterpieces
yearn for new life
drawing in the squirrels
yellow-bellied birds
hover
sensing my motions
whilst woodland winds undulate
pine scented waves of sea salt oceans
my ears enchantingly enhanced
by bristling leaves caressing trees
as scintillating amber butterflies
dance in synch
with the clock tower’s
ancient chiming
a gust of wind
catches a patch of sand
and sends it quivering
fusing high in summer air
then falling soft as feathers
hidden fairies prance about
answering unheard questions
problems dissolve in emerald meadows
without a hint of striving
essays write themselves
upon my mind
poetry flows through me
wings of meadowlarks
trace my face with nuances
interlaced with connotations
rushing home
i write it down
then bowing i take credit
for what was etched upon my soul
by a sunbeam in the forest
©2016janetaylor
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:09 PM UTC
Moods are in synch once again
with this monsoon season
raindrops come with threads of pain,
maybe there's a good reason
why pain...rhymes with rain.
there's pen and paper
here...there...everywhere
for, when rain pours
is when my poetry flows
softly weeping its woes
like ice...that quietly thaws.
::::::::
:::::
:::
::
()
sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
July 2020
Oct 6, 2021
Oct 6, 2021 at 10:58 AM UTC
If you be my batman tonight can i be your batwoman ?
Would you take me on a ride in your love shack tonight ?
Take off my leather batwoman costume and fill this room up with **** love fumes . We'll be happier than garden flowers that bloom . I'll stay up all night to watch the full moon beside you . If you let me touch you would you wrap me in your bat wings ? Come on babe tell me you'll be my batman tonight ? I'll curl up beside you in the dead of night . Now undo my black leather costume strings with your batman hands and feel my every inch while i play your favorite song and start to lip synch for you in the middle of the night ~
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 8:45 AM UTC
Through the serendipity of a naive act,
A mere rumour of the bygone tale.
Perceived by a small offense,
Was the story of Riverdale.
A machine of parts and *****
Built for an arithmetical crusade,
Channeled with high voltage,
The tool for every complex barricade.
For science has toyed with his destiny,
For his life was a written code,
For his face was made of metal alloy,
For his troubles laid on the same road.
For his calculations were neat as heaven,
As his binary numbers were perfectly synch,
Like the sun rising on an early day,
Like the rain falling on the same clay.
But the story took a seismic turn,
His mind was on a number's high,
When like lightning came she,
A thunderstorm from a clear sky
A mermaid out of the blue sea,
She touched his metal face,
For she had seen none of like him.
But that touch created a little spark,
In the metal heart out of chances that slim.
As his codes discharged to form a conscious wave,
For the metal mind felt the aura,
For the metal body moved to dance,
For Riverdale loved that girl,
For she was his fading chance.
But do the humans understand love?
I doubt they do, for the metal heart,
Was driven out from the lands.
For his story never had a start.
The sin of emotion, the bliss of pain,
For his metal heart rusted in vain.
Over his kingdom of broken dreams,
Neither did she, nor a soul felt his reign.
As his metal body rusted away,
In the aura of an insane world,
Where love is a jewellery reserved,
For this misery has now unfurled,
He died a metal death with a humane heartbreak.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
Remember how I'd smoke after school
outside your classroom window
watching you pack up your briefcase,
pulling your arms through your blazer sleeves?
Four cigarettes in a ring
between my thumb and fingertips,
an "okay" sign.
You preferred jean dresses with the hips cut out,
knee-high fishnet socks,
my hair wrapped curiously in bandana red
with my eyes outlined in black.
I stole condoms and Twinkies,
brought them to your apartment
after you'd call to unwrap me
like penny candy
on the mattress in the middle of your floor,
each tear in synch with the teeth
of your zipper releasing.
A green wrapper
and an empty trash can
next to my book bag.
You licked your fingers
after the last bite.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
There is no shame, in moving back with your parents.
To them you still smell of diapers and the time you puked jelly beans all over the back of the car after you tilt-a-whirled your “I’m a big girl” attitude into giggles.
Around them you still clumsily tip over you own puberty when they ask you to clean your room.
You’re still in college. And that diploma on your wall is still less of an accomplishment, than when you suddenly discovered your thumbs.
So, how do you cope with the baby talk condescension scribbled over directions to empty a dishwasher properly?
1) Realize this is just temporary. You have till you’re at least 40 to fix this.
2) Clean your room of all the embarrassing childish evidence (i.e. N’Synch Posters, Pokemon Cards, Ect) . When CSI comes in they will just assume you were visiting.
3) Take long, long walks far, far away from your residence. Preferably the woods, so you may not run into any high school nemeses.
4) Pray you can get laid by someone, your age. Preferably someone you have not had any prepubescent encounters with already.
5) Eat all the free food you can.
With theses steps you can safely avoid pulling out your own fingernails with the self-loathing hiding under your bed.
Do not let it fill your Pog champion hands with delusions that you have failed to tie your own shoes, let alone pay your own taxes or get married.
Might as well give up those big girl pants and open lid cups and go back to Sesame Street and ******** in your own pants.
This…
Is only temporary.
You must say.
A temporary walk through the woods. Praying to lay down relax, and enjoy the air you are still eating.
This is only temporary.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
The music
Somehow
Managed to be
Manifested
By the duo
A deaf girl
And a blind boy
Worked
To create this work
Of art
One reads
The notes allowed
While the other strokes
The keysIn synch
They play together
Brail fails
To satisfy the imagination
And the
The hand signs
Signal
Your handicapped
Incapabilities
In case instability
Isn’t enough
To remind her
Reminders forgotten
By forging talents
Forming
As a Shaper of souls
The
Lost and found
They create a presence
Presented
As a musical performance
The conformants
Go with the flow
And accept their fate
Society tells
This peculiar pair’s
Tale
Is unlike any other
Fate begs for a chance
To show her powers
While the duo denies
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 12:36 AM UTC
Photographs of naked bodies
Positioned across a bed
Seducing one other
By the gleam in our eyes
Dressed with the desirable color of red
Our lips dripping with pure lust
Forever but a mere inch away
Eternally unreachable
As pretend is what we like to play
Trace the outline of my body
Feel the softness of my skin
Dine upon the devils wishes
Give in to this lustful sin
Embrace the coldness of the night
Be intoxicated by our heat
Eyes glazed over from this dream
Slowly lose your willingness to fight
Taste the sweetness upon your tongue
Allow us to quench your thirst
But once you taste heaven gates
You will eternally be cursed
Drunken off the beating sound
Of our hearts within perfect synch
Pleasure induced by feeling Pain
Holding on tighter to that chain
Bruises and bite marks
Littering the skin
Relinquish your demons
Fall captive to that sinners grin
Harsh whispers in the dark
Lips pressed against your neck
***Tempt me with such sins
my darling***
My dear the night has only begun
Decipher what you truly want
As it seems our game of play is done
Both lost within an ecstatic dream
It appears that neither of us have won
Dirtied souls are all that are left
Without meaning or for reason
What have we done?
an echoing question
The devil replies with a taunting voice
My darling you have become undone
With a sly grin he walks away
Eroding into the dark of night
While the tainted souls
Together with their hands holding tight
A game that they were destined to lose
***We have danced with the devil tonight
And it appears he has won.***
~
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 6:20 AM UTC
i lay out under the shade of the trees
embracing the cool breeze
it is comforting
like a caress between lovers
i watch the leaves blowing in the wind
never in unison but always in synch
the trees sway back and forth
back and forth
as if rocking to some invisible rhythm
i don't need to hear it to know its message
i can feel it in every cell of my being
awakening
rejuvenating
connecting me with the sounds of nature
my spirit is affirmed once more by the soft rustle of leaves
vowing that here in life's purest form
everything is okay
calm, not calamity
the sky, a blank canvas of open invitation
release yourself
let the soothing brush of fresh air intoxicate your senses
revive you
i sense autumn drawing near
closer every day
the leaves are bright with life
just starting to flash a glimpse of vibrancy that awaits
although there is not a cloud in the sky i sense my head resting there my feet planted firmly on the ground
my soul, lost somewhere in between
floating
waiting to be found
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 12:50 AM UTC
Listen to you with your lip-synch promises
You kiss me and take a bite with acid tongues
Spiked with sugary smiles
Your words are liquid lead
Your letters bleed loudly through their envelopes
Bubbling like broken dreams
How do you know what you seem to know?
It is a black skinned paperclip globe
A slow ticking suffering sickly
Strobing life
Watch you with your face of clay and prosthetic eyes
You stroke me and scratch with a headless finger
Sliding in my heart to lay your egg sac
Whenever you speak
Your words are biting back laughter
How can I take you seriously?
You hair in black chains
With synthetic singing locks
Double tracked and prerecorded
Sensual loops
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
Eons old ink
Echo from the depths of the sea where the distelfink
Lay. It’s resting place discovered by divers who deserve to sink.
Not because of their ability to dive, but because of their ability to lip-synch.
What do I do, and to whom do I do it to? Think
I must, for I am on the brink
Of collapse. Do I go on living; knowing full well that this paper, on the brink
Of destruction, will lay forever on the bottom of the ink
Colored water from which my work was discovered. Think,
For my life depends on it, the life of my beloved distelfink.
This whole tiddly-wink of a subject puts a kink in my ability to lip-synch.
Wow, what a link I thought, might this have something to do with the ancient sink?
Yes, yes, but of course, the sink
Of my past people; presented nicely in the present. My people, on the brink
Of destruction, now have but one hope…my ability to lip-synch.
Where is my paper? Where is my ink?
I must create more, more distelfink!
What can I do, this is such a stink? How can I think
About the distelfink? When I must think
Solely about the outcome, the cease of distruction, to our precious ancient sink.
No, no my brain of pink must help me render up some distelfink.
**** my mind is not in sync! My body is on the brink
Because of how much I have to double-think. The ink
Will not flow, and with that, in a wink, I’ve lost my ability to lip-synch.
Outthink, outwit, out measure, I must regain my gift of lip-synch.
This cannot happen unless the cross-link in my brain fixes itself and allows me to think.
What will happen if my ability to think and cross-link forces me to ink?
Like an octopus scared for it’s life, scared that we may never save the sink.
Like blue-birds that can’t sing, I am on the brink
Of madness, madness at the thought of never completing my distelfink.
What if I never complete my distelfink.
Will I ever be able to lip-synch?
Will I constantly be on the brink
With the thought of not being able to think?
Will I save my people, my sink?
It all depends on my eons old ink.
Eons old ink creates pink water soaked distelfink
As it flows into the sink and out as lip-synch.
I must think or I will stay forever on the brink.
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 9:05 AM UTC
At rest, with sunshine on my face,
I feel it stretch across my cheek;
warm, with Spring's approaching grace,
it pleasures me, this day, this week.
My soul's at peace, with honeyed air,
I bask contented, my worries, nil;
I've no troubles and I've no care,
the morning's splendid, calm and still.
How very sweet to be; satisfied with life,
relishing the moments, in synch with mood;
free from hurt and pain and constant strife,
no depression, no sadness; no need to brood.
It's such relief, to set aside my weary anger,
the burden now, has left this grateful heart;
with it, I was always on the edge of danger,
how glorious it is, to see its rage depart.
What is this source, that brings me to this end?
it's faith in God and in His blessed Son;
knowing Him, has taught me how to mend,
knowing that the battle I have fought, is won.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
Harley Time Machine
With the wind in my hair as I ride
I watch the scenes go by
It allows me to feel so free
It is my Harley Time Machine
It gives me peace of mind
And allows me to unwind
It is an amazing ride
That lets me go back in time
A machine that was made for me
In synch with what I need
In this land that we call free
I ride with others like me
When on it the future I see
On that road in front of me
Those horses under me
They are my Harley Time Machine
Carl Joseph Roberts
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
I like to imagine,
That our hands are intertwined together,
That our legs are tangled in the sheets,
That my head is on your chest,
And our heart beats in synch
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 4:13 AM UTC
*Aberration’s child is born as foetus in a man
Thoughts of where and why and when corrupted in the plan,
These aberrations manifest behaviourally where
Normality’s parameters are stretched beyond the tear.
Stretched beyond acceptable, stretched beyond belief
Like when the golden Altar boy becomes a rabid thief!
Like how that fool in North Korea with militarists in synch
With postulated threats has brought us all to nuclear brink.
Like when that freak in Batman gear let loose with deadly aim
To shoot the kids at movie time then claimed he was insane.
Like when the Barons grow the coke to corrupt all our youth
And bribe and cheat and **** and bash, yet call our laws uncouth.
What makes my brothers lie and steal, what makes them want to hurt?
What aberration wields the knife to shred the nubile’s skirt?
Why are financiers predatory, what gearing in their mind
Enables them, with conscience clear, to plot to fleece us blind?
When does this change occur in growth, at what stage does it switch?
How do angelic six year olds at fifteen turn to *****
Amazing that the blue eyed boy who smiled with curly locks
With age became infatuated with a lust for *****
Indecent that good working men who slave to build a stake
Can lose it all to those who use legality to take.
And what of those who plan to **** what trigger in the brain
Determines that they chose this path?
IT’S ALL NOW QUITE INSANE!*
Marshalg
Viewed from my (relatively) safe hidey-hole, Down Under.
Pukehana. NZ
6 April 2013
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
Unamused, abused, inflicted by I
Distractions, that keep my heavy eyes alive
*** drugs, deep conversations keep me fed
This feels as real as pretend, driven by others for fuel I don't have
This must be the end
Nah, I'll never die,
I'll continue to tell myself so I don't amend my habits
Embrace these teenage customs that feel so unique
They aren't, but that keeps me in synch
Willingly letting denial be a trait, a style of it's own
That will take me out one day, I already have condoned
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
Silent tears, relieved in ink,
on paper smooth and cool.
Heart and hand now work in synch,
as strong emotions duel.
There on the parchment you lie,
naked, for all to see.
You heave a deep cleansing sigh.
At last, you can believe.
Word by word you come alive,
a healing balm takes form.
Before long, you realize,
a stronger you is born.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Lord, I’m longing to be in the light of your glory
I’m yearning to kneel at the foot of your throne
I hunger and thirst for your presence oh Lord
My soul longs for you, my spirit thirsts for you Oh Lord My God
How I wish I could spend just one day with you
To walk hand in hand down the heavenly streets
Just the two of us how beautiful and wonderful it would be
There is no greater feeling than the feeling I get when we are in synch
I can almost hear the trumpets blaring and joy fills the air
The feeling I get when you and I dance
Nothing compares Lord. Nothing comes close.
You are an oasis when I’m lost in the desert place,
You are a ray of light on a cloudy day.
Yours is the love of a father for his child
Yours are the hands that are rough and calloused with work yet soft, strong and gentle
Yours are the eyes that have taken in so much joy, so much suffering and everything in between
And still they are full of love, full of life and. They are kind eyes
Yours are the feet travelling many miles to find the lost again
Yours are the arms stretching out to hold the world close to you
Yours the heart with room enough for all and endless love
Yours is the way: the journey we take, the path we walk, the direction we try to follow
Yours is the truth: this is what we seek. We want to know truth, to know you. The truth that sets men free
Yours is the life: trying to imitate how you lived, loved. And the eternal life of a soul that rests in God.
You are peace when this world is at war
You are love when there seems nothing but hate
You are life for my soul like the air that I breathe
You are strength when I am at my weakest
You are good when my life is anything but
You are hope in times of great despair
You are light to drive away the darkness
You are true in the midst of many lies
You are perfect in my perfect imperfections
You are my God and I Am YOURS
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
So here's the scene:
11:30p.m. on New Year's Eve;
A bedroom, dimmed lights,
And me—in bright pink pyjamas
Which looked completely ridiculous
With my hair and skin.
Life tip: Gingers and bright pink?
Best avoid.
In fact; I don't know why
I was wearing it in the first place—
I don't even like bright pink.
Anyway;
Whatever.
*This is not the point.*
The point is me;
Sitting at my desk
And writing in my journal
About how emotionally crippling
The past year had been;
Hoping I’d wake up to a better tomorrow—
Only to find the same harsh reality,
Over and over.
And God! What a toll it took on me:
Mentally, physically and spiritually—
When it happened.
It, like a large invisible hand,
Slapping me hard across the face and shouting:
Are you done being miserable?
And maybe that was all I needed to hear.
Once I read that perhaps
You couldn't decide to be happy,
But you sure as hell could decide to be miserable.
And maybe that was one of the truest things I have ever read—
Because that was exactly what was happening.
There is only so much that medications can do,
And only so much that a person could advise,
When your mind is set on:
*I don't want to get better.
I don't deserve to get better.*
And that’s when I saw it:
A tiny spark,
That was always there but for some reason
I had decided not to see.
And in that moment,
It filled my eyes with blind hope
And I decided:
I am going to let it happen.
I deserve to be happy.
I went to bed that night;
A small smile on my face
And this tiny spark still glowing so bright inside of me.
And that’s when I heard it.
When all was still, except for
The air that filled my lungs,
And the beating of my heart
In synch with the rhythm of the universe:
I heard it.
It was a purpose.
My purpose.
It has only been a few days now,
But I know I was right.
Positive.
Because I’m doing okay.
It’s not that I have gained immunity to pain,
Or that some magic has been endowed upon me:
It’s just that I’m not afraid of hurting any more.
And that's just it—
The simple story of how I’ve come to learn,
The most important lesson I have ever learnt, to date.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
THE BLOOD
YOU DON’T SEE
IS FAKE
http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/the-blood-you-dont-see-is-fake/paperback/product-21206799.html;jsessionid=6D1872B449D8B58E2A7F503E518273FD
new and selected poems / Barton Smock / September 2013
from self published collections:
mating rituals of the responsibly poor
Ahistoric
Aggressive Kin
Hallelujah Lip-Synch
in the asylum we’d sun ourselves with angels
all available at
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/acolyteroad
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
Everybody claps out of synch
in the midnight elegance of “Wine Ohs”
but the bass player hums
at the twitch of the sunken keys
that man who leans back crying a New York cry
and sweet daddy saxophone wailing a New York wail
and they all pale and bow with respect
to the young drummer with bright eyes that nobody knows
and nobody knows where he came from or how old
Who’s soul I remember meeting from Easterly winds
only to find himself on stage with strangers
in a plane of rhythm and ruthless time
in a freedom jazz dance
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
Why are we running
We run because of the need to feed
To provide for our offspring's after the breed
I stalk you from a far
Picking out the weak, got you in my sights
Our speed makes you wish you were more camouflage in the brush
Already upon you in a rush
Kicking up dust
Startled you
Slowed your reflex's just enough
Usually a solo hunter
But there's an extra pair of 8 feet running next to me
Hunting tactics in synch
Chasing you through the dusty plains
I run you in their direction
So they can sweep you off your feet
Like a midnight affair
As they sink their claws into your legs
I watch as your body and the ground meets
I circle you panting while they hold you at bay
The white in your eyes show
You know you've become prey
Waiting for you to stretch your neck out for a second wind
Then ill strike and put this battle to a end
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
From a distance behind glass doors
There he moves elegantly
Then disappears from my sight.
Suddenly at a time and a place
Quite in synch
He smiles at me
A shy smile like never before
Behind no glass door.
Then disappears from my sight
Again.
-- Eleanor
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC