"tenses" poems
Turn the corner
Hand tenses
Looking down the iron sights I see an object fall
"Tango down" I call over the radio
what was his name? Tango, Threat, Terrorist, doesn't matter.
Explosion
Mud brick wall vaporized into dust
Keep going
Out of breathe
Keep going
Hand tenses
"Tango down"
Does it have kids? A Family? Threat eliminated
Round the corner
Hand tenses
"Three tangos on west building roof top"
Bullets from my brothers **** by my helmet
Return fire
"Take Cover!"
Sweat drenched face fogs up my goggles
Explosion
Brick pieces pummel my back
Ears ringing, faintly hearing
"Alpha down, Medic!"
Blurred vision, equilibrium thrown off
Raise my rifle
Hand tenses
Silhouette falls
"Medic!" heard faintly
Hand tenses
"Are you okay?" sounds distant
Hand tenses
"babe?" getting louder
Hand tenses
Hand tenses
Wake up
Sheets heavy with sweat
"Babe, are you ok?"
Throwing the blankets I jump back to the edge of the bed
Her frightened face
I've seen before
I look down
Hands tense
Same look, no tangos
No threats
Just Ghosts
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
I thought I heard
Canadian slang
from the opposite bed-side
Like it's 2009, rub some lines off my face.
Inner space bleeding outward,
deep red, a nosebleed,
angled points on white of The Maple Jack.
A Nip at the Sal's on Esplanade-Riel.
Grab your runners and toque,
it's warm, but not forever
and these legs are sore. Polar bears
on the sweater you wore in the Fall--
Churchill, Manitoba, the streets are full of teeth and claws.
Awoke and wanted warmth lacking.
I thought I heard Canadian slang.
I thought I heard "it'll be okay"
from the voices of feathers fletching arrows falling.
they whisper and screams sink deep behind
eyelids
closing.
A sentence unfinished,
sinking in flesh
in time
sinking
in snow and ice
sinking
in water in Summer
sinking
in memory.
I thought I heard
plans being made
and shy laughter.
I heard it 5 times. Didn't I?
Days fade, ears dull*
Walking on streets, in the cold
towards her home
I thought I heard laughter--
heard something
like laughter--
I thought I heard rain, as the Lodgepoles drank water.
I thought I heard laughter.
I thought I heard wax melt.
I thought I smelled fairness.
I thought you wanting more time
to bleed and blur tenses.
I thought I heard rivers rushing and roaring
their battle cries--
--asserting their presence.
I thought I heard cars pass and sounds of the daytime
and late March walk along bridges.
I could swear I heard something
Like Canadian slang,
sweet
water
light
laughter.
Something.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
What do you see
When you look at a tree?
Of foliage and branches
And flowers and fruit
These are what trees
Are made of.
What do they do
When kittens go poo?
A-scratchin', a-sniffin'
Then pouncing, then flipping
These are what kittens
Are made of.
What would you see
If you looked at me?
Tenses and verses
And scribbles and lines
These are what writers
Are made of.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 7:48 AM UTC
there is no value in a poem that reads
____________________
____________________
____________________
M M l i f e s u c k s x x x n o p o e m i g o t
just
nerve; crap bs, a denial of craft
seek the intelligent intelligible,
kiss the sensational thrill that
emotion harvests with resonating tenses
that beg our brains to differ, sense
this claims,
there is no value in no words is
a hoax cloaked as art by the weak,
make thy metaphors metastasize,
my every cell, a preposition,
preposterous and precious and
comforting in their
privations and provocations
speak to us in alpha and
line our eyes wide,
with pictures at an exhibition
of a faun immobile and beauteous
let me hang on every word of yours and
let it be the raft that sees me happily
unsafe home
take your bs line poem
shove it down your silent voice
this is not avant garde; this is insulting
p.s. write me a smile and all will be_______________.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 4:10 PM UTC
*Past is rigid
Can’t change
Present is vivid
Hold the rein
Future is ghost
Figment insane*
Bharti
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 6:15 AM UTC
The past a millstone of regrets
permeating, like a rosary-beads
of penance, the present.
The future a misty dream
of fading ideals.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 8:38 AM UTC
My tenses –
PRESENT
PAST
…future…
Creep into my soul in unison
...and in a voice
dripping with PASSIVE eternity
Scream
C
O
N
T
I
N
U
O
U
S
Momentarily deafened
I give up on GRAMMAR…
And gather the strewn words
Maybe…
I would need them to fill the gaps...
... in my verse brimming with INFINITIVES...
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 5:05 AM UTC
I'm not depressed
I just lack what society coins
Common sense
I live life in all 3 tenses
Because the past
Is the blueprint of my fences
That reign the present in
And I might as well live in the future
In case it never does begin
For sanity is not measured by statistics
The majority's vote does not determine what's realistic
For selfishly we work as a whole
Only as convenience
To reach our own goals
The size of our ambitions
Define the status of our positions
Although this would never reach admission
Independence gains ground by submission
Failure is measured by how well we cope
With the reality of our situations
And the absence of hope
Success however
Is measured by distance
Between the final outcome
And our feeble existence
As we try to conquer life
We digress from our true motives
Doing whatever it takes
To prove ourselves devoted
The ballots were never cast
Yet we take pride that we voted
For the notion that our drive
Is all that's keeping us alive
Is hidden in our conscience
Cuz we don't need it to survive
Life is constant, set in stone
Yet we are continuously changing
Spinning towards the unknown
Oblivious
Until we're all alone
With the thoughts in our minds
Releasing the binds
Which tie us to the perception
Built up by deception
That we begin living the moment we are born
When instead we don't awaken till we win the war
For you can not understand a revolution until you are free
Yet you can not be free till you have a revolution
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
I am acutely aware that I
changed tenses in that story.
It is better for me in past tense;
his face was beautiful.
I know that he will not
talk to me. Not until
his time frame has come out.
I don't know what that frame is.
But I know him,
and that there is one.
I still love him.
It defies what I know
about the love mechanism.
It defies my past experience.
It is not unlikely that we
will not speak again
until I am over him,
and it is possible that
that will be never.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
The things I’ve done haunt me.
The choices I’ve made disgust me.
Do our actions define us.
Or do they redefine our directions.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 11:57 PM UTC
Gasps escape the lungs,
Hands gripping sheets; toes curled up
Body tenses,
Electric fire spreads;
Hands let go, In an explosive moan
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
be [verb]- to exist
been (past)
You should have been there.
You should be here.
You should be there in the future.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 11:47 PM UTC
"I have gotten from there to here"
Its a simple tautology, chant it
either/or an uncertain accomplishment.
From there to there to there until there became here.
This too is fairly obvious,
but still, it seems so strange,
how many times must you be reminded
that you are too ill-equipped
to string the sequence.
And what about those weak suspicions
that reappear from time to time,
the ones you are
quick to disregard
out of the fear that you may be a lunatic.
What if they were correct, what
if a moment were nothing more
than a brown package
of stimulus.
They came to you, one after the other
and you what could you do but follow
them, like crumbs in a trail that lead
you further away from home
and into this carnival.
Where people who sing lullabies out loud
carry pistols and globs of color
are merging in all
directions.
Wedged in between "there to here"
and "here to there", the laws of tenses
never made this much of a difference.
Babies know this all too well.
That's why they're the last
ones
we turn to for wisdom.
But should they ever decide
to permanently stop crying.
You'll know what they mean by their silence.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 5:20 PM UTC
It is not just a simple continuous present
that I want to have with him
It is more until the future continuous
Like I am now loving him
until he will always be the one I am loving
for the rest of my roller coaster life
You got me?
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
I make myself stop writing of you
present tense
because if you aren't here
I find
I am romanticizing a confused memory
past tense
and you never were that great
or strong enough
to pull me out of
this sinking ship
perfect tense
I didn't think that a lover
could do anything except
but even jesus turned tables
in his anger
and I've found that wanting
leads to speaking in tenses
not yet intact
so I have been waiting on
a new day
a new feel
a new touch
future tense
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
We were happy together
And everything to each other.
You start to run
And I start to stumble.
You will forever be my one that got away
And I will always be the girl who loved you.
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 6:52 AM UTC
where do they go?
to mountains of synonyms
pushing lilac or purple
or puce or lavender
from valleys
of russet metaphors?
do verbs frollic?
nouns place themselves
before mirrors
asking themselves
"who am I?"
adjectives, do they
answer?
do the long words
most people don't
understand
do they go on
spending sprees
with their
million dollar
Lotto winnings?
do conjunctions
play matchmaker?
or hitch up
boxcars for
the more expressive
poetic engineers
to haul through
the long winds?
ghosts of past tenses
invade present
and mixed metaphors
haunt the nightmares
of learned readers.
gerunds run on
their little wheels
and stuff their cheeks
with prepositions.
where do words go
when they die?
they must hang as
DANGLING
PARTICIPLES.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
House party no contact
No glasses no lenses
Isolation got no facts
Rich in hope like them benz's
Old as **** like a bold fax
Reminiscin past tenses
Action done by the fences
Have I come I to my senses?
Need to know, ask for a census
Need my own vote call for elections
Lowkey mind-broke, I need a pension
Need to think about all this affection
****
World cold stone cold
Was told It would be like this
Aint listened to them so I fold
Now I see myself down this own road.
The me everybody used to see, erode
The me anybody could be, be sold
Sadness pull up to my corners, be shown
The one who blew y'all away be blown
Everybody leavin faster than I can say hello
People in this world so shaky like a tremolo.
People don't come and go no more.
You just save up and they go forth.
At least that's my reality
Maybe I am insanity
No sleep till 2 am
You see it visually
Can't rest till these thoughts are at ease.
Life fallin faster than dominos
This time aint as good as pizza
Not even close rate negative 10 toes
No feelings like terminator hasta la vista.
Seen a lot like a barista
More people snakes than cheetah's
Venomous like cobras.
Sad **** I got into.
Me, myself and my sorry ***
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
Run rotten, for things have gotten out of hand.
Turn coat ducking, torture got him singing and eating outta my hand.
Getting scraped by the beater like youse a percussion instrument;
maybe that’s why a group of people are called a band?
For we all play our part to either be an influence or to be influenced.
Yet we won’t know anything if you never venture into the forest and meet the temptress.
When one experiences all six senses, when in present tenses, which then puts the body through stresses.
That makes the mind flood with guesses that clouds up our lenses.
But that’s just what war is like for one is always in the trenches.
Whilst other’s sit on benches, but each choice brings rewards and consequences.
Which bears questions on what your quest is?
To run free or to be held back by white picket fences?
For being hard pressed brings out either killers or medics.
To choose to be real or synthetic.
To become abstract or symmetric.
However, things aren’t always so metric.
So be wary of being a critique for just like branches of mathematics in arithmetic,
We have many great qualities but when in a group we can become manipulated.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
Glistening sweat, on his chest.
Hairs on the back of his neck,
Readily risen as his face tenses.
Cold thoughts arrest his movement.
****** Mary! ****** Mary! ****** Mary!
And there she was, white and all.
Knife in hand and a lusting smile.
Plunging deep, his heart must rest.
Glistening blood, on his chest.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 12:11 PM UTC
your past isn't a suitcase; you need to stop carrying it with you everywhere you go.
and your future? regard it as hand luggage. don't forget that it is there but be sure to carry it lightly
now for your present. it's the suitcase, one you pack yourself and it is up to you what is in it. i would encourage you to prepare for the holiday of a lifetime though
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
she was a bird on the water
she was clouds reflected
she was trees sighing in the wind
she was sunlight through Venetian blinds
she was dust motes circling lazily
she was Sunday morning ***
she was smiling at me in the mirror
she was bonfires under a pale moon
she was tidal waves of emotion
she was whirlpools of conviction
she was typhoons of jealousy
and I was there too
she is the silhouette of a cigarette pressed to my teeth
she is my shadow cast behind me in the setting sun
she is blue-tinged smoke silently filling the room
she is burning my eyes like chlorine in a crowded pool
she is bars of the cage where my mind is kept penned
she is electric fencing wrapped around my heart
she is buckets of tar drowning me in my dreams
she is written in cursive on the insides of my eyelids
she is slowly shriveling my liver and blackening my lungs
she is living in all the mirrors I look into
she is becoming brobdingnagian prose
maybe that's just me but,
I'm not there anymore.
So why is she still here?
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
Days go with you and bid goodbye
Hours slide down and die
And drape down
The innocence of the Noun!
With the experience of Adverbs
Of place, time and frequency, the Verbs
Replace the endearing use of Nouns
(Slowly moving from lisping sounds )
To the stable use of personal Pronouns!
Individuality stands alone keeping the Subject alone
Sometimes with a defiant adolescent tone
Distractions, doubts in the use of Determiners
A shaky ground for the beginners!
Disagreement with the Subject-Verb agreement begins
Early during this period and lurks within, and at times springs
With the Nouns like mathematics, rhetorics and news
Without any tension to meddle in don’ts and dos!
What I wish to say in a few sentences
Is not enough about life’s infinite time and tenses!
To deconstruct the grammar of growing up is not enough
As adolescence is a diamond in the rough;
It is a living discourse; both simple and tough
Ironical, unpredictable, surprising, puzzling stuff
Needs patience, pardon, perseverance and fun
To handle its substance for every daughter and son!
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 1:19 AM UTC
pieces of flotsam
soak and float on the paper,
jetsam thrown to lighten
the load,
or goad,
the alligator, away
the guttural noises, sound like harsh
commentary the closer the
gator
is allowed to get,
not wanting to look over the shoulder,
but stop in for biting remarks,
the gator's teeth are so large and famous
they have names and voices;
"punctuation or punctures, I can help"
"point of view tch, tch, tch"
"your grammar needs work"
"doubt you will finish"
"no one will read IT"
"you will never find the right word"
"is your audience a six year old"
"borrrrring"
"what a croc"
"are you enjoying what you are doing?"
"successful writers are all published"
"you call that a sentence, keep it up and it will be a death sentence "
"how many tenses can you misuse in a paragraph"
and these are the names of some of the smaller teeth,
the molars, are more than a mouthful,
have polar names, that would leave anyone cold,
even the bold,
and shall not be put in print,
they bring out the PTSD,
imprinted for eternity, by
the gator which
comes at the sounds
of splashing, flailing, and failing,
as the pounding of the heart,
the deepened breathing,
as the ink from
the pen, unfiltered,
leaves nerves and veins exposed,
while leaving to find home, a safe haven, a storybook ending,
away from the gator's keen sense of
overt criticism, intended to gut,
and eviscerate, cutting remarks,
putdowns to hold down and under,
the piece that IT is trying to tear off
while spinning or shaking the head
side to side, which is both NO!
and to bash the will, the self-esteem, into little pieces
of me...
and my worst enemy,
my internal, infernal editor,
with the voracious appetite for self-defeating
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC