"transferring" poems
It seems like a lot of key people in my life are leaving
Or are in the process of leaving
Or already gone.
I often wonder why?
Why leave? Why now?
My grandfather passed away..
My band director quit..
My youth pastor is transferring..
Many influentual people have left.
I don't know what I'm gonna do…..
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
After his eyes explored her as his hands did the same. Working them down from her hips, his fingers explore between her legs; skin smoother than the silk she wore. Sensations coursed through his body, transferring to her flesh. The more he explored her, the more she opened up to him. His hunger and eagerness grew and
she was writhing in pleasure, and her lips started to water, soaking his fingers. He smirked.
Jan 23, 2023
Jan 23, 2023 at 3:53 PM UTC
*We all learned,
the grass is as green as the sky is blue,
but the sunset and sunrise seems to make this untrue.
Now I ask you,
have you heard the tale of the sky?
I can tell you for I have seen it with my eyes,
one day,
there comes a time,
where each of us begin to die,
and where does your spirit flow,
into the wind,
into the skies,
like how your blood is blue until it touches the outside,
the sky is as blue,
as the blood that swims through,
when the sun begins to leave,
the sky becomes purple to grieve ,
this is where the blue and red blood interweave,
eventually the sky goes a rosey pink
and then when the sun has left in a blink,
it gets too dark to even think,
in the night it is blackened blue,
and in the morning it becomes new,
while new souls pass back and forth,
the sky you see is our life force,
transferring lost souls,
and filling the found ones with life,
the sky has many purposes,
besides holding the sun moon and stars,
the sky lives to serve us,
the sky is full of scars,
why on tragic days the sky shines beautifully,
to show us hope is not something to of forgotten,
so now you know the story of the sky,
and you will meet with it the day you die,
and the ones you love will watch you fly.*
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
i met him in 1989 in a study hall class
and haven't forgotten him since.
a month ago,
i found out he had died in 2014.
the girls liked him
he'de tell me what was playing on his walkman
so i listened, learned, put a penny in an envelope
and mailed it off to columbia house
some weeks later i received my 12 cassette tapes.
i quit eating and got creative with eyeliner.
i memorized a lot of cure lyrics and went to study hall
prepared.
the semester ended and we weren't in the same
study hall class anymore. he ended up transferring to another school.
but i still had hope.
i had memorized so many lyrics.
i had gotten my hair cut into an inverted bob
and learned how to dye it black.
it felt like anything was possible
and it felt so good.
the next year
i transfered to the other school, but he wasn't there anymore.
the year after that
i transfered to an even worse school
he was there
finally.
soon after that,
emily became his girlfriend
one day, i ran into them at the park and ride
as i was getting off the bus
we spent the night on the sidewalk
outside of emily's dad's house.
none of us were allowed to go inside,
not even emily.
but emily managed to sneak inside
and stole a jug of homemade alcohol,
which we did not call moonshine.
emily fell asleep with her head in his lap
while we talked, smoked three packs of cigarettes (all mine), and drank the homemade alcohol that her dad had made.
emily wanted to be a fashion designer.
he really believed in emily and her drawings.
the sun came up
and i caught a bus home.
we both ended up
dropping out of highschool.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 8:05 AM UTC
We discovered a master painter
who hand paints intricate flowers
one-by-one to create
a picturesque landscape painting.
In his paintings, a cardinal sits
resting upon a tree branch,
and a monarch butterfly marks
His signature in each painting.
Indian blankets, greenthreads,
brown bitterweed, and Texas thistle -
all vitally important to his paintings.
Therefore, he paints bees to pollinate
the flowers, transferring life-giving
pollen from anther to stigma.
Yes, the master painter places
all of this in his painting with
beautiful intention.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
All is alive with rebirth.
The heat from the golden globe in the sky dries the
Water droplets glistening from the wings of the dragonfly.
Souls are transferring along the silk of the spiders creation.
Ah, reincarnation.
Love, survival , desire, it all binds us.
Superfluous, or not.
It is our goal, we seek, have sought, is it all for naught?
Soulmates, instinctively recognize the other.
Calmness engulfs the energy, draining any memory.
Freedom to be.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
I don't know If I’m Having a Feeling
I don't have any emotions anymore
Or I am dreaming, while I am awake?
Is my mind exploring my feelings?
While seeking happiness in this 18 degree weather?
Baking a melodrama cake,
Pounding away my headaches,
Clearing the path, making way for better
Eggs, butter, flour, sugar and raisins
Raising the bar, with the baking powder
Of transferring my feeling into logic,
As it blend into a smooth non stanza
Poetic form of puppy love, clinching
and all that rises, rise in due degree
And is in everything we see and do.
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 8:07 AM UTC
Orbs with many layered shells.
Floating around, interacting, and multiplying.
When one Orb meets another for the first time,
It's sweet and endearing.
They are shy and awkward, Unsure of how to act.
Communicating using cliched questions and sometimes answers.
Small sparks of energy transferring between them,
Slowly dragging them closer together.
Cracks begin to appear on their outer most shell and
Tendrils of multicolored energies seep out.
The tendrils find each other and a bond is formed.
It's a scary moment, for the bond doesn't always last.
However the two Orbs struggle to keep communicating,
To keep the pure bond that has been formed.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
cyber forces glitching,
itching,
scratching,
hatching,
inside… inside…
further deeper,
latching,
onto body…
onto body…
mind,
soul,
body…
cyber forces becoming
transferring,
creating,
hating
the old,
the old.
new cybernetic soul
born modern,
born modern,
progressive process,
tradition’s torn,
torn.
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 2:14 PM UTC
Straight lines bound the edges,
while it became necessary to spend
the anchor of time lost in the twisting
patterns slowly darkening to supply
the molecules which provided scenery.
The character was divided
between a wolf and the hiker towering
at the pinnacle of the hill to gaze above
the head of the beast across to the vista
of the trail. Roses bloomed, and the ink
was done, to dry while color trickled
in a world comprised through streams
of shivering light reflected from
the mountain, a flower raised by
the frivolous event of cataclysmic times;
the hatchet carved its cliffs to make
a face of empty granite and the soul of
the rock. The delay created a great offer,
considered by erosion, but the hesitation
defied the smoothing influence of climates
and their ages. The rise killed the
enthusiasms of the hiking spirit,
reconstituting the problem, and
the messenger of hilarity was never less
welcome than when enthusiastic about the
confusion of lost victims. Always a few
of these were
in the scenes along the shimmering trails
with their names that changed at inconvenient
turning points until travelers were anxious
to go through the door into the chalet with its
green carpet of moss. The discount welcomed
them, inside, yet there was no great pile
of money and nothing was purchased. Instead,
after the warmth set in, showing determination,
the man with the pack returned to life on
the wild edge of the land. After a command to
the sharp creature that had been pacified by the
impressive displays of civilization, the walker
began to trek, and the wandering dog felt self
respect, the beginning of membership. So, they
belonged to the range, and the traders had plans
to provision them by means of a system of values
arrived to demonstrate available necessities and
equities conceived in the course of bargaining.
This general aspiration was accompanied by the
taciturn response thought to be more pleasant
than the argument and ill will. Prosperity had
been created by serving fate and nature rather
than by transferring property to a singular pit.
The result was an expectation of good deals and
reliable assistance.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
F*ck you for encouraging me to take out more than I needed
F*ck you for not explaining the difference between subsidized and unsubsidized
F*ck you for judging my eligibility based on my parent’s income and not my own
F*ck you for pretending to look out for my best interest
F*ck you for making me decide on whether to pay you, or go to the hospital
F*ck you for harassing me via phone and email
F*ck you for transferring my loans to a different company
F*ck you for asking for money back BEFORE I graduated
F*ck you for asking for money AFTER I graduated with NO job
F*ck you for asking for MORE money after I got a job
F*ck you for transferring my loans to a different company (again)
F*ck you for suggesting a 30year repayment plan
F*ck you for the high interest rates that negate the payments I was able to make
F*ck you for adjusting my repayment plan without my consent
F*ck you for suggesting a lower monthly payment as I crept toward full repayment
F*ck your shoes with the belts on them (Boondocks)
And F*ck Donald Trump
This is America sucka. The land of the free, and home of the brave
Not the sea of debt and house of enslavement
So, Fck you from the bottom of my heart, and if you call me again I’m gonna slap the sht out of you
Goodbye forever
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 5:41 PM UTC
The snow makes this humming noise
Can you hear it?
It’s the noise
That people described
When they were huddled
Around the campfires
Telling ghost stories
Back in the day
When the ground was soaking dry
And the tank top filled days
Ricocheted off of the boys
Chasing Bigfoot thought the cornfields.
The reflection of innocence
Left my mind
When reality kissed me
With her cigarette filled breath.
Leaving me
Cold,
Rusty,
Flaking away
From the radiant skin
That brushed off the cornfields.
The snow makes this humming noise
Can you hear it?
It sounds like my friends
Moving away
From the innocence
And transferring
To the school
Of harsh expectations.
They were forced
To take daily vitamins
Consisting of impractical expectations
Left by the people
Who said that they just couldn't do it.
You see,
My friends didn't follow the boy scout honor,
They left traces of themselves
Behind the cracks of my skull.
The snow makes this humming noise
Can you hear it?
Its sounds like the snow
Is giving a close shave
To the power lines
That crackle with apprehension.
I walk about the desserted Ice cream
That has foamed over the cornfields.
My feet seem to stick
To the people who wants me
To be just like my brother,
Whenever I creep
Through the creek of snow,
I get trapped by the vacant wasteland
All I can do is wait
For I am waiting for jack frost
to **** up my last breaths.
Crushing my soul
With the rhythm
of this humming noise
The snow makes.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
"Push harder" I scream,
As your fists attempt,
To regain a pulse,
And send blood surging through,
My non-existent heart beat.
"Push harder" I scream,
As your lips dampen mine,
Transferring fresh air,
And leaving it to inflate,
My corrupted lungs.
"Push harder" I scream,
As your eyes stream wet tears,
But my mouth remains,
Motionless.
Your screaming for me.
But I can't breath.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
#ElNido
I found no water dripping from my hairtips
As I had that face-to-face look to my fave jeans.
Lost as when I did the transferring of feet,
I thought that departure was quite a break of heart.
The open window has sent me a bright invitation,
Sun's glaring but I never saw her fine reflection.
I felt the Air strolls through my skin
The taste of the floral serum enveloped by the sachet.
I had poured myself with the aquifer's liquor,
The remembrance of the search was over my psyche.
I could still feel the pain that excites my upper muscles
As I tried pushing and pulling to break the ground level.
Cuddling the old reversible jeans, he says I'm Free to Go,
I crowned my soul with an inner bliss and whispered to the Air.
My eyes were shut for a moment, but I was an alliance with them -
Of them whose not emptied yet ** revitalizes my potential**.
One boasts that the Light was completed,
The other has kept me envy his softening skills.
I never thought that there's still hope for dull flying-tips
But they simply say, "It's not the end of bad hair days."
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
Transferring action lit by dim candlelight
Forming sentences by the wind
A tall tale underneath painted purple bed sheets
Mysteries of life and the gatekeeper's lazy hand
A transference of love through the page
Bringing images by words and meter
Peter tempting Gabriel two times or more
Contracts ripped in half by two lover's quarrel
Necessary are these hours
Staring far into the stars
Nodding not into sleep, for
That
Is too easy
I nod for the scent of freshly shampooed wet hair
Or the glance of the eye downward from shyness
A tell that all is not stable, though both are quite able
To take what they will if they wanted if they could
An annoyance
Like the ***** of a finger on a rose petal
Ironic
Like stubbing one's toe
On your recently bought golden toilet bowl
Fresh are you, fruit of the Mid west
The snow in your hair never melts
Consequence beseeches you, fair angel
My heart is but a spool of yarn, fallen and tangled
Quick, in first gear
To the rear go the spears
Holy water pipes and
Misinformed volcanoes are but a wish
To see destruction
On what we familial souls
Claiming belief in what we love
What does one need other then
A room with a key and lock?
These men and women who flock
To shiny office and cloud piercing cathedrals
Are mere coffins ***** and metal
Lost in flight
Reaching for a moon that does not wish
To house us
Another night passes.
The dawn is quick to rise.
Mornings moon disappears
From sight behind the trees
And the marble fountain made
For the phantom of petty monarchy.
And though the phrase
Is spoken in a nightingales song
Does not mean that a razor doth hide
Underneath the tip of the
Very same tongue
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
He thinks about the grocery bags
Crawling around the sidewalk
Like dying jellyfish
Thinks about sheets
And how cold the other side of the bed can get
You know most days I stand like a windmill with my mouth open
just trying to catch my breath
And I am just trying to get some sleep
And I want
You
To leave me alone
She kicks her feet into the air
Not knowing what feet are
Or why they move that way
Bits of white are breaking skin in her gums
Like a compound fracture of the jaw
Her fingertips are ****** from chewing
Her tears settle
He realizes we are not ones for not hurting
As much as we are ones for transferring pain
Your mother wanted me to get a goldfish
Or some plants before we had you
But I never saw the purpose in caring for
Something that is trying to die on me
As quickly as I am
And now
All I have is you
Her eyes are wet and glassy
Chin dimples like moon craters
She is so much softer than he is
He places the tip of his finger to her gums
She bites down
It hurts
But for whatever reason
He finally catches his breath
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC
And I'm here in this little glass house,
On display for the robots next-door --
The last of human life
Trapped in a box with translucent locks
In this paradisiacal paradox.
The suburbs are where dreams go to die.
Look at that cool-guy dad of three
With a car from 1970
Who doesn't get a wink of sleep,
And for dinner he eats batteries.
He wasn't supposed to be like this,
Spending more time with his therapist
Than with his mechanizing kids.
Love is sending them as far away as possible
Before they're condemned to your same tragic fate.
Their precious internal organs are slowly being swapped and traded with engine parts,
So that their chests hum rather than beat --
And wheels are used more often than feet.
Extension cords for intestines
And oil for blood,
Plug them in to sleep at night
So that they may be fully charged and operational tomorrow.
They are constantly being programmed in the greatest form of mass production known to man.
(Well, what's left of him.)
Cookie cutter children with magnetic hands,
Always grabbing and attracting new parts to attach to themselves.
Chewing microchips like bubblegum,
Transferring data as a form of fun.
It's "cool-guy dad 2.0."
He's outdated now,
Useless apart from nurturing the new generation that will ultimately cause his demise.
Oh, what a time to be alive.
To be a human on display in an industrial neighborhood.
(And don't even get me started on the soccer moms.)
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
Alone
it's a state of mind, a feeling,
a tangible description
The clearest form of loneliness
Comes
From being surrounded.
That's when realization hits.
those people have those people
they group together over there.
Overheard whispers attack your brain
like parasites
******* all the self confidence
out. Transferring it to self-Doubt
when you realize you're Lonely--
that's when you really are.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
Isolated fog and silents,
The morning brisk,
Dense sunlight from above,
Over casting rays, reflecting
in from out the dusk of rising sunset,
transferring inside our humble abode ,
The tenderness of your body heat,
The radiance of your glowing shine skin,
glistening,
The sculptured body,
That forms beneath the unfurnished sheets,
The gradient, bitten flesh red,
pump lips,
The complexion of perfection of jealousy,
A jaw line precisely traced onto a bare canvas,
Soft faint eyes,
Infatuated,
Oh,
How much it yearns for a delicate touch,
Capturing the sensual moments and gestures,
Making it difficult to contain,
My immoral, dishonest, corrupted,
thoughts,
Motives,
To impurify the innocents,
from the beginning,
I've polluted everything, markings of lust,
Love,
Unfair but
Unregretful,
Unbelievable,
This is mine.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
when an angel loses its wings they have to take an escalator. nobody points and laughs. nobody cries either.
its probably the silence that hurts the most. just like when i had to take an escalator. i felt like a teachers pet transferring schools for a military parent. hell i almost felt like the class pet fireball the splotchy hamster dying overnight.
all of you paying your respects
downraining the playground flowers
all because we shared the same battle or discomfort or inconvenience and then we had to part ways and maybe you’ll think of me sometime
because when an angel loses its wings and they have to take an escalator it seems like a really really empty department store at the bottom
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
At 10:20pm on a Tuesday night
The number 14 bus is full
Bright, glistening, and fevered
These tired commuters expend vast energies
on wishing they lived here—so they’d be home by now.
Transients—the unhoused—talk in believable lies
About Portland’s oldest bridges
And salmon runs in the Willamette
And every time the bell signals a stop requested
Those of us remaining heave another sigh of delay.
At SE Cesar Chavez, which was 39th when I was growing up,
More people get off than on—
A man in a brutal cavity t-shirt,
A 30-something in a grey hoodie –
Both transferring, probably, to the line 75.
I get off around 47th,
Pass the long-closed and over-priced vintage furniture shop,
Cross the street at the fading crosswalk,
Pass a bar, a home cooking joint with and early bird special of $2.95,
Another bar, and a lonely busker playing guitar and singing Weezer.
In my building, on my floor, the hallway always smells like chicken
I’ve yet to cook, to even finish unpacking
But all of this already feels familiar
My first night’s commute home
And I am as practiced and nonchalant as a New Yorker in the City…
At least as much as a Portlander can be in Portland.
I’ll have wine, or tea,
Put on my lounging clothes
And settle into an evening alone
As if I’ve been doing this forever
As if we never were.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
it doesn’t make sensE
it doesn’t feel righT
like brushing froM
end to rooT
similar to runninG
up the descendinG
exhausted. It doesn’t makE
sense. Craving yoU
sighing. Writing a poeM
when i should bE
writing truths. howlinG
thrashing, Despising, but sittinG
transferring thoughts on whY
it doesn’t make sensE
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:49 PM UTC
....A Love of the heart beats in a timelessness. ..
True lovers are ancient in each-other,
they've slept inside one another's hearts, forgotten each-other, forgotten themselves, only to come back and wake up to fall asleep again in various forms across the ages.
Love is eternal,
transferring one life to another,
a reincarnated affair tricking us and challenging our knowing of self in order to come back to our very own gateway of truth.
Love is seeing ourselves in another and given a gift to celebrate it,
through the beauty of another and as a reflection of your purest self,
you celebrate in Union.
Love is ancient, all lovers have lived inside each-other.
There's an unforgotten memory of the heart that knows
such Lovers share One beating heart
in two human shells.
...A Love of the heart beats in a timelessness...
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
Sensing the year which twists **** out and last
A break in the mold that I never said I knew
How fast can the mind move?
The human mind move?
Is this another theory in a relative world roaring
Moving like the vibration of a trolley car train
A memory emoted like Beethoven's last movement
To listen is to hear the sounds of the world
To breathe is to kiss mother nature
Behind the ear
A sight will always be a fright if looked upon all night
These voices
These ridicules
These echoes of shadows that illuminates the naked cave of tomorrow
Is a thought transferring from one time to the next
No vision is seen
It is felt within
Throughout these picket white fences
Lay the dormant seed of corrupted obsession
Twinkling at a first glance
Dancing the joker's prance
With bells that light up exploding into all of our eyes
These were the thoughts of a man thought putrid yet divine
And soon
These dinner bells that we thought of so well
Will evaporate like the first fog
On a virtual shore
We are the shadows in the night that pressed on
Because that is all there is to do
Press on
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 9:40 PM UTC