"thirteenth" poems
This is past due like the rent paid on the thirteenth
Late better than never-- and I got this here forever
Flow like rain during any kinda weather
Keep this here close to my heart
And when the block comes, I don’t know where to start
Beat-beat Thump-thump
I'll just let the words flow from my heart
But you ain’t feelin me’-- You ain’t hearin’ Queen
So I got to bring you back to the forefront with my so⋅lil⋅o⋅quy
I remind you of all the things that had you fearin’ me
This Army of One, brighter than that star He created we call Sun
Under its blaze, us two can become one
(lets make our Son under His)
While I lay with fragmented words.... spoken
Promises I made to myself remain unbroken
And my gift is as natural as the slender ducts of my abdomen called fallopian
I am Woman
The prototype made perfect and pure
Whose prose is as tight as my kegels allow my femininity to be
Wrath your ******** may not be able to endure
Thought you knew a good Woman and tight ***** make you surrender on your knees
And dream dreams about your seed taking root in this royal vessel
I am Mother Earth
And this is my Gift—my Gyft
I am Myself and such a present I present to thee
For I AM Queen Poetree
So when I seem silent
When you think you hear nothing but your heart beat
Nothing but the cool air enraptured in the breeze
I am the Life that flows from you
I am the Wind rustling the trees leaves
I am the fragrance left in the air you interpret as another
I am the overwhelming sensation made between two lovers under duvet covers
I am the softness of lips and the sensation made by the flick of a passionate tongue
I am that empty space you try to fill with another one
So when you think you hear nothing
When you think you’re all alone
I am every word, every adlib of your favorite song
Every stroke every morning when you brush your hair
I am your deep breath because, baby, I am your air
I am everything pleasurable—every pleasure experienced since your creation
And it all stems from the balance of my concentration during this poetic intrapersonal conversation
I am everything virtuous
I am the eye of the storm
I am your hope, your future
I am the pages of your favorite novel whose cover is worn
I am air, I am sky
I am the clouds, and the Sun’s heat
But most importantly, to my core
I am Queen Poetess B…
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
Azathoth, upon the black throne,
steps of twelve hesitant to tone.
Madness and chaos swallowed your mind,
ears of the deaf, eyes dying to be blind.
Shrills of discordance to rattle this hell,
Creating our world as Barbelzoa fell.
He sees you not, too blind to care,
he can not answer to what he doesn't know is there.
Before her fall, sat a throne, the purest of white,
silver crown on the queen, a beauty of light.
The twelve danced with compassion and Joy,
the twelve being thirteen, a conjoined girl and a boy.
Ripped from the twelve, the thirteenth, a faceless creature to devour,
trickery and blood play, our darkest hour.
Nyarlathotep, a name not to be cursed under breath,
for the least of your worries will be death.
In the center of nothingness, to find all that can't be seen,
To be greeted by Nyarlathotep, who is far vicious and mean.
Gnashing his teeth as he whispers these lies,
using deceit to cover the cries.
The dread he feels to speak Azathoth's name,
To slaughter all who give him fame.
See all the countless chapters of the souls he took,
only for you to be next, carve your blood in the book.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC
when I was six
I asked God
to let me fly
I didn't think
I would be lost and high
on saturday's night
when I turned seven
I asked God
to help my mom with the counts
Now I trade "love"
for people's bills
when I was ten
I wished on a shooting star
to bring a guy
to fill my heart
I never imagined
I would be sweeping the floor
looking for the missing half
The day I blew the thirteenth candle
I told God to let me grow up
nowadays I only beg him
to let me go back
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
Beware of the thirteenth
landing on a Friday??
Nah....that's just bullhockey
The thirteenth has always been
lucky for me...
My sweet boy was born that day
for the world to see :)
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
Madilim na sulok kung san nagdurugo ang mga palad
Na alala ko pa no'y si Inang ingat na ingat
Mga lamok na dumadapo di ligtas sa kanyang paglilitis
Na di ko na maalala itsura kung anong ipis
Ngunit sa loob ng maliit na kwadro
Sapat ang isang upua't mesa at isang kabayo
Sabit pati ang yabang kong diploma sa taas ng orocan
Lukot na resumé sa aking harapan nagmuka nang basahan
Mas tanggap pa sa trabahong pamunas ng puwitan
Ngunit mas higit pa ba ang munting papel kung nasaan aking larawan?
Bakas ng ilang buwang puyat at thesis na pinaghirapan
Bakit ako tatanggap ng trabahong mababa pa sa aking kakayahan
O maging alila sa mga sinliit rin nila ang pinag-aralan?
Kahapon itlog at pancit canton,
Dala ni nanay noon pang huling dalaw sa aking kahon
Isang buwan nang matapos na ako
Inakalang ito na ang hudyat ng aking pag ahon
Totoong mundong ganito pala ang paghamak at paghamon
Di maatim ng sikmura sila'y yumayabong
Taga UP ako, isang iskolar ng bayang nais maglingkod sa bayan
Taas ng pinag-aralan ko, kung sa ibang bansa, sahod lang ng bayaran?
Inyo na ang thirteenth month pay ninyong tinamuran!
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 11:24 AM UTC
when i was
thirteen
i remember whenever i went over
to a friend's house
who had a sort of get-together
with a whole ton of other kids
about once a month
i'd sit on the rug in their basement
with twenty other teenagers
looking at
socks.
there are ten kids
in my family
and two ****** parents
and we had a whole bathtub full of socks
and if you could find two that actually fit
you were golden
never mind matching
or nice and white...
and sitting
looking at all the other kids' socks
i felt like ****
they had the nicest
whitest
socks you ever saw
and mine were grey
worn
dilapidated
specimens
that i'd dug out from the very
bottom.
and somehow i decided
that this was a failure
on my mother's part
that she didn't keep our floors
clean enough
or she didn't wash my socks
right
and so i spent my thirteenth year
feeling like ****
over
socks
and today
i was folding some socks
(do you fold socks? i dunno how it works. whatever)
and i was looking at them
colorful
silly
but
grungy still
and the white ones
still grey
and i thought
well
i don't have a mother anymore
and my socks still aren't
white and
nice
i guess that's one less ****** thing
in my life
i don't have to blame her for
anymore
another nice thing
is that i don't give a ****
about socks
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
i still remember
march thirteenth
the day we went on
our very first date
& i still remember
the outfit i wore
on that same tuesday
you bought me ice cream
i still remember
the first time we kissed
it was a tuesday
how could i forget?
& i still remember
that march sunset
the way that you paused
then finally leaned in
i still remember
the things that you said
that rainy afternoon
on a tuesday i regret
& i still remember
how your voice cracked
when you said goodbye
& kissed me one last time
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 4:45 AM UTC
When I saw you in your casket, it brought tears to my eyes.
You died two years ago today on the thirteenth day of July.
When the doctors said that your illness was terminal, I didn't want to believe that it was true.
But sadly, they were correct and two years ago today, we lost you.
From 1975 to 2010 you worked at Woodcraft, you worked with lumber.
People may think that I'm crazy because I believe that 13 is an unlucky number.
You died on the thirteenth year of the century and also on the thirteenth day of July.
You took Chemotherapy treatments for months and two years ago today, you died.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
So I see that my poems have started trending. And according to my friend it has to do with the people that follow me.
And as of this moment I have 15 followers (6/3/2014). Cool. So I guess thanks are in order for all of you
1.Sierra Leone - You were my first follower on here so thank you I apprecaite it.
2. Ranger - You were my second follower. and you are a friend on my "little sister". thanks for the follow
3. Fenix Flight - I am surprised you werent my first follower. BUt regardless, you are the reason I am even on this site so thank you sis.
4. Summer Skye - My fourth and lucky follower. the sister of my "sister" thanks little LF, I am grateful you gave me the honor of being followed by you.
5. Zero Zaneh - Fifth follower, Thank you man. your work is good.
6. Stace - sixth follower. we never talk or whatnot, but your work is really good.
7. IJ Keddie - seventh follower, thank you. your work is interesting. I like it.
8. Beryldov Lew - eighth follower, thank you. every follow means something to me
9. ᏰέƦẙḽԃṏሁ Լέῳ - ninth follower. I do not understand your name but i like the work you put up
10. That Asian Josh - tenth follower. (dont take this the wrong way but) We asains must stick together right?. your work is intersting. I enjoy reading it
11. POETIC T - eleventh follower. Marvel? **** yeah man. keep up the cool work
12. Namir- twelvth follower (i cant spell for **** Dude really it took you this long to follow me -.-. come on, but thanks for it anyway. your work is intense.
13 ISverre G Holter thirteenth follower. your work is cool. I like it. keep it up
14.PrttyBrd- Fourteenth follower, you started following me last night (6/2/14) after my poem Life started trending. thank you
15.Nanna Harrow -fifteenth follower, last but not least. you as well started following me last night after my poem Life started trending. thanks for the boost of confedence
There you have it folks. all the people who on here think I am worth something to follow. thanks to each and everyone of you.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
To write a sonnet doth Juana press me,
I've never found me in such stress or pain;
A sonnet numbers fourteen lines, 'tis plain,
And three are gone, ere I can say, God bless me!
I thought that spinning rhymes might sore oppress me,
Yet here I'm midway in the last quatrain;
And if the foremost tercet I can gain,
The quatrains need not any more distress me.
To the first tercet I have got at last,
And travel through it with such right good will,
That with this line I've finished it, I ween;
I'm in the second now, and see how fast
The thirteenth line runs tripping from my quill;
Hurrah, 'tis done! Count if there be fourteen!
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 2:15 PM UTC
life is rampant,
and when suppressed,
it can blossom into
a violent flow of emotions
that are stronger
than any painkiller
a doctor can prescribe.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC
scratchy and damp do not harmonize underfoot
and fear and the ocean should not coexist
but like this elevator missing the thirteenth button, my comfort sinks with tantalizing, lethargic anxiety.
the boards are a smokeless fire underfoot,
grit rolling between me and chipped brown paint,
as i beg for cold, thirst for salt, but do not run to the provocative, promising body beyond the dunes.
and my clothes are underfoot,
and this lemonade pink towel whose corner grabs at the sand,
and the hot dry fades into something that is sturdy and packed down by bounds like mine.
carbon slices at my underfoot,
the sharp home of a long-dead thing,
as my heel strikes the iron, water-pat shore, and the shock of it stuns my bones.
shock! cold underfoot
lace between my toes, smoking from wood and run
and then my face is in the sea, because who needs air when life is the sun trapping itself in the pink of my shoulder blades?
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 2:12 PM UTC
at eight
i stood at open closed caskets and planted plastic flowers
upon silent graves;
in the backseat on the way to my grandfather's wake
mom and dad played a song about angels over the stereo. they
had to turn it off when i burst into tears.
i did not understand the twenty one gun salute
but i left a piece of myself in the folding of the flag,
left it with forty nine stars in the wrinkled hands of the widow.
vulnerable, kissing the loss of the dewy cemetery, the fresh dirt and
at thirteen
she was stolen at the hands of another,
just after her forty-second trip around the sun;
i cradled my always strong father as he cursed god on the kitchen floor.
the night my sister cried into my shoulder i read ten different articles,
each one with a headline reading "manslaughter", while
the soles of my feet knew it meant ******
the pool of blood flashed to my vision and
i've spent seven years trying to bleach the stain out
from behind my eyelids -
lighting a memorial candle at my future wedding, graduation, childbirth
my mother did not deserve generic music at her remembrance.
at sixteen
i squeezed into a pew as
the church sanctuary was too small for her service.
widely loved and widely known, she
had been sick for fourteen years with no rest; fought
collapsed lungs and bared organs and
her eyes were as soft as the words she would leave you with.
her breath marooned the thirteenth of february and
on valentine's day, my best friend received a rose at her doorstep
with a note that read, "i love you more than chocolate.
love, mom".
at nineteen
we did not have class for one week. his daughter was five years old
and he was two semesters away from
getting his bachelor's degree in a helping profession;
he sat two rows ahead of me, one seat over
next to a boy named aaron and an empty chair.
the pastor spoke of a freedom from pain,
joy joy, hallelujah, a man who loved god;
they did not disclose the cause of death the morning the dean
entered our classroom,
spoke three words and
the silence fell -
sometimes, sometimes, we will never know why.
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
Signs were seen upon the sky
Constellations faded before the eye,
As each one disappeared from view
So those born were doomed to die,
And as the cosmos blinked
Light,
Stars,
Faded,
Became dim, then the stars did die,
And with the demise
Those born of that time,
Passed beyond,
For with the signs gone
Where ever they were
Death,
Demise,
Extinction,
Was at hand, with each erased
So were their lives,
As if stars exhaled, they breathed one last time,
As the stars did extinguish
Millions of tiny lights died,
Only the twelve signs were fading
Others stars still shone bright,
Capricorn,
Aquarius,
Pisces,
Aries,
Taurus,
Gemini,
Leo,
Virgo,
Libra,
Scorpio,
Sagittarius,
They diminished till nothing
The constellations did die,
A world of many, became the few
But those born on the days of,
Ophiuchus,
They still stood
Never to die, as others had past,
And the Zodiac's died,
The serpent Bearer
He kept them apart,
Life
And
Death
But his struggle was eternal
For each was of just strength
For if one did for but a moment squeeze,
A balance lost, then each pulled apart
Venomous,
Dark
Constellations
Light
For a moment went dark,
It would take Centuries
For light,
To struggle from
The dark,
And so it was from time past
For that time to come,
Births did only happen
Between the days
November 30th,
&
December 17th,
No new births out of this time
Many were lost,
Many lights shone on
Till that time,
When the constellations
Were once bright in the sky,
The thirteenth sign
Serpent bearer,
Would look over us all, the same and one.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
You offered me your body,
I offered in return:
A tuna fish sandwich,
A nice piece of carnelian,
Maybe a book or two about odd things
like death by electrocution or Leonardo da Vinci
or the history of the upright bass,
Endless records,
Enough jazz to paint the world blue,
My mouth forming the shapes of notes,
A breath from my own lungs,
The scarf which was lovingly knit for me
by my one remaining friend,
Lipstick, bright red and smooth,
Feathers from a hawk that I found by the road,
Dried pink roses from a corsage,
Two baby teeth in a container that once held film,
Hair shorn with a dull kitchen knife,
A collar of cracked burgundy leather,
Sachets smelling faintly of lavender,
A mirror which was cracked on my thirteenth birthday,
One lace glove.
Why did you leave?
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 9:19 AM UTC
It is where it is, not where you are...
Switched this week from ice coffee,
Back to hot, on September Thirteenth.
The chain busted,
No Adirondack throne, no audiences of
Southbound geese, my new ******** fans,
No **** arrogant deer
Pitying the stupid humans,
Occupying their lands.
No racing rabbits, crickets underfoot,
And in the house,
No raccoons bigger than a colt.
No just living, breathing eyes, seeing paradiso,
No place for god to come visit to chill,
And ask for atonement for chemical weapons
No bay waves soulfully soothing,
No sun, no cherries by command,
The breeze, voila, a nasty cold wind,
The bath-waves ain't no **** substitute,
Not-Near good enough,
No matter how hard I splash.
**** right I was worried.
I lifted up my eyes to the mountains—
From where will my poetry come from?
From men.
From women.
From you-reminding me,
It is where it is, not where you are...
It is here in the unread tragedies,
The wails so plain, repetitive,
The screams that never cease, the
Poems, yours, that deserve ten thousand likes,
But die ignored, despite, my best efforts.
It is in the newspapers,
Chroniclers of our daily,
Inhumanity,
And papal words, that lift a jew's heart,
That poems get birthed.
It is in the woman's dictums
About doing this and that
And where that is most preferred.
Point made. Quitting time.
It is where it is, not where you are...
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 10:37 AM UTC
#ክብረ ነገሥት
*Oh Sovereign of wisdom Solomonic,
forgive us. The wicked wax demonic.
Golden vessels fill with foulness
man is bankrupt, sold and soulless
Unsettling harbingers loom dystopian.
Sheba rises in dreams Ethiopian.*
Tested with questions, her spirit once gone,
occultic suggestions postponed her dawn.
(Six-hundred and sixty-six talents of gold
paid Nineveh’s rise as Messiah foretold.
Go read it in Matthew, obstinate sinner
You think He intends to have Satan the winner?)
Her ruins now surveyed by satellite
beheld on the screens of the Canaanite:
canals to expose, southern deserts to cross,
Eritrean legends of Prophet (and loss),
the Ark of King Menelik—Kebra Negast,
treasures of darkness presented, now past
have us checking those texts that worldlings despise
as we wait under dread Luciferian skies.
Break the sixth seal of the seventh scroll;
let the thirteenth angel spill the bowl !
(or smoke it up in the courts of Heaven
till ganja’s infinitude totals seven…)
Exhume Axum with the ****** of Marib.
decode the encryption on Adam’s rib
unearthed from some Antediluvian ravine—
Blast from the past: she explodes on our scene!
Seven oaths shall be sworn on her spectral beauty
(our Biblical transcendental duty).
The libation is mixed. Are we ready to swill it?
Beersheba? She brew ! Let us rise to fulfill it.
from sita to Saba fifth columns are ready:
Oh Sovereign — render their pillars unsteady.
For after explosions there’s mess to clean up,
and it’s worse than the horrors inside of her cup.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
*I once had a dream where i could
anything and everything i wanted
to do in life but as i grew up i learned
what it means to lose your train of thought
, now that im older i realized that I was dragged
down by the "ZOMBIES" of society*
**My flesh had been cut, ripped, and pulled of my bones
by the cruel words spat out at me like rotten corpses growling
with the blood of their previous victims dripping from their lips
like saliva drips from a dogs mouth while it stares at a pile of meat**
*On my thirteenth birthday i realized i was pulled
down deeper in to the zombies hole of hatred where
they weakened their victims with by the rumors and names
they called them*
**By the helping hand of my friends and family
i was pulled from the piles of rotting flesh and broken bones
pulled back in to their caring loving arms where i knew there and only there i was safe**
Safe to be free, safe to feel, safe to be me, and safe to fly away from those who evil beings but... inside we are all "ZOMBIES OF SOCIETY" or " VAMPIRES OF RUMORS SPREAD" but we learn to forgive and NEVER forget EVER,
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
New Moon Melange
(for Harlan Rivers originally,
and now for Aparna,
who reminded me
how I used to write
in the golden era of
seven years of plenty, so long, so ago...)
<>
The softest cotton,
Wears ever softer with every use.
Contemplative introspection,
Like digging a castle & moat in the sandy beach,
You dread and joy, the knowing,
Incoming tide will arrive destructive inevitable,
Yet fill the moat, protect the kingdom,
Till is undone and returned to the blocks of minuscule,
Grains of sand.
Answers found, maybe lost, once more,
Necessitating questioning, non-stop processing,
And a rebuilding tomorrow... Pas de choix
But softer each time, easier with practice.
Even if convoluted, it is still a revolution.
Like twelve new moons, recycled.
(occasionally a lucky thirteenth appears)
Some of us are special chosen,
To essay, to assay, the condition human,
With a rock axe, tiny slivers chipped off,
And yet new moon stones uncovered,
needy of Cataloging,
introspection,
You can change the day,
The month,
The moon twelve, thirteen times,
Hell, You can change your **** hat,
But don't fool nobody,
You are one of the special,
You job to paint the verbal paintings,
And to ascertain the meaning interior.
For in doing so, you do all of us service.
For your eyes see it ever so differently,
For you, task, paint and reveal each
New Moon’s Melange,
your unchosen gift.
to you
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
Six oh six a.m.
Saturday the thirteenth.
Today came in through twilight
When last year it came through dusk
Through a different man’s musk
A different moon’s scent
And I prevent myself in wavering for favoring others
Because how can you decide
if you can’t compare another brother?
Don’t call me Jezebel, *******
I’m Scheherazade on these snitches
Hippolyta—A lover and a fighter
Ariel--a forest nymph, bound
Sappho and Joan of Arc—United
Call me the Queen on the ******
But I own that ****
As I am.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
Master, this was said to me
should I be triggered or flogged?
Think Sisyphus happy.
What year is this?
Babble, babble, all around me, no
God, not this, again.
It's all in yer head, keep rollin' the rock.
keepin time, makin rime rimey rime
frees icicles on my beard
if you could see me now,
Hell, who imagined this?
I am Sisyphus happy and Sysifus sad,
now for as long as I care to recall
I roll the rock.
It was the hell I had envisioned, since
Camus at least, probably something triggered,
seventh grade, oh
cliché, except
the details, the evil, as seen in the thirteenth
year of an unwombed man's journey, womb to tomb.
I rolled the rock.
Alone as all hell, bored as hell.
food and drink, folly to think
so I stop thinking about them
as if someone thinks I can and I think I can.
Let's doit
daydream cliché, same seventh grader asks
Diane Wescott if he can kiss her
under the water
at the deep end of the public pool
Like Tarzan and Jane and she said yes,
again and again and again
like the expert's rats that are allowed
to suicide on big pharma grade *******
Wahoo, that got the rock rollin'
like I never thought she would now
yah, Jah, know what I mean,
Billie Jean, the kid coulda been mine
But I was rockin' and rollin' all night long,
notime, noo time ah tahlllll
Some minds may imagine Sisyphus happy,
but up to not too long
ago
I fail, failed am failing to re
call member hotline
now,
Matrix Wachowskie, bact to your box,
I am haunted by that movie, in 2018
keyphrase 2018 trigger Matrix movie 1
not the movie, the idea of endless bullets.
Who imagined that,
Hell, this is easy. Right, two persona one person sort of
story, no, too, Jekyl n Heckle
I can think any thing as long
as I roll the rock. This will go on forever,
as far as I can tell.
Rock and roll will live forever, let's take that
as a given, and just ignor the steady
up and down, resistance to punching down force goes up and release,
the rock rolls as far as Luck would have it, statically, probably
pause. breathe, read
The rhythm varies, I'm in forever, not in hell.
Push.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 7:16 PM UTC
I met you tonight.
You smelled nice
and I sat next to
you for two hours.
Sure, there was a
fifteen minute break.
But so what? Your
bangs hung straight
across your forehead
and you skirt lay
loosely around your
thighs. Your sweater
clung to you body
and you clung to my
mind. I know your
name and I know
your face but I know
not you.
It was your first time going to a show and you told me you felt like a white crayon.
It was my thirteenth show and I told you white crayons looked very nice on any color paper but white. So why limit yourself?
You had your legs
crossed and your
foot kept touching
my calf and instead
of recoiling I let it
happen. I talked to
you and when I took
my coat off it flailed
in your face and I
said "I'm sorry, sorry."
And you curled your
mouth into a cute
smile and told me it
was really okay, and
then the show was very
good and how many
have I been to. It's funny
how you're cute and I'm
me and you laughed
when I said stupid
things and I let our
legs touch and I even
held the door open for
you and said "Goodnight,
Lady. See you next Monday."
And you said "Goodnight,
Nolan. If fate wills it,
so it shall be." And we
laughed and I begged fate
to will it.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 1:09 AM UTC