"teethe" poems
Here comes another day, another dawn
A look in the mirror tells me, I'm still forlorn
day has broken, the birds chirp, 'Good morn!"
but my mind is broken, my spirit is all, but gone
This guy before me, he looks a stranger
he's so different now; he was once a H granger
he's lost in the wilderness where he was once a ranger
so inured to the system, he's unaware of the danger
I take a deep breath; I can hardly breathe
sometimes I wonder, how will be my wreath
I try and reason; it's not gonna help to seethe
All these troubles; they surely will help me teethe
I know rest is all I need
Oh, I should stop this bleed
Where have I lost my creed?
I need it to commit many a deed
My nerves are feeling Time's bite
but my mind refuses to give in without a fight
the going has become tough; the time has become tight
It's time to sadly say Good night.
Though my eyes seem to burst at their seems
I'll hope and pray you'll come in my dreams
Lord of my Hope, you are my Don
Give me another day, another dawn.
Give me another day, another dawn.
Give me another day, another dawn!
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 12:19 PM UTC
phasical circumlocutions of basic, embodied life..
i am an infant still i teethe and moan in lonely darknesses
solar revolutions
earthling orbits and spheroid whirls
an axis of worlds
adulterated limbs
my adulthood limns an architecture's disconnections
thin, the layers undulate
of elbow's sway and kneecap right
i am an adult still i teethe and moan alone in darkness, light
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
two steps
hesitant
in the vortex of
complicated footwork
and hormonal teenagers
who knows?
who cares?
I do
You don't
we're spinning head first
into a night
drenched in
cheap cologne and cheesy love songs
****
i love you
so much
that i
rake at the leather
teethe the frayed denim
again and again
like the mangy dogs we are
and it goes on and on
like black holes at noon
or night
whenever really.
who knows?
who cares?
mentally we are dancing
****** nothing.
am i laughing?
i don't know.
screaming?
who knows?
who cares?
not me.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
My little flower,
still a seed
planted gently in the ground.
Soaking up the water
Basking in soft, most soil
waiting.
Sprouting surely, you only teethe
through the dirt.
You’re no flower yet,
But I know your bud will bloom.
Your petals will be bright and lush;
your stem so green and strong.
You only peek through the soil,
but there are careless feet and snarling animals
to take you away.
But never worry, I’ll stand near
and keep the weeds at bay.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 1:13 PM UTC
How could you be a cavern?
I still smell the ocean.
There's naught for our time here.
I've learned, to do as I please.
The cat sits rows, and even columns behind you.
I've mastered the ending,
Now, let's begin on our knees.
The truth isn't frothing,
as it did in our youth,
An envy just beginning to teethe.
Let's smile the collapse
Of our ledges' fear-chancers.
This ocean's now learning to breathe,
and cast
and cast
and cast.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
I fell in love with music
when I fell in love with women.
Cassettes will weep upon demand;
homing melodies for the neighbour
who lives across the green.
There's no sense to *** or violence,
and yet I'll teethe it all the same.
I'll give out tepid love, flashes of blood,
and a weekend of cemetery wander,
if it means I'll get a modicum of sleep.
Zopiclone, Citalopram, and long walks
will do a lot to elevate a mind.
You see a painted blue
and an ocean view; yet you've lost
that old dignitary smile.
I am told to separate my wisdom,
to quote history as if time were a fact.
There's no love in the decimated forest,
the Earth now calloused and fickle,
to shake off the parasite of man.
I fell in love with cigarettes
when I divorced with yesterday's papers.
I have no wars left to fight,
and no money more to make,
now all that's left to ask is:
where do I belong?
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
The scaup is searching for a shore
To build her nest, a lonely beach,
Or rocky cliff no fox can reach.
Egg-gobblers and roosting mothers war.
There is no land, just churn and spray,
The billows heave and wave-crests foam,
Nowhere for her to make a home,
If there’s a coast, it’s far away.
From hovering and fluttering, her wings
Are weary, and her soaring droops.
Neither scanning, nor her endless loops
Find shelter from cold blusterings.
And soon she’ll drop, and soon she’ll drown.
Unless she finds a landing spot.
And there, out there, a blip, a dot.
A floe, an island made of ice,
Too big to bob, and just as firm
As any continent, a berm
Bears, seals or penguins would think nice.
Not great for birds, but she’s no choice.
She lands, she rests, she lays her eggs.
Her frigid roost has numbed her legs,
But it’s a nest, so she’ll rejoice.
Her eggs are warm, and soon they’ll hatch.
Hatchlings can sip from melted snow,
But grubs don’t squirm on this bare floe,
And there’s no fish around to catch.
Icebergs are barren and they’re hard.
But far beneath the ice and sea,
Rich bottomland, a cozy lea,
The sea-bed makes a better yard.
Born to water, they will breathe
Water, as their mother did the air.
And though aquatic birds aren’t rare
Gilled scaups are scarce as hens that teethe.
A separate species, her lost young
Will never know their mother soared,
Or dropped the offspring she adored.
In ocean depths unwarmed by sun.
In that strange element they’ll thrive,
Becoming what has never been,
A species hitherto unseen.
Unknown to her, but they’ll survive.
She drops the eggs, and trills goodbye.
Then, mournfully, the scaup takes wing.
To cross what’s past accomplishing.
The coast’s too far, but she will try.
Jan 3, 2022
Jan 3, 2022 at 1:51 PM UTC
Aloft a bay and swift to wonder,
With thoughts to swirl a mind in which refute its sunder;
As sentiments of contemplation adjoin their trail,
Sanctions of mind with no clear avail -
In which taunt a certain truth,
Ample with results ensured by fail;
For truth-value was not of concern,
As living these dreams were impossible to discern -
With a relative validity they sat behind,
Distorted of image and left undefined.
Truth is, one might ever know,
Perhaps it is attachment or a wilting care;
Perhaps it is an unrequited or envisioned affair;
Perhaps the past person in which offer solace;
Or perhaps a valueless teem of needless embolus -
To convey to mind that it is but nothing,
Nothing alas, no more than something.
And yet i sit, dreaming dreams of the past.
Dreaming of you, standing here steadfast.
These thoughts to ponder as they float along,
Conjure themselves together and play an endless song;
Which teethe and breathe with heartfelt rhythm.
It gripes at my mind, and yet i still go with 'em.
In eerie desire of a defined remedy;
That goes without saying an undefined extremity.
So last I speak,
From thought to thought,
As this sheltered mind is to leak.
Hereby night's gleaning ember -
Heart beating with thoughts as far as I remember,
Our peak in history at status of friend,
Mutuality clear, no ties to amend.
Nothing more and nothing less.
So why is it I dream of you?
I must profess.
Yes it is true, yes indeed I do.
Explicit visions of something more -
Something that we've never even considered to open a door.
And here at it I confess,
That of attraction in an altered fictitious state of mind;
Yet here I am,
Continuing to look behind,
Here in this reality, with my eyes distinctly open,
Reliving these dreams dreamt in the past,
With deeper connections -
Connections that realistically never sought chance to last.
They never even existed with such say,
So why in my sleep
I
See
You
This
Way?
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC