"throwaway" poems
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
7.6k
I've never thought less of you
than in begging moment, flipped
on smooth river rocks, arms wide
on expanded hips, smile
fake and expectant.
You paddle kayaks in
awkward plaids and throwaway
sweaters, grinning sweetly
at dimples and polished toenails
and forgetting my name
while I repeat yours in echo.
On tall bicycle, you look down
at tear-strewn carpet, at
lingering rain, and you lean
to one side, precarious balance
while the sun peeks through the blinds.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
It's a throwaway age for one and for all.
Nobody wants to hear the heart's call
Society around us is falling apart,
Things just go wrong right from the start.
Friendships appear to be a disdain,
Instead we use others for personal gain.
Running for cover, from storm rain,
Feelings for others slaughtered and slain.
Already the price is being paid.
Society gone and relationships frayed.
It will only get worse as standards downgrade.
Are we numb to the slide, or really afraid?
We can change it all, its not too late.
Bring on the love instead of the hate.
All is not lost if we'd communicate.
Destruction should never be our final fate.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
I always feel too much, and
you never feel enough, like
two halves of the wrong circles
fighting to become whole.
So is this how it ends? Or we
could try and make a square.
I always care too much and
you care just the right amount,
so this one's on me.
You usually know what to say.
So we try sine and cosine.
They work. We're waves.
It's a throwaway sunset.
It's time.
The devil is dancing on
your shoulder. All the
angels are asleep on mine.
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 1:10 PM UTC
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"
~
*a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom
you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation
a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused
poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:
do people hate the truth?
inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists
let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope
so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:
all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry*
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
The Harvest Bow
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
by Seamus Heaney
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
A sentence most innocent,
yet the undercurrent
is deep and swift.
I love you, too.
A snap-reflex response
to a heartfelt exhibition
of true emotion.
I love you, too.
To an outsider,
nothing would be amiss
but I read the lack of words.
I love you, too.
This throwaway text
hides something much more
than you care to show.
I love you, too.
And simple as those
four little words, I know
something is wrong.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
Hi . . . This is about the kinds of people who work in corporate big money office buildings . . . Imagine them at lunchtime, how they interact and picture the scene in any . . .
Busy little bistro
Sharp - sharks - circle - the - pack
Pinstripe finned and eager
Snapping their snacks back with ease
Points to prove with nothing to lose
No cracks in their creases
They're keen to return to the fray.
These boys play with girls
Aren't yet uncles with nieces
Just unproven throwaway pieces . . .
In shiny . eat ***** . suited up . Chelsea boots
Bidding for ***** with cute looks and loot
Touting with confident ***** . . .
As mobile as their smart devices
Loose
Next . . . ?
And fresh from a mornings abuse
And fifteen years of fear . .
Beleaguered older shirts sit . .
Flogged dogs with weak barks
Parked packed into packs.
Tongue tied ties tied together
Safety is numbers
Get each others backs
These partially satisfied cats
Know today is NOT their day . .
That was yesterday . . .
Obliging lives and mortgages
The reasons why they stay
Passing Cabs cruise . . .
Seen it all before.
Sat in the back a high class *****
Glazed eyes glancing away
From her play-away payday
Nibbles in the boardroom . .
Napkins . . for the dribbles
A working lunch for this Girl
Her money-shot a wrap without applause
Was just a . . . pause . . . between paws . .
Then Dora on reception
John, who minds the door
Evie in the IT room
Or dave . . who buffs the Marble
Sparkles glinting in the floor . .
And the guards . . who guard . . what exactly . . ?
All of this . . ? Networking . . !!!
Everybody's selling something
It doesn't quite stink
But it definitely smells
A little high
As time whiles by
Seems this
Is the state of our nation
And in this state
Defines our aspirations
And yes . . this state's a splinter
Taunting my imagination . . .
Do I stake my place within this game
Or sit in observation
Commentating on a race
Where human nature fakes it's place
Where people sit as players
Yet no one wears their own face
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
Indispensable thou art to mine skeleton's well being, O' Jane doth thou even knoweth thou art mine everything; promise do I Earl, mine pearl of the China divided briny; I seeith thee afar, yet thou art so close, into mine spirit thine ardor is shining. I'm high on thine ***** wilderness, I loveth thine wild untamed way's; thou art undomesticated, not caged, not the average "norm", thou art mine mate, mine consort, not just some woman- THOU ART WORTHY lass, not humankind's slave. O' the day, O' the day, is so much more beautiful, knowing thy loyalty is here to stayeth!!!!
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication- Filipino rose
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
knitted on a dodgy bobble hat
or a favourite chunky jumper
from scandanavia, or yorkshire
untasteful but definitely practical..
smelly and friendly like a wet dog
pliable like warm playdoh...
patulioi oil
will always remind me of you...
'a hippy place in my heart...'
like a beachnut,
no, a beach hut
shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society,
flip flop corner...
19:10
some random hermit crab making his escape from
the dripping bundle of just found fishing net
down through the crack in the floor...
into the sand
and back to the sea.
the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf
because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses.
suncracked and faded
pieces of
70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner
between the scraps of rope
and the deflated inflatables
and the bottlecap damian hurst
next to sea purse corner,
biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks
who escaped from the pacific gyre...
panning around, the smartphone registers,
the garish tatty windbreak
and the 90's ghettoblaster
which still has some juice left from those batteries
we bought at the gift shop...
last year...
for our imaginary beach hut....
in the outer hebrides...?
you take the camping gaz from the cupboard
and put the kettle on...
the beach is desert island white
the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard
the wind tugging relentless through our hair.
but the pub is warm and friendly
where grizzled fishermen philosophise
hardily. by the fire.
between warming shots of smokey single malt.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
0:00
I fly through the front doors
racing upstairs like hunted prey
praying she didn't see me
1:00
I tear open the make remover
and feverishly rip off
the overpowering
jet black eyeliner
2:00
I steal a glance in the bedroom mirror
and throw on a hoodie over my black shirt
quickly swapping out the black pants for jeans
in a crude attempt to look normal
3:00
I hear her steps ringing off the stairs as my heart beats
sounding together like a drum kit
I pull off my spiked black bracelets
and trinkets
hands shaking palms sweating
as I hide them away
4:00
I feel the door opening before it does and
hope i covered up the look, the spikes hidden
the eyeliner gone
i glance in the mirror and see a pale
empty girl looking back
terrified of being caught
5:00
she asks how my day was while casually looking around the room
her ever seeing eyes falling on my undoing
my small black spiked gothic bracelet
hanging off the desk
sticking out like a sore thumb
6:00
she asks what it is
and looks at me questioningly
talking about how she deposes the style
hates the look
as I fumble for an excuse
of the unusual possession
7:00
I lie, its easy now i do it all the time.
But this was different. I tell her
that its a stupid birthday gift
a throwaway I keep because
friends like to see me wear what they bought
but as I utter the words
I feel like Im stabbing my soul
twisting a knife
calling a part of my identity garbage
telling myself that part of myself is simply a throw away
and despite the fact that I use a fake knife
The sting still feels real
because I know that part of what I say is true
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 2:10 AM UTC
Take Me,
Find a use for me.
It doesn't matter.
All I want
Is to be looked on
With value.
To be given reason
And Purpose.
Make me your shovel,
Make me dig for you.
Make me your sword,
Make me **** for you.
Make me your shield,
Make me guard you.
As your bullet,
I'd pierce for you.
As your grenade,
I'd expel myself for you.
If you need sustenance,
Consume me as would.
My body doesn't matter,
I am expendable,
I am disposable.
I, the throwaway.
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 12:29 PM UTC
It's the reality
you're sipping
when you should be
gripping
the unknown
the universal
telephone
the wind me up
and go home
toy
they employ
the nights
staring out a window
into the void
that's not choice
it's called life
and if you don't
like it
leave it
but where to go
who would know
anyway
where would you go
what would you say
where to stay
a needle in the hay
and they'd never look
one second
of one day
because
the **** they give
is all one way
there's no round trip
tickets at this station
it's the amalgamation
of frustration
and surrender
there's no tender
way to say this
but the dream
you bought a ticket to
was overbooked
you overlooked
the irony of this
till now
standing with your
hand out
acid rain
melting the matinee
away
your dismay
is your parting gift
the only lift
you're getting
is the one that will
promptly drop you
further away
from where you wanted
to be
so you see
forget the thumb
just turn the other way
and walk
till the lights
make lemonade
with the sun
leave the myth
of fun
for the young
and find
a ladder
to another world
cause this one's
dying
the airplanes
stopped flying
the birds are dinosaurs
in a plastic museum
a cosmic trash can
in a rest stop in space
the stars know more about you
than you were ever shown
it's written in the ...
well,
you know
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
Hi.
You might not know me
But for real
I don't even blame you
I gave up long ago
on sharing who I was
while hiding
who I am
Hi.
I seem a stranger
good and bad
and all the in-between
It wasn't so pretty
or easy, or real, or "fine"
but I am
OK now.
Hi.
I was an addict.
drugs of choice?
Elusive approval
Associated shame
Stolen identity
Yes, I was
just a fraud.
Hi.
Here I am broken.
you scold me
and then I lose myself
a scapegoat to be razed
to be a throwaway
But I raised
my self up.
Hi.
I’m a mosaic
Living art
I'm pieces of past lives
And though I was scattered
I am collected now
I made this
this beauty
Hi.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
When did sorry become throwaway?
When did remorse become a game to play?
When did I become an adult?
When did I lock myself in a vault?
When did life become so serious?
When did life become so meaningless?
When did you and I last cry?
When did we both ask why?
When did we re-evaluate our pain?
When did we measure our gain?
When did you and I remain,
Together, forever, in emotion and shame?
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
Endless steps to shifting rhythms in a haze of noise and palpable judgement.
Apologies tend not to resonate when the damage is done and the horse gets Higher, stomping to the beat of a privileged heart.
You learn quickly, and with a heavy sense of defeat, that you can never do Enough.
Expectations climb with a pace unmatched by any effort imaginable as
It's prearranged.
The waltz was always going to play out like this because you put on the grafter's Shoes; paid for with the gritty coin you caught in your teeth.
Hidden among the crowds and the polished leather, there lives another breed with A human face.
One not twisted and distorted by throwaway reproach.
It takes a surprising level of regard to pick them out as they often don the same Paint as the revilers.
However, these are the gems that can cut through thick skin, penetrating the Mortar, to find flesh.
They pulse with you and quiet the frayed edges.
They are your rhythm and your reason for perseverance.
They see to it that your resentment doesn't have time to settle in your bones.
They are much too few and far between.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
quietly
please don't look at me
fill me
with immense anxiety
i'm not here
i'm not real
intensely numb
cannot feel
unimportant to you and your day
please don't acknowledge me, stay away
the background - let me become
it's all i really want when the day is done
fade away, throwaway
is all i'll ever be
i'm impossibly unimportant
insignificantly me
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Old soul connects to
foreign body, moving
beautiful and dutiful
nutrients from point a
to point b; in this human
body cell sits centuries of
shaking table ornaments and
a quivering sense of gratitude as
orange meets purple meets blue.
Good morning lovely!
You are the sun beaming magnificent.
You have a gift that
you must keep secret
until it whispers its way through you.
You will sooner than later
break in two and
create a path of solar systems.
I have the energy of
an uncrushed coffee bean
singing praises to its mother.
Oh, thank you dear giver!
For I see the light
reverberating out of my
wrist bones and
showing the silence which
accoutrement best fits.
I am wearing me in the latest fall fashion,
how nice!
I am vibrating toothpick nonsense,
I am sweet potato princess,
hinged on old selifes
taken in bad lighting.
Old cells in a
new body, flimsy and throwaway.
How do you balance?
Can I be four, five, and a billion twenty three?
I am a built-up web of contradictions
flirting each other into oblivion.
Lips hinge on every last smoked cigarette,
******* cancer down;
beautiful, dutiful disease
having its way slowly but surely with the universe.
Did you ask first?
She is a magnificent mistress who
deserves at least the tenderness
of a question.
You can do better, darling,
than a flicked eyebrow upwards and
the rolling thoughts of "Me, me, me,"
on repeat in endless sequence.
Can't you see the patterns,
the exquisite dance between
embroidery and thin willow wisps of thread?
Each one of you is
countless stitch marks,
beautiful patchwork crescents
calling out "Who is your maker?"
from the quilted cosmos.
I will catch my breath from its endless throwing,
and I will sell my soul to a constant want for knowing.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
Sat in the doorway,
a throwaway man with a
cigarette and beer can
and a hangdog look on his face.
In this city of wealth,poverty takes some by stealth,
those who are healthy and fit often don't give a shit,it's not them in the doorway,they cannot see themselves brought down so low,
but go down to Mayfair or Stepney or Bow,there's a tidal flow of the throwaway men,who have nowhere to stay and if they do, then,
there is no job for them,no way to earn
and the cigarette burns,the beer can is crushed, a bit like the throwaways beaten and rushed to an end.
The end is an end by no means,
to the hungry and needy
who watch as the well fed and greedy go by,who sigh through the day in a throwaway kind of a throwaway way,
but it's what people expect from the 'workshy' and worthless,the cesspit of the city, and life does not pity them,nor do the throwaway men really care,
sitting there
in the doorway
where there seems no way
to escape.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
weary soul
worn down
like sneakers
that have walked the line
far too long
the line far to thin
to make a difference
no delineation,
no real sides
to be taken
just a staging area
between the black and grey
of a half life lived in half shadow
with the promise of
an hours sunshine
each day...
weary soul
wandering along
to the end of this line
that peters out
in a morse code message
of mental and physical decline
a repatriation of lost time
a moments deviation defined
by years spent waiting for
a chance to rewind, declined
by a judgemental man,
signing on the dotted line
weary, wearied soul
worn out and now
just a faded memory
blown, dust to the wind
as the coffin winds down.
lines now terminated
ultimately, forever, segregated
from the life within
and on the topside,
a mourners line
thin and tired
throw soil
upon the lid
weary souls
crying for justice
but reaping sorrow
fearing for the break of morrow
marrow jelly and breaking bones
wend their way, back to broken homes
to sit on couches filled with dust
to watch television that peddle lust
and throwaway goods for throwaway lives
no call for effort,
no need to strive,
just be a drone!
live for the hive!
groan and moan,
give graft on loan
have your muttered say,
about the state of play
whilst, living lives, the deepest shade of grey
growing weary and more wearied evey day
waiting for the great big sleep
wading through beaucoup de petites morts
drowning in une petite vie
jamais las, éternellement usé
porter des clowns espadrilles
et un froncement de sourcils
*forever weary, eternally worn down
wearing clowns sneakers and a frown*
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 3:40 AM UTC
One foot in front of the NOT so other...why bother with me
I'm just a throwaway...his whispers won't allow me to be free...
This time around I lost my footing, my pudding, my busy little bee...
All around this mulberry bush the dragon chases his shadow.
And I know that you know what happens when the shadow is caught...
That night under the bright moonlight you stood war and fought...
That dragon whispered, reminded me of my captivity and I am you and you are me...Nothing but the still charred smell of the all American dream.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
Let’s go mummy,
let’s mummy;
let’s to the shops -
we need to get a few good things
Nothing for me,
honest not a thing for me:
just maybe for little Tom;
he’s been crying
you know, mommy;
he’s been crying
and we’ll get him a few biscuits
and a toy or two
for it’s been a week
we got him anything
Let’s go mummy,
let’s mummy;
let’s to the shops -
we need to get a few good things
Nothing for me,
honest not a thing for me:
just for busy Daddy;
he’s not shaved in a week
if you’ve noticed;
we need to get him
those throwaway blades
and those nice-smelling water in a bottle
he puts on his face;
he’s too busy
and he’s just not been looking smart
the past week
Let’s go mummy,
let’s mummy;
let’s to the shops -
we need to get a few good things
Nothing for me,
honest not a thing for me;
just for you
I’ve got three coins saved
my sweet mummy
who’s always thinking of all of us;
maybe a coffee and cake for you
while little Tom and I play
in the children’s corner;
and maybe some shampoo too
and lipstick, just for you
all with the three coins
I’ve got in my pink purse
Let’s go mummy,
let’s mummy;
let’s to the shops -
we need to get a few good things
Nothing for me,
honest not a thing for me;
but sweet mummy that you are
you always think of me
and if you insist
well, like you might say:
“But darling, we haven’t got anything for you” –
well, if you insist,
I’ve made a list
I’ve got it in my pink purse
along with the three coins
I’ve saved just for you
So let’s go mummy,
let’s mummy;
let’s to the shops -
we need to get a few good things
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 2:51 AM UTC
I threw away a love
because it was one sided;
she was not the girl for me
because I have decided.
She was just a dear friend
not the love I wanted;
but we grew too close together
and her pleasant body taunted.
I threw away a love
like tissue I've discarded;
she was too possessive
I left her broken-hearted.
She was like a clinging vine
when I escaped her clutch;
I didn't miss her then
and now, too, not much.
I threw away a love
it was a one-way street;
she was just a friend
I happened to just meet.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:01 PM UTC
I want my heart to feel like the great Salt Lakes, reaching towards each other, constantly suspended in the moment just before contact. I want to build this anticipation, but my patience is shorter than your last haircut, when we sat by the river to discuss model trains.
I want my mind to feel like a hummingbird when it finally lands to rest on the red plastic device filled with sugar water outside my mother’s kitchen window, but I’m quite a ways from home now and have been for a while.
I want my stomach to feel like the tree roots, the red oaks, the ones that dwarf me and that I know would let me get my favorite kind of lost in their home, the kind we planned on visiting after graduation, but I am usually stuck in maple sap.
I want my mouth to taste like strawberries, ripened scarlet in the sun, the kind my tall friend’s mother mashes up with sour rhubarb for the perfect jam to last us through winter, but more often than not, my teeth are coffee-stained and my tongue tends to be too sharp for delicate berries.
I want my skin to feel like satin ribbons, the kind that tie little girl sashes before holy events and parties where they dance on their father’s toes for the first time, and find it perfectly marvelous, but I am covered in scratches and marks from building enormities.
I am a patchwork from the most meaningless scraps. I was a junkyard doll with mismatch buttons eyes and melted cardboard shoes. My head is a garbage heap left out too long, my eyes are scooping all of it up, and my dress is made of someone else’s throwaway linen. My aluminum can hands stretch out for anyone’s how-town while I think of shoestring revues and paper mache.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
A throwaway.
Not for posterity.
Not for unborn archaeologists
To extract caked with mud.
Not to be hidden from the sun
Under a millennia of detritus.
Just for now.
Just for this bit of time
When nobody needs you immediately,
And nobody expects you to deliver,
And nobody is depending on you.
Just for these moments.
Just to share a bit of your space-time
While the sun finds a gap in the branches
And drives the chill from the room.
While the office has emptied for lunch
And a breath can be taken in peace.
While the hum of the bus/train/plane
Has lulled your fellow travellers to sleep.
Just to see some words gathered
Purely for their affinity to one another.
Just for the love of pictures
Painted in your head alone.
For when just one more read through
Is purely for the pleasure
Of sitting awash in an idea.
Throwaway.
A handful of words.
Just for you.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC