"tolerances" poems - Hello Poetry

All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them. How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection, Prove its sanity through continued suggestion? Deductive insurrections stirred in memory, A rumble, causing sediments to crumble, Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble. Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors. "Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns, Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns, Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows, And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap. It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains, The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins, To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed, To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains. "Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated. He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject, And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion. I thought it was done. The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.

0

Oct 9, 2014

Oct 9, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC

joseph-ashley-eaton

The Continued Suggestion (Subterrain)

All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them. How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection, Prove its sanity through continued suggestion? Deductive insurrections stirred in memory, A rumble, causing sediments to crumble, Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble. Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors. "Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns, Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns, Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows, And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap. It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains, The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins, To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed, To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains. "Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated. He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject, And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion. I thought it was done. The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.

20

Sometimes I would walk through the halls, feeling nothing but anxiety. My mind would become flooded: What should I be doing… what should I be saying... what is everyone thinking? See- I used to float to the back of the room to the back of my mind where I escaped the world by reading. Nerdy. A loser. A freak. I was too intelligent for my age. It wasn’t COOL to get straight A’s. Then I advanced to the seventh grade, with no idea my life was about to change. I made a friend. Then Two. Then Three. A former unknown concept: “popularity”. Skater shoes, with laces you didn’t tie, pink backpacks, hair straight as a pin- Abercrombie- led me to a moment I still hate today: “Try some of this”. It wasn’t COOL if you said no. It was my first taste of intoxication, my first taste of escape- escape of my mind, the thoughts, The anxiety. The more I sipped, the more I let go. The drinks would become stronger, we raged every other night. Tolerances were creeping up high, control started waving goodbye to my mind. It wasn’t COOL to be sober. We laughed, we kid- called ourselves “alcoholics”. If only then I knew more, and the future I would soon endure because of the potion we poured and poured. It wasn’t COOL to be a lightweight. Some years later I bragged and I boasted, over the amount of liquor I could intake. “The only girl who could outdrink the boys”- the girl, I’d someday unrelated. She’d fallen for everything society had wanted to create. “Popularity”. Then came the day I knew would eventually arrive- the day of realization and what it meant to be alive. I no longer wanted to be COOL. Because with each drink, the value of life was swallowed- I never have felt quite that hollow. As if all the knowledge that once filled my mind vanished. I yearned for nothing but to go back to the days, when I was uncool and got straight A’s.

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Mar 4, 2015

Mar 4, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC

sammy-brock

Straight A's

Sometimes I would walk through the halls, feeling nothing but anxiety. My mind would become flooded: What should I be doing… what should I be saying... what is everyone thinking? See- I used to float to the back of the room to the back of my mind where I escaped the world by reading. Nerdy. A loser. A freak. I was too intelligent for my age. It wasn’t COOL to get straight A’s. Then I advanced to the seventh grade, with no idea my life was about to change. I made a friend. Then Two. Then Three. A former unknown concept: “popularity”. Skater shoes, with laces you didn’t tie, pink backpacks, hair straight as a pin- Abercrombie- led me to a moment I still hate today: “Try some of this”. It wasn’t COOL if you said no. It was my first taste of intoxication, my first taste of escape- escape of my mind, the thoughts, The anxiety. The more I sipped, the more I let go. The drinks would become stronger, we raged every other night. Tolerances were creeping up high, control started waving goodbye to my mind. It wasn’t COOL to be sober. We laughed, we kid- called ourselves “alcoholics”. If only then I knew more, and the future I would soon endure because of the potion we poured and poured. It wasn’t COOL to be a lightweight. Some years later I bragged and I boasted, over the amount of liquor I could intake. “The only girl who could outdrink the boys”- the girl, I’d someday unrelated. She’d fallen for everything society had wanted to create. “Popularity”. Then came the day I knew would eventually arrive- the day of realization and what it meant to be alive. I no longer wanted to be COOL. Because with each drink, the value of life was swallowed- I never have felt quite that hollow. As if all the knowledge that once filled my mind vanished. I yearned for nothing but to go back to the days, when I was uncool and got straight A’s.

58

Trade me... lives... Let me see how ...'simple " it is... to persevere... when you are the scapegoat... work mule... invisible... until what you haven't done done becomes noticed' Trade me... bodies... navigate the world from a distinctly different perspective... the receiving end... of the invisible 85% who rarely get a second glance... Let alone a golden chance. Go ahead... walk the tightrope... with two left shoes... stretch your tolerances... but you're working without a net and no there are "volunteers" falling all over themselves just to be the one ... Don't bother with your opinion it is now inconsequential. As too... are you. I think you'll find... no seats saved; no "extra" tickets; your sentences will start trailing off... as you realize that no one is listening. I liken it to the sounds of your car... each sound comforting and familiar... you know exactly how hard you can push it.... ...The same curves, always handle differently, in an unfamiliar downgraded vehicle. So to, go our lives.... becoming callused and indifferent to the cars of others... unless of coarse... beep, BEEP.....VAROOM!!!!! pretty... Shiny.... RED! Perhaps instead... admiring ... noticing... appreciating... There is tremendous beauty in watching a pro surf the serendipitous waves... all the while... being charming, witty, purposeful... but most of all unaided... A gleeful grace effortless... Perhaps one day.... my demolition derby of a life... will allow the crossing of our paths. And if you still maintain that smug judgmental disdain you seem to be so proud of... I will drop this ***** into 5th gear... and you my pretty... can **** my tailpipe!

0

Jul 2, 2014

Jul 2, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC

suzanne-penn

Judgmental Disdain...Suck My Tailpipe!

Trade me... lives... Let me see how ...'simple " it is... to persevere... when you are the scapegoat... work mule... invisible... until what you haven't done done becomes noticed' Trade me... bodies... navigate the world from a distinctly different perspective... the receiving end... of the invisible 85% who rarely get a second glance... Let alone a golden chance. Go ahead... walk the tightrope... with two left shoes... stretch your tolerances... but you're working without a net and no there are "volunteers" falling all over themselves just to be the one ... Don't bother with your opinion it is now inconsequential. As too... are you. I think you'll find... no seats saved; no "extra" tickets; your sentences will start trailing off... as you realize that no one is listening. I liken it to the sounds of your car... each sound comforting and familiar... you know exactly how hard you can push it.... ...The same curves, always handle differently, in an unfamiliar downgraded vehicle. So to, go our lives.... becoming callused and indifferent to the cars of others... unless of coarse... beep, BEEP.....VAROOM!!!!! pretty... Shiny.... RED! Perhaps instead... admiring ... noticing... appreciating... There is tremendous beauty in watching a pro surf the serendipitous waves... all the while... being charming, witty, purposeful... but most of all unaided... A gleeful grace effortless... Perhaps one day.... my demolition derby of a life... will allow the crossing of our paths. And if you still maintain that smug judgmental disdain you seem to be so proud of... I will drop this ***** into 5th gear... and you my pretty... can **** my tailpipe!

101

"Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the human heart can hold" So now I wonder, How might one measure this? you could pour emotion and feelings In until it overflows And that may be the only way For who can ask for a cup of love A handful of laughter and sorrows Three spoonfuls of spite Perhaps a dash of smiles and indifference But maybe too theses emotions and These hearts are not measured the same Each heart has its own experiences Capacities and tolerances Each emotion its own range of harshness Level of strength, and color of feeling Maybe Zelda had a point...

0

Jan 30, 2013

Jan 30, 2013 at 8:48 PM UTC

luckyqueue

measuring the human heart

"Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the human heart can hold" So now I wonder, How might one measure this? you could pour emotion and feelings In until it overflows And that may be the only way For who can ask for a cup of love A handful of laughter and sorrows Three spoonfuls of spite Perhaps a dash of smiles and indifference But maybe too theses emotions and These hearts are not measured the same Each heart has its own experiences Capacities and tolerances Each emotion its own range of harshness Level of strength, and color of feeling Maybe Zelda had a point...

19

We are the wild ones, so curious and superb. Hyper-expectations, mainly magic and its' feral treasures, we all welcome aboard. We are the technicians of the sky, messengers of the infinite moons. Inside the scythes and harpsichords, explosive reiterations of gravity and inner body magnetic yearnings. We are stacked and galavanting in stockyards, whips at our sides, leather roughening its unstitched oiled calf hides up the hands onto these ethereal imaginings of utopian unicorn, walrus, and seahorse. We represent the catalog of diversity. You are not as hidden as you think and you must not be. We of the wise wrestling candles off of our staffs, we count the mountain rich mountainside. Red, clay-capped, snow and hidden saplings adjusted against the rows of the peaks and plateaus. We are named for our perversions of nature, our tolerances towards myriad injustices spanning our existence's time-sensitive minutia. We may be the kings and queens of Lollibellum, our flights have landed, our hands filled with duct-taped newspaper wrapped packaging and knock-off designer bags, a cardboard box with a few books that survived the burn.

0

Dec 3, 2014

Dec 3, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC

martin-narrod

12:3:14

We are the wild ones, so curious and superb. Hyper-expectations, mainly magic and its' feral treasures, we all welcome aboard. We are the technicians of the sky, messengers of the infinite moons. Inside the scythes and harpsichords, explosive reiterations of gravity and inner body magnetic yearnings. We are stacked and galavanting in stockyards, whips at our sides, leather roughening its unstitched oiled calf hides up the hands onto these ethereal imaginings of utopian unicorn, walrus, and seahorse. We represent the catalog of diversity. You are not as hidden as you think and you must not be. We of the wise wrestling candles off of our staffs, we count the mountain rich mountainside. Red, clay-capped, snow and hidden saplings adjusted against the rows of the peaks and plateaus. We are named for our perversions of nature, our tolerances towards myriad injustices spanning our existence's time-sensitive minutia. We may be the kings and queens of Lollibellum, our flights have landed, our hands filled with duct-taped newspaper wrapped packaging and knock-off designer bags, a cardboard box with a few books that survived the burn.

4

i never drank to get drunk but at times i got drunk as i drank. wondering why i drank... i recall a friend who never saw 44 at all. Ft Lauderdale spring break so pretty and sweet and petite who could have ever seen what a few would eventually do to you. at least 3 rehabs Betty Ford counting among them you recounted how many spoke of all the chardonnay that finally got 'em. at times i envied your easy life or so it seemed. new home, new sheets and towels bright white carpet and all. successful husband diamond jewelry art on the wall mercedes benz and money too. no worries about bills to pay jobs to get love to find. but i liked your VW beetle much better and your painter's pants on you, so chic and popular at the time. your so sweet a nature honest and true generous and all. blonde and adorable the years took their toll. i never knew the pain you were going through, you never told. what an education you did give, when finally you revealed where you had gone, where you had been. tales of hidden bottles, drinking on the sly, hiding and covering all of the lies. the cops couldn't believe, you could still be alive, with a blood alcohol level of 4 point 0. how we grow strong, build up the tolerances, until they amaze and astound each and even every one of us. the years and the glasses, caught up with you, the first place you begin to bleed, or so i learned, when your liver goes and starts to harden and your blood can't flow, is through your neck and throat. blood transfusions, they helped for awhile, then one night......... well one night... that was all. a cautionary tale... for all you college bound... you never know which one of you will be the one... who never sees your next sun the next sun's light.

0

Sep 4, 2015

Sep 4, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC

amiee

here's looking at you kid

i never drank to get drunk but at times i got drunk as i drank. wondering why i drank... i recall a friend who never saw 44 at all. Ft Lauderdale spring break so pretty and sweet and petite who could have ever seen what a few would eventually do to you. at least 3 rehabs Betty Ford counting among them you recounted how many spoke of all the chardonnay that finally got 'em. at times i envied your easy life or so it seemed. new home, new sheets and towels bright white carpet and all. successful husband diamond jewelry art on the wall mercedes benz and money too. no worries about bills to pay jobs to get love to find. but i liked your VW beetle much better and your painter's pants on you, so chic and popular at the time. your so sweet a nature honest and true generous and all. blonde and adorable the years took their toll. i never knew the pain you were going through, you never told. what an education you did give, when finally you revealed where you had gone, where you had been. tales of hidden bottles, drinking on the sly, hiding and covering all of the lies. the cops couldn't believe, you could still be alive, with a blood alcohol level of 4 point 0. how we grow strong, build up the tolerances, until they amaze and astound each and even every one of us. the years and the glasses, caught up with you, the first place you begin to bleed, or so i learned, when your liver goes and starts to harden and your blood can't flow, is through your neck and throat. blood transfusions, they helped for awhile, then one night......... well one night... that was all. a cautionary tale... for all you college bound... you never know which one of you will be the one... who never sees your next sun the next sun's light.

79