"tramples" poems
Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.
So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres
that tomorrow never happened.
He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
This is the time, the chance, the moment
Time tramples on, that heartless opponent
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
Like morning shine, I creep through windows
And expose my internal rays
Am I to cure this heavy sadness,
Or remain blank in all of my ways?
Shall I heal the broken,
Words brand new with courage,
Or repeat those that have already been spoken?
Is the this job of plenty,
This journey that tramples my ears
Or a timeless piece of evidence,
That my life will see too many years?
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
When I look in the mirror in the morning,
I feel fine.
I brush my hair.
I am fine.
I brush my teeth,
And I am fine.
Then I notice how my teeth aren’t as white as they could be.
But I'm still fine.
Then I put on my clothes and I notice how I spill over the sides.
But I am fine.
Then I notice how my hips jut out
And my jeans are never long enough in the ankles.
Then I spend ten minutes thinking of changing my jeans,
Because this shirt is too tight
But I opt for a hoodie instead.
Then I am lost in the hoodie.
I feel like a blob of fabric.
And then just a blob.
I get in my car and look in the mirror to adjust
And notice how dark under my eyes are.
When I’m pretty sure they weren’t that dark earlier.
As I drive to school, I notice my hands on the steering wheel
And ponder how they can be both fat and scraggly at the same time.
I get to school and notice people staring at me at the red lights
While I begin to cross the road.
I pass windows and with each one,
I notice my thighs grow larger with each step.
I notice how wide I am when I pass other girls
Then I think about my ankles and I swear I can feel them swell.
By the time it is twelve o’clock,
I have convinced myself that I am a
Bulging,
Suffocating,
Beast
Who tramples everyone in the room.
And the Earth is suddenly too small for someone as big as I am.
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 3:17 AM UTC
promenades the sleepless night through my, like rain, palm;
tears, counting, marble-toward drops
i am to nothing degenerated,
pirating surrealism.
with my contusions, awareness-lacked, tramples
brought to the temple, rotoscoped, liquidates
from the core, curdled blood.
clouds, sickness with apathy, the air
made balcony on, flesh-spoken, impassioned.
i, the night, erotize
begin their flock, sursum corda!
tremble, i, and scrape the tower before me
pulverization may lead to immunization, where i
melt as sulfur in
Midas’s clasp.
i walked his tread, years on end, scoped out
miserable, fragmented, at startwith:
he touched my arm
and to precious
metals, pitchfork incubated, i arose
fashioned his pedestal, glamored in steps, appraised biased
no represent sources, ideal inertia, this primal adoration
slips of drillpressed kisses
caught off guard.
in the tufts, my mortal : remember, i, of parquet deeply hidden;
i am of a world, peace, cast : however,
deeply
lachrymogenic
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
"No man loves God who hates his kind;
Who tramples on his Brother's heart and soul.
Who seeks to shackle, cloud or fog the mind
By fears of Hell has not perceived our goal.
God-sent are all religions blest;
And Christ; the Way, the Truth and Life
To give the heavy-laden rest
And peace from Sorrow, Sin and Strife.
At His request the Universal Spirit came
To all the churches; not to one alone;
On Pentecostal morn a tongue of flame
Round each apostle as a halo shone.
Since then, as vultures ravenous with greed, We oft have battled for an empty name
And sought by dogma, edict, creed,
To send each other to the flame.
Is Christ then divided? Was Cephas or Paul
Nailed to the Cross to die ?
If not: Then why these divisions at all?
Christ's love doth enfold you and I.
His pure sweet love is not confined
By creeds which segregate and raise a wall.
His love enfolds, embraces Humankind;
No matter what ourselves or him we
call.
Then why not take Him at His word?
Why hold to creeds which tear apart ?
But one thing matters be it heard,
That brother-love fill every heart.
There is but one thing that the world has need to know;
There is but one balm for all our human woe;
There is but one way that leads to heaven above;
That way is human sympathy and love."
MAX HEINDAL
•||~•¥•~^\\:://^~•¥•~||•
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
Among the orchard weeds, from every search,
Snugly and sure, the old hen’s nest is made,
Who cackles every morning from her perch
To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid;
Who lays her washing by, and far and near
Goes seeking all about from day to day,
And stung with nettles tramples everywhere;
But still the cackling pullet lays away.
The boy on Sundays goes the stack to pull
In hopes to find her there, but naught is seen,
And takes his hat and thinks to find it full,
She’s laid so long so many might have been.
But naught is found and all is given o’er
Till the young brood come chirping to the door.
2.5k
The ruler wields absolute authority,
He tramples upon the minority,
With ferocity, he goes out to conquer,
And lays waste upon the weak across the border.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC
It's a twenty/twenty world of plenty
so what you moaning for?
you're getting everything you'd ever want
and who could ask for more?
Alas,
my vision grows quite dim and any chance there
ever was, of me getting some of anything
is growing awfully slim.
In a twenty/twenty when there's plenty
some get more than their fair share
I get none
but I don't care.
You'll find me at the bring and buy
where I buy some,bring some
find some,win some
but in a twenty/twenty of lots of plenty where life tramples me and I feel empty
I go gently
into the night.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
This heart, if like a flower provides fragrance to others
Then it also tramples the love for those and memories of those who ***** it with their thorns
As this heart isn't made of flowers.
©Spriha Kant
Jun 23, 2021
Jun 23, 2021 at 11:57 PM UTC
here's the thing:
there are days when i lose my rhythm of life
my legs stumble across walking flat pavement
i lose my balance on the stable ends of the road
i jump headfirst in manholes meant for excavation
and i refuse to exit the darkness
there are days like these
there are days when i run dry
my mouth becomes a desert crawling with prayers
my flesh is a wasteland of golden opportunity
my vision is a disfigured specter in shades of grey
and every sound translates into white noise
there are days like these
there are days when words do not help
every apology and thank you leaves me raw
i bleed and hurt and bleed and hurt
and every word still leaves me ******
i will allow myself to be empty on days like these
there will always be days like these
these days do not end in salvation
these are the horsemen of my apocalypse
and on the backs of every stallion
is a part of me that tramples over
the greatest dimensions of who i am
they leave prints not easily covered
they leave me a little more scarred
they leave me a little more tired
here's the thing:
these are the days that become my muses
these are the days of great wreckage
and someday these days will be myths
great stories meant for the taking
but for now
this is the truth.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
It stings deep like a jagged blade sinking into the bones of the soul.
The shock softens the blow, but the truth remains solid as before. They invaded themselves into your world; unknown.
Emotions, opinions, thoughts, brutally read through the eyes of another who does not understand. Tramples through and simply butchers you; inside.
Trust destroyed in a moment of seconds.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
The butter’s too hard.
The pressure of the broken knife handle
leaves imprints of alien-like creatures on her little palm.
Slicing through morning rays like a red-hot blade through butter,
she raises her hand, and inspects the outlandish patterns with curiosity:
A school of koi carp,
teeth as sharp as prison razor wire,
are using their fins to harvest two-headed sunflowers
which are growing from within the tip of a giant scorpion tail.
Dark clouds are looming over Dragon’s Fang Mountain. The wind is howling.
Ten Bone Warriors
emerge from a grotto— a cavity
at the foot of the mountain, where their bows shine bright,
even in the fading light; wild puffs of excitement steam-fills the air—
the riders’ horses’ nostrils flare— a dance of death tramples over all things white.
The koi sense trouble;
some dive away and hide between the roots,
they disappear into the scorpion tail’s cracks and craters,
others harvest as fast as their fins can work, craning their necks.
The Bone Warriors’ arrows rain down on the sunflower field. Lightning strikes.
Pop! goes the toaster;
she walks towards the refrigerator,
and rubs her hand on her Spongebob apron.
Her mother inquires how breakfast is coming along;
Nika shakes her head and giggles, says it’s going to be the breakfast ever.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 4:16 PM UTC
An act so balanced
Unaware its feather light
Soul comes out and blows
Feather tramples to the ground
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC
This day holds humidity in my heart.
The temporary return of familiar love
left my broken outlook painted in contentment
and pushed healing hope into my lips,
yet you,
who refuses to give romance,
who tramples my confidence in mud,
who haunts my midnight chorus,
you return to my heart in the overcast cold of the salty Chesapeake.
and I cry and I cry and I cry
hating you for making me reread old moleskins
to realize that perhaps it was never me you loved,
to realize that perhaps my body was destroyed in folly,
to realize perhaps you just played a game with us all,
and I simply claimed you with the loudest song.
**** you for pumping in my veins.
let me completely love another
or come find me.
the insanity you commit
pushes me into the midnight abyss
and my pieces began to fall between the cracks
and the hopeful glue melts into the inky black.
this ghost hasn't left my unconscious lungs.
I know I am almost done,
but the rhythm of your death is the worst part to feel.
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 8:40 PM UTC
Earth: our ominous all-mother,
she, the greater good:
the interminable fountain out of which stems life and vivacity itself
always reaching
and grasping for the abstruse azure heavens above.
her hair never stops growing. the mites and parasites never cease to fester her scalp. She is growing and changing and rotting and dying. but where death comes, there is no long interval until more
life.
the liveliness is everywhere; it promotes to all faces and regions and niches. Multiplying, begetting, propagating. all for the greater good of our orb and its inhabitants. Most dwellers are humble and solicitous toward her, and learn to keep a vigilant eye
as she can be so
forceful and violent.
She does have, however, one rascal who believes that the globe belongs all to Himself.
He is the man.
He has a masterful gift, yes. He is profound and competent. He forges the impractical query into a conclusive answer. He, however, is also egocentric and pompous, and He sees her as a specimen to which
He has the rights to dismember and pervert.
He makes a mess of her unique vistas. He tramples and stamps on her face, running about as if she were the coliseum in which the gods gather to view the Species fight itself to extinction. He works her to the
core, always asking for more, more, more, more,
until she has little left to give.
But she never loses courage in His asinine and moronic views and His sprawling village,
for she created Him
out of herself
she is the framework out of which the mind is able to mundanely manifest itself.
Without her, He would be nothing.
And she is so immeasurably loving and benevolently caring and forevermore giving; for
She is life, she is love.
We are love.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 9:19 PM UTC
"it is an easy day
simple choices
anger is not ugly
anymore
i have found you
you who have hurt me"
such a simple song
from the love bed bleeding
from the tears in the mirror
from the drama decieving
the star of the show
emerges victorious
arms in the air
the black stallion tramples
the peasants in the field
the dark angel slays
the love-lorn
the powerless
stuck in vanity
we survey our choices
and assault the weak
it is an easy day
slaying windmills
with shadow rage
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 3:24 PM UTC
It's a travesty to tolerate
The ugly mores of men,
When everyone's allowance
Condones release for them.
Where everywhere provision
Is made for man to shove,
And woe betide the meek
Who don the feathers of a dove
The world applauds the forceful,
Rewards are rich for he
Who tramples over daisies
And holds aloft the key.
Who forces his attentions
And speculates the win,
Despite the devastation wrought
In winning it for him.
It's a travesty to tolerate
This bovine charge of man
When all can be achieved
With an accommodating plan,
When compromise and levity
See consideration's way
Where success can be attained
With out bloodletting on the day.
I hear the snort of your derision,
Feel the snigger in your smile,
See the curl of lip descending
With your slit eyes of defile.
For this portraiture is global
The fighting man is King
And he who deviates
Is left bereft and vanquishing.
Sadness is the matador
Who casts his scarlet cloth,
To be shredded and impaled
By a maddened bullock's wrath.
To be tossed aside, asunder
Like a lifeless ragged doll,
Like mankind's brute tomorrow
When the final drums do roll.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
29 November 2009
Nov 28, 2009
Nov 28, 2009 at 7:17 PM UTC
You’d be surprised
What can be accomplished
With your eyes sealed to the world
Stumbling in and out of love
With the wrong person,
The right person
Standing still while
The crowd moves about
And you face the opposite direction
Awaiting the joy
Coveted and insured from bloom
As it swims past your bones like a ghost
The miles you drive
Without taking the sights
Or abiding the lines
You can point and shoot
You can win or lose
But it holds no concern
It’s the feeling of knowing you’re lost
But cease to admit
Because it looks like life
There is no sleep to be had
When you shut your eyes to the world
Just an endless reaching for the walls you built
Maintain balance
So no one suspects
And tramples the comfort you found
They only see brown rust in your eyes
If you never show the raw burning red
And the vacancy of motive
Nothing hurts so bad
If you don’t stare directly at it
Or ignore it altogether
But when you finally open them
Don’t be skittish about what you’ve found
It’s only happening one blink at a time
War and drugs
And wars on drugs
And automatic guns
Disease and regret
And misleads and misread
And greed over guilt
Smiles and words
All things absurd
Hunger and cures
Lies and truths
Bigotry and fake news
Decay of education
Tribalism
Bibles
Prisons
Capital
Collateral
Intangibles
But you’ve pulled back the curtains
And you’ve drawn in the light
So you must never again close your eyes
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
I feel them staring, glaring --
I'm never sure.
My mind rewinds
to a different shore,
where fish have armored skin
that protects them from
pressures of Earthen spin.
They have legs like fingers,
the fish, the people,
that tramples me, samples me
until I'm withered, feeble.
The stares are like bugs,
striding across with curious rage.
Biting, learning, living
in the hollow of my rib cage.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 4:56 PM UTC
The silver shorelinings break waves of thunder against the sand.
An electric ocean pulling me with its magnetic current.
Mountains in Mumbai and bellowing valleys in the Chilean drop.
Scattered soles, cloned from mud and dirt and snow prints.
India bubbles and burns and
Spain tramples my chest.
Italy wavers voices of the ghosts of the canals.
My soul is burning for the countryside and the delicate embrace of my mother earth.
I can feel the sunset whispering my bones into full sprint.
-P.S.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
Writer
[noun]
someone who cultivates raw dirt to produce a single flower, blooming from the depths of their soul;
but grows addicted to its presence --beauty amongst darkness.
and in attempt to conceal the muddy reality, develops a garden with lavish, beautiful flowers--
of assorted variety, with unique traits of every flower and indistinguishable as stars in the night sky;
but harsh winter tramples with intricate footsteps, the petals tragically withered and torn as the writer's heart
their watery eyes acknowledging the dirt once more.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC