"tellings" poems
<•>
BusBusNYC (A Live Love Bus App)
•<>•
if you made it this far, so fare one,
be undressed with thyself and impressed as well,
for thou joints me in holy matrimony upon a living map
where our presences can meet
in virtual real time as if eye new what that meant
but that blue dot is where this body possessed can be located by the nearest satellite finger snaking down from the heavens to Cain mark my foreheads location,
just like on Game of Thrones
don't you desire me, or rather,
the knowledge of mine
whereabouts?
the who of me, that very useful information, can best be
seen moving crosstown on the M72,
which is a mythological bus for in twenty years eye never
seen it come, go, though all its stops clearly marked
see me moving in fits and spurts of bursts of movement,
leaping streets and avenues in a single
unbounded, unstoppable superbus leap
in a city of anonymity where all who walk it streets,
ride the tides of its buses,
all ask a single Job-like question,
regardless of age,
"I am desirable, do you want me?"
eye say the ayes have it,
no,
this is not a great poem
but!
this live bus map app is the dating site ever created by
geeky human cells
alll this virtual meeting possibly leading to coitus
with a stranger while Pandora serenades
with perfect synchronicity, playing and plying us with
Romance for a Violin and Orchestra in F Minor,
a combination musical **** work of
Dvorak-Mehta-Midori
this bus app is
the social media's most immediate,
so meet me on the bus
at Broadway and 86 Street
where our metro cards can be
merged and we will be recognized
as a legal couple(ing)
in the eyes of MTA,
a multi-state agency and be bound in bustrimony
(legally married when riding on a city bus, only)
jeez, a crazy poem, not just, not a good one
but a true tale from the one who rides the buses and only
alights and delights with regaling tales and tellings
of love sortie sorrow maybe tomorrow the busbusNYC
app wil apply itself a smidgen better and
let me love you even with
a good under the hood
bus poem
but!
someday we will,
this, thy poet,
who does desire youalone,
will hijack you and a NYC bus,
and visit the poets from India and
the Great Northwest
won't that be a fabulous poem!
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 6:16 PM UTC
don’t kiss and tell,
meaning
do kiss, go crazy, let passion rule, give in, take out,
meaning
kiss but don’t tell
yet,
the real telling is in the kissing
where your heart gives way,
avalanches into frenzied chain of signal fires,
smoked, clouded eyes, with only one exception made;
the shining, sheer veil see-through when
the other is on the room and the green spring coverlet felled,
all to see the glow, see all the the blush,
the pretense, aversion skins natural makeup, a liberty beacon
laughing, how it cannot be hid for what’s inside
climbs so fast, blushes blue blood redder, the inside reaction reagent,
the weakening composure, the intense beating from heart to head,
the joyous tearing, the silent swearing, the stupid grinning,
the step skipping, the happy dance springing spontaneous,
no control, might as well just let it go biology in chemistry class
all these tells that you have kissed beyond reason,
these hidden kisses might as well be on
billboards on the highway into town,
a P.A. announcement in high school,
a hearty button attached to your backpack,
the incessant text checking, all dogs nighttime barking all day
go ahead kiss and tell
go ahead tell and kiss harder,
in the kisses, a million tellings
every body part red swelling,
the tearing of every body part,
concentric circles extended from a pebbled heart
~
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 5:56 PM UTC
(For one)
I don't want
(to know more of)
the way seconds never cease colliding into
(something, either external or internal to)
others in a rippling shimmer of
(the consciousness, is)
moments that never possess the finality
(a divine madness of quantification.)
which we cry of to
(The Ego, who comparatively weighs)
others in re-tellings of
(self against anything not defined by)
our lives. This
(the chemical current of self-awareness,)
is a truth too often refused
(in accepting such divine madness)
from our emotional responses
(begins a spewing tornado of self deterioration)
to physical objects
(as the universe which contains self)
and our fluctuating position
(begins to fully exist.)
to them. Yet, in that
(As the universe is more fully known)
i live in a continual agony
(by constructs of the conscious self,)
which knows not the ceasing satisfaction of
(the increasingly perceived universe, which begins to outweigh)
the total fulfillment of
(constructs of self,)
a singularity of identity in space and time,
(makes existence appear impossible)
are the screams of my eternality.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
This proverbial palace of pen
And paper has room for
Exactly as many as
We are.
Together.
People of Parchment, welcome.
Move in.
Poem has room for your every letter,
Each one of your feelings, all
Pleasure; all hurt.
It's diary, -hallways that go on
Forever-
That you can explore in your mind,
It is birth
Of things that you love, that you see
Your own features in.
Thoughts fit for sharing with minds
Like your own.
It's channel for channeling, channel
For handling the things that arise,
You are never alone.
It's words to the pictures of love
That you witnessed, it's tellings of
Hardships you had
To withstand.
It's more discriptive of lust and of
Pleasure than movies you watch in
The dark with
Your hand.
The Palace of Poem has room for
Each poet. The doors are unlocked,
See the sign: "Vacancy."
Interiour's custom, your personal
Taste as design, and don't ask:
It is perfectly free.
In here there's no grown-ups,
We're children; just taller.
No bedtime, no said time to eat or
Come home.
In here you can choose to create
When you're crying, or laughing or
Tickled or cut to the bone.
-
It's a palace fit for the Kings and
Queens of Expression
That truly live in your
Every
Mirror.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
I am an open journal.
With a lock long lost.
My pages, riddled with ink,
Lay exposed.
Wandering eyes waver from page to page.
Taking in the tales of lost loves.
Cheering for the stories of triumph.
Learning from listed lessons.
Come all who wish to witness,
Stories of me.
Stories we wrote.
A cover so unassuming.
How to even judge,
Something with so little to show for.
Title-less, addressed to no one.
The grooves and creases,
Spread across the binding.
Worn.
Lived.
Better days,
A distant memory.
Be gentler than those who payed no mind.
Pages that lay uneven.
Torn asunder,
Blacked out or burned
Many, left untouched.
In places, the ink
has bled through.
Some made to be beautiful.
Others, defiled.
These pages, all precious.
Even the pages
I'd like to forget.
Sable seas of ink,
Flow onto parchment.
Bringing life to desolate pages.
With it
The tellings that brought this book to you.
The lies.
The hurt.
The truth.
The remedy.
A reminder to be weary of people,
The exalted who hold the pen above you.
There will come a time
When this book is shut,
Shelved for the last time.
Yet, these stories can drift on the wind.
From lips to ears.
From old to young.
The life I lived.
The Stories,
We wrote them.
My world within paper.
Am I the book, or the stories that began on those pages.
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 2:32 AM UTC
I agree....just simply through my Experience.
I understand the fine tuning acquired & required as we unVeil New & refined Capabilities
~Waves of Revelation, surging inside of You
~ as you feel a Personal Amazement of all previous Moments ~synchronized~
in
Cosmical interconnectedness
The Entanglement
~that directed the bigger Picture of the a transformative situation
(Testing Ground).
I realize I gain in blessed gifts for my service through proper conduct, awareness through dichotomous states of Eagle Eye Concentration, incorporating full sensory ~Engagement~
... at the same time I Release a part of my Conscious Attention into ~Extended Awareness~
Bless my Befuddlement...I..I..mean I am having a recent frustration causing conflicting feelings about the role I see Myself contributing as in the Grand Procession of These Kind of Things....
I am mainly Elated , Honored, Focused, Excited, and, Well, gawddarnitt...Git me ma horsee ma...We's gots a good long ride, Theys'alls a'beans tellings....I hears
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 5:12 PM UTC
Would you like a piece of my mind?
It's got fragments of tellings and snippets of songs,
It's got barbarous fixes of music.
All of those crave some clever perusal.
Would you like a piece of my mind?
Would you like a piece of my soul?
There are passion and tenderness - desperate, begging -
To be healed and to finally flee
Into rivers and lakes and wild seas...
Would you like a piece of my soul?
Would you like a piece of my pain?
It would feel like a cognac injection,
It could be quite a picturesque trip:
Your emotions would tighten their grip
And let go when there's no more objections.
Would you like a piece of my pain?
Would you like to try on some of me?..
Though - it's doubtful you'd like how it feels.
(c)kRu, 12.10.-17.11.2006
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:11 AM UTC
four wheels
gliding gracefully along the surface
holding hands and displaying large grins
echos of jokes and secret tellings and laughs
most often referred to as rink
typically filled with jovial adolescents
birthday parties and family outings
weekend afternoons
coaxing is often a requirement
the freedom to move without lifting a foot
who needs to walk, skip, or jump
when you can roll, roll, roll
you crossover
i stumble
you move backwards
i fall
my legs are bruised
as is my ego
yet
i cannot stop smiling
nostalgia at it's finest
memories of lock ins
hokey pokies
limbos
races to the death
it has never been so much fun to get hurt
it seems as though time has worn on me
im no longer an elastic young girl
don't tell me that, though.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
My Eternal Lover
Is going through hardship times.
Some Light for His Cloud;
A note of gentle sound, - not much loud, -
Hopefully, eased are confines.
My Favourite Lover
Is going through turbulent times.
Some Laughter and Love for His Heart;
A Song and a Smile into dreams;
And - hopefully - Calm is to Pain overthwart.
For both of my Lovers -
An appetent redstart
Flies out with two oxhearts -
To gladden their slumbers,
To shoo away showers
From lands of their dwelling,
And bring about rainbows
They'll sing of in tellings.
(c)kRu, 07.02.-10.02.06
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:03 AM UTC
The noises in the back
Make it hard for me not to smack
That buzzing fly I can't seem to ****
All the other students do is make the teacher ill.
English used to be my favorite class
But now I dread it due to your sass.
No, it isn't funny when you shout ****** things
So here I am giving you some tellings
You don't have a purpose
No, you idiot, you are worthless.
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 12:35 PM UTC
I find solace
In that thoughts are imaginary
Fever dreams
Nothing much to them
Until you act
That line that exists
Between your mind's tellings
And your mouth's doings
Is a beautiful thing
It's what I hang my hat on each day
And then there's that thing
Life
It's a weird one
An old, odd friend
Who you don't know whether to kiss
Or to lure into a back alley
Intent on cutting their belly open
To see what falls out
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
What is it to look through eyes
That do not see, cannot perceive?
To listen to soft melodies and symphonies
With ears that do not hear?
What of it to kiss cold, cracked lips
That can no longer feel warmth?
How can one describe the sweet nectar
Of love with a tongue that
Has long forgotten the art of taste?
Why is it fleeting, the scent of pine tree and spices,
Leaving behind only the smell of rot and decay
To penetrate through eternity?
What is death?
Is it nothing more than a poets plaything?
I've never experienced death, not first hand
And so all the encounters I've come to draw on now
Are ones of fantasy and story-tellings,
So I humbly ask for an honest answer, If I may
What is death?
And will I be ready?
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 4:45 AM UTC
Childhood dreams, childhood cares
***** and strolls
Jumps and runs
Eat and sleep
Play, cry.
Not caring the world
Just what colors it's made of
Smiles and innocent gazes
Yawns and story tellings.
Big eyes full of wonder
How merry go round can go
Round and round
Yes, baby, keep wond'ring.
Tired and shoulder sleepin'
Teases and snorts
Slips and slides
Memories to last til next time.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
I will have my own brand of insignificance.
-
to prepare for this character, I meant to gather household items I thought would together be helpful in making the sound of a strange woman saddled with an abundance of me time spanking the daughter of her distant but as yet unrevealed relative in a toy store but instead I was overcome by a pain much like the pain a man compares to childbirth and as such I slowed myself long enough to fashion from three sons a triangle with which I woke my wife.
-
you shoot yourself, it doesn’t matter where, but only if you see a homeless person, it doesn’t matter where.
if you have a job, you’re issued a gun.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
****** onto this gilded stage,
constructed upon envy, jealousy and hate.
Where past pains, for a moment, are immune and fall away.
We cannot run from, what we break, the each and everyone we betray,
Myself, you, any honor and truth, again, aware, I am of silent berate.
Vexed to explain this, to you, myself, let alone the adorning world.
Fear churns and flags the thoughts in my head, as I unfurl
The recant, of my notions, as not one’s I’d say.
In each aftermath, my feelings awaken, hauntingly every day.
I don a mask, a guise, hoping this pain will not recognize my kind,
Do not trust me, my actions, for there is no respect I’d stand behind.
My public life, a choreography of spun lies
for the “greater good of others,” to imbue.
Trust, I have none, even as I stand on the red carpet beside you.
This life, one not deserving any award.
It’s been calculated, guarded, for I am quite weak,
Meek and vulnerable as the words written for me to say,
the coincidence holds no allure.
Just more salve to cover my emotional sores,
Toiled and blistered by the years of holding
onto these self inflicted wounds upon my soul.
Only a select few see these images of me as they unfold,
Personal scars map the non-tellings,
my legacy's truth such intricately woven deceitful tapestry
I too, do not believe, yet again, I must face,
I am not the master of another’s fathoming
the vexatious me, they soon will behold.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 6:47 PM UTC
Dammed good facts,
today is a surely measurable day.
Set in the common course of human events
from the bottom,
where the world at this altitude,
is wintering, while
from the top we feel the sun, straight on
hot
as Mohave at solstice,
such as I, as we, seeing we live in order
to live
in order to help
eh, hey, hear us near us say, we know
weyekin, ye ken, visionary wisdom wedom
poet singer sayer pre-sent, and representing
words
living in timespace at time's own pace, passing
Dark cold winter, time for inwalled-usness use,
we become the whole room,
sometimes, all eyes on I, the one, in the middle
- there
- being the connection, anhamartia-tic,
coherence
here and there, a web conforms to koinonical
image entonations, owls of common sorts,
and squeeking black lizards, settle in the shade,
to night we go,
onward, to mark the time, watching all the old
knowing proven,
as the sun rises and sets, facts
as measures confirm, solid-ifity convey, say
so it is, con-fide-used knowing, faith,
as we say.
We are the people who know this mystery,
we live in life, as bits of all that ever was,
by now, all that is weighted
significant from first landmarks set in times past.
some, not my we, some see life as a struggle, see
from a salmon's POV, the sense of efforting
is joy,- efforting rejoicing +
this is right, this is how I form the people,
offsprung from war wage slaves,
who **** us,
to hide the stars at night.
Humans in the future shall love water flowing
functionality,
and starry story tellings
un seen in cities since the great white way
attracted the sharks into the tank.
Jun 21, 2022
Jun 21, 2022 at 4:57 PM UTC
all the tellings
whispered from
my voice's dwellings
come back
dried and empty;
sadder than
their legacies.
i told myself
all i needed was
a gentle friend
who'd help me mend
the wounds i made
as an escape.
i told myself
all i needed was
a boy who saw
the world in my eyes
to make me alive
and wash away
the tears i shed.
i told myself
all i needed to do
was shed weight to lose
years of abuse
off my beaten back.
and now i have all
that ive wanted before
but im too scared to talk
to the people who care
i dont want to burden
their happiness with
my lack there of.
what do i do now?
i cant smoke
cant pop pills
cant poke
holes in my veins
to let out the pain
anymore.
what do i do
when there's no where to go
to rid myself of these thoughts
the things done to me
the things that ive done
that i dont want to live with
no, i dont want to live anymore.
its not life
i dont want
its me
i cant bear.
what do i do now?
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
i'll never forget how his radiant blue eyes
concealed such a vast, continuously expanding universe
and how his notorious laugh echoed like a toneless thunder
through my quietly admiring, sunken gaze.
the messy handwriting adorning his caffeine-kissed lips,
lovely tainting the fancy words on his fiery tongue,
as mesmerizing as the last remnants of a lunar eclipse
i was swept away easily, utterly stupid, naive and also young.
i would have loved to be absorbed by his crazy tellings,
deeply hidden underneath that soft, brownish locks of his,
containing the tempting sweetness of honey drops, indwelling
as an uncharted, seldom kind of bliss.
© fey (11/09/20)
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 7:11 AM UTC
I don't know the absence of light or dark
There is only the chirp of the alley way clerk
Who serves you your tea and crumpet cakes
Lined with medallions of neon colors
That break when you touch them
Can it be the final hour is upon us?
As these orange fragments of yesteryear
Become old and forgotten and inhumane
I never was young
I never was old
I am what I am
Never done what I was told
Though these were the tellings of man and man's timely rule
And there were many mysteries within that
It is a funny thing
When one believes they need to go to school
Is it the hour or the time or the society which breeds this?
Is it the oranges and the hot milk and the comfort of the bed?
Is it the promises made in between black walls,
That makes us do things that we never would have said?
Funny how these words shape our minds
And yet our actions are nothing at all
Funny how funny a funny man can be
Until the funny man drops
His supposed ball
O'
The great fall
A fast glance across like a lance
Which pierces my mind like a flash
As if love vanished everywhere and not just from me
But from everybody
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 9:46 PM UTC
I've always contested this theory of time.
This counting of sands in hourglass bottles.
They always said time was in our hands.
But I didn't mind because the sun always rose, always set.
I never yearned to stop it. I never yearned to stay.
Until I met you.
Until I found myself in your arms in the morning till dawn
and it never felt long enough.
Until the words that made me melt into puddles formed time tables that showed a past moment I never wanted to escape from.
From the falling of snow, to the falling of leaves.
The hands on clocks were slowly gripping us by the shoulders;
tearing us apart.
Wars with the one thing we couldn't defeat.
Until kisses could hold time for a moment, we could never get enough.
Inserting coins into machines so that maybe hope
could fall out of the slot into our empty palms.
Once the days got shorter as the air grew cold,
we had to dig up for good memories to keep us holding.
Your skin had already been traced by my fingers,
your lips had already been pressed into mine.
there was nothing keeping us together other than not wanting
to wake up alone at the sound of beeping alarms.
To wake up calls tellings us that life doesn't stop for anyone.
The cold coffee that tastes as bitter as remembering the battle with passing minutes.
Some battles are meant to be lost.
We lost this one, we were left with learnt lessons.
I never bargained for lessons in the first place, I wanted to be left with you.
Wars are temporary. We we're supposed to be forever.
But once again, forever is controlled by ticking hands.
And ours were never strong enough to resist it.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
I was six
when I was first betwixt
by a world of words
and heartfelt tellings.
Poetry became
my enchanted castle,
the fairy tale
that just quite wasn't.
The first poem I read
was about the Banana man,
and how he would live
and die as such.
And as my body grew
so I fell deeper
in love with these
sometimes forgotten wordsmiths.
Each day I fall a little more,
as I read your words,
your little crafts
of feelings.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 8:04 AM UTC
Ladies & Gentlemen !
[a long pause]
We have orifices with which to communicate.
[laughter ; some uncomfortable]
Let us barrier the doors
(a fence to ours enemies)
and use our God-given equipment
to relate and touch ;
[pause]
flinches reducing to ease and practice
creating warmth
[long pause with mixed mumbling]
Let us be indifferent
with occasion
to the shortcomings outside of these rooms
[pause]
Our performance shall be ;
open tellings
unguarded and romantic ***
a friction of pleasure
a digestion
an elegance of respiration
fully processing one another
without shame
[speaking louder over the audience]
and casting aside shambles
In its place ; a smooth art
[pause]
and not a stain.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
Good sir,
I'm dreadfully tired
Like the moon in a cascade crescent
I'm flushed out of all my water
Bounded and chained by struggle
I dip in and out of a lifeless frame
Resorting to sleeplessness
And as red as the Red Sea
My blood flows deep
High on emotion
Drinking from the well of plasticity
And fabricated tellings
Nothing smells the same anymore
Much less the rain waiting at the front door
As you walk in from the news
Put the keys down and weep
As another is slain and forgotten
So I ask
If we are in control of the passageway
To a satisfying future
Or flushed away by the stories
Of a world gone mad
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 7:31 PM UTC
I remember this
time I was walking
down a hallway during
my schooldays
and fumbling with
what was currency
among students
--chewing gum
and I had paid
a dollar fifty
for this pack of cinnamon
gum
so when a person
with whom I’d spoken
twice
came up to me and said
“yo, zach, gimme some
of that gum”
I said
“Hell no.”
and he asked why.
“Because I don’t like you!”
and the collective shouts
of ooh’s and damn’s
made me feel as though
I had done something
both great and bad
and the reality was I didn’t mind
the guy at all I just didn’t want
to continue having the discussion
but I wondered if I hurt his feelings
and if the cinnamon gum was worth
the endless re-tellings of me being rude
to a perfect stranger
and a little part of my
soul crumbled that day
all cinnamon and fresh
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 12:37 AM UTC