"traceable" poems
I know you.
Sitting behind a screen in your room,
Sipping in the shadows of a coffee shop.
iPhone, iPad, iAm "Anonymous".
The most dangerous word you can be labeled,
The most double-edged of weapons-
Anonymous.
You're never really as untraceable
As the cleared browser history says you are,
Never as untraceable as the chain of destruction you cause is traceable.
You're never really as invisible
As the checked box lets you think you are,
Never as invisible as the scars you direct a hand to make are visible.
One word can't be all that.
Anonymous can't be so dangerous.
Some clicks on a keyboard can't be so devastating.
There's a reason it used to be difficult to avoid responsibility.
Because responsibility for your words, for what you cause,
Is what allows you to see a few steps ahead.
Your signature is what allows you to learn from mistakes,
To vow after you've learned the hard way to think before you act.
To see that those words have two names attached to them now.
The writer, and the subject.
Two traceable, visible people.
Two hearts beating and breathing, now connected.
Anonymous constructs a wall between action and reaction.
It robs you of responsibility.
Yes, responsibility is a prized possession, there to teach and show.
Anonymous allows you to settle.
It robs you of the greater person you could become.
Yes, your future holds more than this, there beyond the wall of cyber bulling.
I hate that I was once Anonymous like you.
I hate that I unknowingly controlled the strings
Of a self-destructive marionette hand miles away.
But I don't hate you. Because I know you.
I know you are more than the mistakes you've made behind that screen.
I know you are more than Anonymous.
So prove it.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
Solvent and solution
Kept assuaged for so long
Treading in the selfishness of my subconscious state
Of barely traceable memories, spurred on by the gravity of time spent
At the briefest hint at past involvement
Each leaf falls, eventually.
Every pristine little well formed tended to.
Each nurtured, cared for, parcel or idea.
I can watch them for hours
Watching them fall, one by one, for hours.
When days start to bleed together, out of the corner of my eye,
I can always see them, marking progression.
Collecting in drifts, then, taken by the wind, then
The rot sets in.
I used to watch this.
I used to find time.
The roof cast me in its shadow, even standing along the banister that runs along the length
Even as the final rays of sun start to vanish one at a time
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
it was like waking up to all white fume
or a long washline — masturbatory, feeling something stiff like a hand gliding
over a monsoon of emotions, the affect
jazz and the crunch of fragrance
forever like sandalwood;
on my way to Dumandan, i conjure an inward miasma of thrill, unfurled yesterday, today, or was it before when our eyes were fixated on the passing of things in myriad ways without any relevance to what has died, say wilted,
like a flower going away in closing seasons,
children in hurtling speeds at twilight,
gates welcoming a resounding sound of
rusting hinges,
slow rise of night, its vertical climb,
shadows collapsing on the Hibiscus
and the Poinsettia from the Cordillera,
dreary men taking out ******* throwing
them into metalloid beasts, verdigris
painted, grisly caravan of steel and
worthless scraps —
past neighborhoods thinking about
the simmer of onion and the hustle of
the feral over rooftops, clinking wine bottles undulating full to empty — both
unaware of acumen and only dizzying
ourselves mirroring each other eye
to eye and bridging this unclose-enough
a gap in between,
because you need it,
and i want it, or simply in reverse,
a sidewinding thought through dunes
of afterthought.
because you have to walk my side
of the Earth and I have to meet you
somewhere halfway where we can both
lounge at each other's steady presence
while the flyblown dry air ravishes
the piquant morning, all-telling what
this distance meant from its
peak up to the very last
traceable steps where i found you
and you found me, trilling in the neighborhood like how void
stills itself into all the mood of the Earth:
all moony and
fretting in the disquiet.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
the traceable lines that
lead me here
pattern the sky
above the remains of a streetlight
its bent frame
shattered glass
cannot detract from its
deep and careful meanings
it speaks in its silent decay
of nights when teenagers stopped
beneath its orange glow
and kissed goodnight
before curfew
forced them home
it used to give a pool of light
that would be safe and warm
it feels like a home
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 8:22 AM UTC
I woke up cold
back on the slab
in my tiny cell.
My head was pounding.
The last thing I remember
before I dozed off
was Mister Suit
asking me baseline questions.
Then it was a series of flashing memories.
Sparks flying,
Screams.
Voices.
A thrashing body.
Bright blood splattered
against
the pale yellow walls,
a face without eyes.
I guess the pink pill worked,
what are those ******* control boys
going to do now?
Nothing's traceable.
Me 1.
Them 0.
It should be a wake-up call for them.
Long live Moonstone!
I know it's not over yet.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
“The atoms that comprise life on earth are all traceable to the crucibles that cooked light element into heavy element.” —Neil deGrasse Tyson
And up here we have Vega, rigged to a few older men,
Jupiter’s herd of moons. Look through its eyepiece,
convince us there is no such thing as reconstruction.
The right time to return light, the path to earth. Yes,
we are part, living or real. Such is the layout
of this cosmic ballet. A naked man and woman,
a map of earth’s location, unstable in their older years.
He spreads himself so wide, hard at the heavens
for two reasons. Fairly often, someone would call the police.
Handcuffs came from stars, next generation solar systems
quantumly entangled. Size is only development condensed
into a singularity, enriched guts against gears of war.
So what does this mean? The breadth of the actions
taken, meaning limitations, meaning sky was worth looking at.
He charmed the cops with conversational boom, dozens of people
crouching in the dark. Their common center of gravity:
darker barrel shaped streets with long rows of sold-out houses.
It’s not a lecture—how to calculate latitude, one neck cramp at a time,
an extension cord across Merlin’s Tour of the Universe
to satellites gliding in low orbit, nine years to work its way out.
The voice is deep and rowdy—from a man at the edge of the crowd.
The other reason is down here on earth, down the handle of the Big
Dipper. An artist will tell you—crank it some more, until it begins
to glow blue. Red-hot is the coldest among all the hots.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
You can tell by a pale shadow of former self
And shape of the scattered pieces
You can tell ,
From the pieces of the once bread basket of Africa
That someone is slowly
And artistically looting the store
I can see,
The trailing blood and the aura of warmth
That there was once,
Electrical pulse of the heart
As povo cry,
For broad-based
and inclusive Dialogue to rescue,
Yes!
I could hear,increasing calls for precipice
And wails to avert further implosion
And the winds of memory floating by
The crescendo in the calls for sound talks
Yes sound dialogue,
In the wake of an increasingly restless citizenry struggles
Still dustbin of a golden history
You can sense from the tremble of the chambers
The undying pulse and the scent of a beloved
That the heart once danced to a dreamers' beats
To them tears are,
The horse pipes they use to water their worth
To multitudes,tears are words the heart can’t express
As the black cloud sheds rays of hope
Still leaves “imminent light” behind
As the mass bank hope
In our eternal message of hope
Ushered by Martin Luther King, Jr.
"One day dawn will come".
I can see traceable traces
Of corrupt foot prints
And traceable track record
Of 'prominent' looting finger prints
As the influential turn aside the needy from justice,
Rob the poor Chimanimani people of their right,
Making widows their spoil,
And willy-nilly making the fatherless their prey!
Dear LORD!
Why your wrath upsets not these moral monsters?
Who are by no means worthy of following
Those that deprive the afflicted
Those who because of their hard and impenitent hearts
Attract your necessary reaction to objective moral ill
Dear Lord why has your wrath not fallen
On rightful time?
How can hell be just?
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 6:07 AM UTC
there is an initiative
on Facebbok
for the Black Dot
to be displayed on a palm
of those suffering with
Domestic Violence
who can't speak to you
because the cause of their angst
is standing behind them
fist raised, aim true
they're not allowed
to speak to you
but if you see that
Black dot,
and their eyes are bleeding
at you, please call the police
if you know them, if you don't
ask for their phone number
which is traceable too.
Supportive entirely
to that end
I propose an initiative
in support of a Blue Dot
a dot on the hand, of those
that suffer just as quietly
every single day
Those that live in denial
those they love and live for
might get better some day
I would like to place
a Blue Dot
on both my palms
and any who see it
on me
would just hold my hand
in theirs
letting me feel a connection
Knowing they understand
Black Dot/Blue
unable to speak truth
there is no doubt
Suffering is a real thing
the coloured dot
needs you to reach out
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC
*Little by little,
Bit by bit,
Page by page,
My blood
I drip.
Scattered fragments
Of my soul
I leave behind,
In hope that one day
You may find...
Me - Completely.
Little by little,
Day by day,
Everlasting,
My chosen words
Will stay.
Verse by verse,
My soul
On earth
Will linger - Immortal,
Undying,
Traceable footsteps,
On these pages,
I leave -
Tears in words;
My pen is always crying.
My soul
Longs to bleed
Blood and tears of ink,
Between the lines
You will find me;
I have left trails -
A direct link.
By Lady R.F ©2016*
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
Moments. I'm built up by moments. They surround me, shape me, create and recreate who I've become. A rainy day. The trip. One class. Many hours badly spent. But these don't make it into the frame.
Your blame. The rage. My guilt. These are the intances that outline my life. Micro moments. You see, tiny ones that flee. They flash before I can fully understand or become aware of their existence. On their own they stand as harmless, ineffective, deficient. Their accumulation is what creates the pain. They made me. I allowed them to be fleeting to deflect the hurt they flashed because I didn't want to bother. It was easier to let them pile up. But now they are clear, readable, traceable and they've lead me here to this moment, to that comma and this period. Moments that raised my walls and alarmed my defences.
So many little moments that build up the rage.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
From stars we are born.
Atoms burning within us.
Traceable back to before
time began. It connects us
to those we never will meet,
stretching across galaxies
and piercing back through our skin.
As we are part of this universe
so it is part of us, making us larger
than most can accept or truly feel.
Breathe in your importance, and
contemplate the universe. As it
is nothing more than the atoms
inside of you.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
Hold my hand through the bars,
we can learn how to live all over again.
Mind your Ps and Qs, keep them in a penny purse.
wear your orange jump suit backwards,
live out your sentence in reverse.
Crinkled, crumpled and recyclable,
throw yourself away.
You know that it'll take eleven kps
for any real escape,
yet you try nonetheless.
The sticks and stones, the pebbles I've thrown
don't leave traceable dents.
There’s a mountain made of
boxes I nailed shut, long ago
I mailed them to myself, with a shove.
Up to your cell, wobble towers,
tiny boxes creating stairs
The edges curled, cardboard grew ridges,
the cutout dream
caught fire to my bridges.
We couldn't have turned back,
had we tried.
Etched into the walls,
messages to future prisoners;
instructions on avoiding cafeteria calls.
Hiking boots with cleated treads
for steep hills, rocky cliffs.
The extents gone to freeing the caught,
comfortable behind their striped shadows
are left unnoticed and left to clot.
Used napkins on tourist ferry seats,
cheap asian sauce hiding jail blueprints.
Hide in the elevator shaft,
I’ll meet you in the back stairwell.
You bring life jackets, I’ll bring the raft.
We can pretend the verdict swung
and go back to being free enough to visit supermarkets.
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 3:43 AM UTC
I dream of running into the night sky
No one to see me
Or where I've gone
No traceable footprints
No way to feel me
When night creeps along.
I dream of disappearing
No one to know me
Or my name.
I dream of never looking back
to familiar faces
of the past.
I just want to run away and be free
Like the night wind.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
gods out of the night
out of the nights unnavigable light
luding rosy from the underworld
broaching
how you push through my faces
the posings
hooking behind the dense furs
poaching out the peppish reasoning
dissolving its obstructive code
you rap me faint between the eyes
every failure drapes away
in chronicle and uttered hurt
all so familiar
seeming foreignly a warm tutting family
all volatile material is subdued
i am voidable soldier
but you hold me in keep
you are truthfully inclusive
i feel beloved in animal and otherly
pandered into the pattern
all beyond belonging
and yet traceable with my many uses
a healing visit and now to business
footage provided to make a mood-less operation
i'm kept swaddled throughout my information sift
silt is taken and exchange given
for a heady ****** charge
i've been amazed in the dreams
you provided
suspended in a solving liquor of theatre
i hope my report was a good one
i woke well rested
with a light feeling of reassignment
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 5:51 AM UTC
Diagnosis
In the face of beauty without a traceable flaw however hard you strive
Tomorrow will ask you to produce great courage for fear knocks at the door
Caution was always the rule what to do when unknown engine kicks into drive
You pace the floor your thoughts lost to the sirens wail
The jaw set so admired before for just superficial comment
The news shakes the stars glitz and glamour cannot guard
To trust self and achievement alone will always end in torment
Body and soul tomorrow will divide the temporal will split from the eternal
Catch the thief impossible he is but wisp of spiritual matter
We all are given warnings the refrain of the ages with greatest care watch
Why are so many tempest tossed they give heed even believe and are fooled by mindless chatter
The golden grain priceless the harvest must be completed but still they resist loving hands this holy band
All see this one face this dilemma if only from this wisdom could be owned
Still we squander the precious irretrievable moments like they will never end
His privilege afforded him unending travel not one place left where he has not been crowned
The most important one that has no equal will heaven be able to claim him as their own
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
History of people
The stone walls and vaulted ceiling held memories the light seemingly superficial human identities have
Passed in and out like the outward wind that briefly buffets the outer structure then moves on if only
We could use a tool like the archeologist not to deface or change but take scrapings their work tells the
Grand story of people and place I would like the more personnel their struggles and their outcome we
Can and do learn from history and in time be able to take DNA when the science is stronger to take
From these living libraries through test tubes and meaningful searches that will connect people even
Closer than ancestry search sites this shows your long ago relative was a silver smith and how impressive
If the very searcher himself works in a similar field someday I’m sure they will have applications that
Will be virtual it will be made in the same village you can set in your easy chair and have the unfolding
Of how it felt the highs the lows the commutable variable of life’s most cherished meaning what is to
Exist to be such time and effort is expended in the thoughts of this will serve our posterity what a
Precious stream flows from solid rock just like life giving springs in ancient and modern day where life
Would have to be deferred but out of a pristine valley not only nature but human enterprise is giving the
Opportunity to devise many wonders traceable back through time we lose essentiality when we don’t
Build bridges to our rich past cares can over run us or as they say they can provide stepping stones it is
So easy to defeat someone who has lost the chain links that tells who he is and where he comes from
This erodes his knowing and sense of belonging take careful measures to shore up the present with the
Glories others fixed in the earth as guide posts that will not fail no matter what the storm is now go in
These sacred blessings that hold back fire and flood in them you will feel your stature enlarge nothing
Will be to big you already have been given the mastery of them it’s told in the stone
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
Nurses bursaries scrapped
Wages capped
Students unpaid, betrayed
By a stratified social system
That ***** on the helpless and the selfless
"Gratitude" is expressed
Not by redressing the balance
But with a clap
Followed by a stab in the back:
Oh, snap.
We're sick of your hollow applause: pause
Rewind your mind three years
To when you jeered
And blocked their cause with a cheer:
Tell me, is your conscience clear?
And when we think
You can't sink any lower
You throw a fresh blow:
Increase front line pay
But decline the same for our warriors in blue
Who saved your **** neck on that ICU
And the saddest part
Of this sorry story, Tory
Is we're outraged and dismayed
At the disdain you've displayed
But amazed? No.
Your track record is traceable
Applause a mere mask
Tasked with shielding years of austerity
That's crippled our NHS
With alarming prosperity
This proverbial middle finger
Will linger
In the memories of those who chose
A career of care
Over privilege and flair
Jul 22, 2020
Jul 22, 2020 at 4:04 PM UTC
First petal.
Browning and creased
Flawed, to say the least.
A victim of time.
Plainly visible for all.
To admire.
To abhor.
Second petal.
Smoother, whiter.
With a hint of warmth.
My lingering touch
Soundlessly penetrates
Your faceless mask.
I left my mark.
Third petal.
Perfectly encrypted
From everyone but me.
Every line traceable
Every blemish shown
Every part of you
Known.
Last petal.
Purest, untainted
You guarded it to your best.
But like the rest,
It withers, and is soon just a fragment
Of what once was
and what will never be.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
Today I have to tell myself to breathe.
I know that if I stopped forming the words silently with my lips,
a cry would escape followed by an avalanche of saved up emotions manifested in every possible physical way.
I know that if I stopped,
I would crumble to the ground and I would not arise until you,
and only you,
kissed and coaxed until the hysterics turned into hiccups and the salty tears were only traceable by faint, powdery tracks down my cheeks.
I also know that you won’t come.
So today my mantra is “inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.”
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 12:58 PM UTC
Cover the casket with both of your hands
don't let them know that you had other plans
If it's out of sight then you've gone out of mind
you're traceable only by what's left behind
And those are the things that you cannot remove
try as you might, til your face has turned blue
For that is what put you inside of yourself
where nothing is living but no one can tell
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
It calls out to me
Sitting in my other hand
Urging me to use it
An upturned wrist
Lays on my leg
Veins traceable
All to be sliced
The vision of blood
Seeping down my arm
Throws chills through my body
I want to use it
To trace delicate lines
All over my clean skin
The cold metal heavy in my hand
A comfortable weight
Its sharp edge gleams in the light
Begging to be used
To be coated in my sticky red blood
Feeling a razor sinking through my skin
The immense pressure then release
Pure pleasure in my mind
Despite the pleasure that I yearn for
Slowly I roll my sleeve
Over my wrists white flesh
My clenched hand relaxes
The sharp razor slides out
Falling to the ground
I turn my back
And slowly walk away
Holding my breath and not looking back
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 2:53 PM UTC
To compensate for (A -Z)
ineradicable alphanumeric
character flaws (i.e. mutations
of body or mind,)
and avoid amass
sing wracking up vexatiously
undesirable threatening class
action lawsuit against
Matthew Scott Harris,
which preliminary measure
taken to avoid disembarrass
sing said individual as
a majorly flawed individual
literal shortcomings of body,
mind and spirit,
the metier of writing doth encompass
a creative realm to trump
geomorphology, sans groundmass
at the unsolicited expense
(mine alter ego i.e. worst critic)
will gleefully find,
and expose grammatical,
misspelling, spelling,
et cetera errors to harass
glommed together with isinglass
hop, skip and jumping
to appear as a *******
whereat no respect
able collegiate lass
would give a fig about me,
one totally tubular royal morass,
which expert anthropologists
stumped asper nonclass
if eye able ****
sapiens mutant ninja turtle
case in point being his
wanting in height not e'en pass
sing the six foot mark
plus mental illness
perhaps traceable to
besotted cognitive damage
inherited predecessors
quaffing an overdose of quass
made obvious peering at resulting
Ct scan results viewed
via microscopic spyglass
revealing abnormal amygdala
automatically designating
his aptitude underclass
among average human
with mettlesome Zeusian brass.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
Three tabs of acid and a year of postmodern novels will **** you up in a shorter span of time than doing a degree in poststructuralism, and only an idiot with a death wish would do both. Manic romp to reach nowhere in a political field that never arrives, except in France.
Well Sartre once said nothing, and so did Derrida, and so did Baudrillard. Endless procession of words for the sake of filling a vacuum that didn’t exist until it was filled. Enter Freud; exit Bernays. All meaning atop a Golden Bough.
Sitting in your flatmate’s room the acid kicks in and suddenly no one is themselves, every line that leaves their mouths traceable to a media product, the perfect communion of pluralism arriving as the terror of integral capitalist banality. To speak is to add to the mockery; to say nothing is to let the mockery continue.
Forget it all by watching Youtube videos at 0.25x speed. Displace the terror of your own situation through the consumptive behaviour that had constituted it in the first place. Watch in gleeful delight as the eyes of whatever presenter happens to be on the screen at the moment dart between this or that object of desire, ever unsure of where to settle amongst an infinite number of existential refrains, none of which deliver from the anxiety of the prior.
Holding a caramel slice in the departmental tea room, your lecturer waits for you to respond, but all you manage is a cough.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 5:56 AM UTC
Unrecognised obliterated
Beauty
Left behind unmemorable
Traceable across
A million miles of soulless
Rubber
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 5:13 AM UTC
but im only human
I only miss you on Sundays when the sun peaks through the blinds and the tea tastes like regret and unhappiness.
So I spit it out and make a new batch.
but im only human
I only miss you on Mondays when the dusk meets the dawn and I have to throw the pages of something I loved away.
but im only human
I only miss you on Tuesdays when the scent of you is traceable on my clothes and no matter how hard I scrub its still there
but im only human
I only miss you on Wednesdays when its the middle of the week and the clouds hide the sun like a punishment and I remember how much you love the rain.
but im only human
I only miss you on Thursdays when I know you would've been home by now, and I would make some ****** dish of food that neither of us would eat but you would say it's "delicious anyway."
but im only human
I only miss you on Fridays when you would put on a movie we've seen seventeen times and absentmindedly rub my hand over with your thumb and I wish you would've rubbed it raw.
but im only human
I only miss you on Saturdays when the cemetery is closed and I have to drive past it on my way to the store because we're out of milk and you're not there to buy it anymore.
but im only human
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC