"trespassing" poems
Touch it: it won't shrink like an eyeball,
This egg-shaped bailiwick, clear as a tear.
Here's yesterday, last year ---
Palm-spear and lily distinct as flora in the vast
Windless threadwork of a tapestry.
Flick the glass with your fingernail:
It will ping like a Chinese chime in the slightest air stir
Though nobody in there looks up or bothers to answer.
The inhabitants are light as cork,
Every one of them permanently busy.
At their feet, the sea waves bow in single file.
Never trespassing in bad temper:
Stalling in midair,
Short-reined, pawing like paradeground horses.
Overhead, the clouds sit tasseled and fancy
As Victorian cushions. This family
Of valentine faces might please a collector:
They ring true, like good china.
Elsewhere the landscape is more frank.
The light falls without letup, blindingly.
A woman is dragging her shadow in a circle
About a bald hospital saucer.
It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper
And appears to have suffered a sort of private blitzkrieg.
She lives quietly
With no attachments, like a foetus in a bottle,
The obsolete house, the sea, flattened to a picture
She has one too many dimensions to enter.
Grief and anger, exorcised,
Leave her alone now.
The future is a grey seagull
Tattling in its cat-voice of departure.
Age and terror, like nurses, attend her,
And a drowned man, complaining of the great cold,
Crawls up out of the sea.
41.9k
*filing
for
a
restraining
order,
you
won't
stop
trespassing
through
my
dreams*
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
i don't
even know him.
i only recognize his vitals
rapidly diminishing on
the screen before me.
i'm wrong, this is wrong,
everything is wrong.
i'm trespassing on
vulnerability.
he knows;
he gets it --
how this place
can make you
feel like hell
without even
trying.
if belief were among
my faults, indeed
it would **** me to
scroll again
(and again)
through artificial
papyrus, through
reeds and lights
and electronics;
because every
new click
brings another
wrench.
tug at the
heartstrings;
what heartstrings?
these leave nothing behind.
because of you,
i am destroyed.
i am assimilated,
i am protein.
because of you,
i am denatured.
turn down your flame, nolan,
there isn't enough fuel
for you to burn so
brightly
for so
long.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
i just want to stay up all night
writing, perhaps.
haikus & slam poetry, written in all caps.
watching the starry sky
with a handsome stranger,
running red lights and trespassing
regardless of danger.
maybe a late-night drive
with the windows rolled down,
a romantic stroll
through this sleepy town.
how about a midnight picnic
with my favorite lover?
whole summer spent promising
there will never be another.
i'll tell you again:
i don't care what we do,
because anything becomes everything
when i'm doing it with you.
-a.c.b
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
There once was a time
Gone by, gone by,
Picking blackberries till the vine was plucked dry.
Pricked finger and the blood of kings
washed the riverbed clean again
paving path for new bled love.
Story of my life: Hot Hand-Grenade.
Tripwire tickled by trespassing travelers
Red wire arteries
clipped and clipped and clipped
and simple minded times when birds sang songs to other birds
and chirped lyrical lines in the dusk.
More wonder. More trust. Less wanderlust.
Dust in the air. Still in the sunlight.
Through glass.
Broke. Fall. Cut. All roads lead to home.
Wood, River, Stone. A guide, a path, alone.
We all walk on our own
Striving for independence
Together.
Now is a time of faded glory, daffodils in freshly-mowed fields.
I still catch myself wishing I had the words to share
The bigness of what's out there.
I still hear myself singing your song of longing.
Still find myself longing for days of childish peace and ignorance
when we could pick blackberries from the bush without bombs falling in our basket.
Still a long way to go to hear the sound of surrender and the silent unfurling of egos into how alone we feel.
Still my heart, that lost love long ago, and surrendered a savior forever.
Hart, of dreams, slip into the stream.
Interstitch the seams.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:55 AM UTC
Passenger seat.
Windows down.
Sun in my eyes.
Love sits on my left.
And there's trust
In the breeze.
We create little expeditions,
Until the real freedom comes.
Adventure glints in both set of eyes,
And we long for that day
When the world is completely ours.
As for now,
We walk on the edge of the limits,
Trespassing sometimes.
The wind blows through our hair
The sun gleams in our curious eyes.
One day we will never be apart.
One day adventure will have no limits.
I try not to complain,
For the adventure will always be there,
Paitiently waiting for us.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
The body remembers, though it has been
four years since the summer you shattered your
knee but still limped out across the continent
to Boston to see him you idiot and
this is the fourth summer you've placed between
yourself and the last pin and the last *****
your body remembers, though in the
torturous lengthening of fused and toughened tissues
the bad leg is finally catching up,
and the scar with its ten numb inches of
puckered track has come to fade bone white
against your skin
but it’s still stored somewhere
in your sockets or cells and when you fall off your bike you still cry
Though you’re not really hurt your body remembers
So that when you’re confronted with their engagement photo
(you didn’t even know he was seeing anyone)
the darkened garden at the Plymouth Plantation
begins to bloom up around you before you can stop it
like a seizure or a vision, and you’re there again
trespassing after him through shadowy pines
and night-damp atlantic air
to where the white chairs encircle the altar.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
Does it make you feel powerful to tell me that
I do not own my body?
Do you get satisfaction from looking down on me
from the pedestal you’ve clawed and crawled your way onto?
Tell me,
does it make you feel good to threaten me
with words that come out of your mouth so empty
but land on my shoulders so heavy
Tell me,
do you get high from the nauseous look in her eyes
as she meets yours, slowly trespassing along her body?
Does it sound like music to hear the tremble in her voice,
look like art to see her to resent her femininity,
feel like silk to touch what you have no business touching?
Tell me what it is.
Tell me what you think you can get from me,
what it is you think I owe you.
Tell me that it is necessary, justify your theft –
Do you feed off of dehumanization,
can you pocket the profit from her sense of security,
shelter yourself with their rights, their body, their life?
Where did you learn to value your impulses over her innocence?
Where did you learn to assert yourself where you do not belong?
Where did you learn to rip a woman apart piece by piece
starting with her dignity and ending with her self-worth?
Tell me,
what does it feel like to own your body?
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
Turn the tables
tumble through tears
totalitarian thespians trying tired themes
Tanned tenants thrive
trespassing turtles turn towards tornadoes
Tested trees tower tall
tomorrow terrifies Timetraveller Tom.
Again and again
I have to make my choice
between your fiery face and the endless maze
But then I remember
my heart is made up of
a thousand tiny
Belgian Waffles
A thousand tiny Belgian Waffles.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
It is the most intimate a situation he had ever found himself in.
On a public transport, after someone had left their roost,
He had replaced himself in their seat.
An odd sensation went through him as he sat down,
The feeling that he was trespassing in someone else's skin,
Learning things about them they hadn't meant to leave behind.
He felt their warmth, the way the seat contoured to them
And he knew not their name.
There were feelings left in the seat
Sadness, depression and pain saturated the resting place,
Yet something lifted his heart out of his chest,
Rising from his perch and flying to the sky.
Hope had also been found through the prior resident,
Remaining in the seat like a lost wallet.
He drew on this remarkable gift amid the monotony of the rocking subway;
The gratification he felt toward this unknowing Maecenas was not to be extinguished,
At least for that one blissful moment found on
Public transportation.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC
In my garden
A climber grows
From the trellised platform
It strays its way
Trespassing into others territory
Annoying the plants
Growing close
Its emerald leaves
Of bright glossy sheen
With serrated edge
And prominent veins
Trembling and timorous
When whipped by the wind
Is a real delight to view!
Close to monsoon
It is in flower
The heavy clusters
Droop down in weight
A medley of white, pink and red
Languidly swaying in the breeze
Giving off a faint aroma
Early morning I see them
Tear stained
I wonder what makes them cry
Do they lament their transient fate?
Or are they sad,
Molested by amorous bees?
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
Against the perimeter of my childhood backyard
cluttered rows of privet hedges produced
tiny ruby berries, easily crushed if stepped on.
They always fell from the branches
in the slightest trail of wind.
Cougars prowled my playground.
My parents, hesitant to let me out alone,
planted the bushes
in the hopes the cougars would
eat the Ligustrum ovalifolium and never return.
I knew the berries were toxic
and could make me ***** more than what I consumed,
a time bomb in my stomach.
Mother said the poison could make
me shiver harder than a winter day.
When, once, I raised a berry to my lips
Mother plunged forward
and slapped it out of my fingers,
a strange mixture of anger and concern in her eyes.
I was never to pick one again.
I didn’t understand the problem
until I saw two cougars laying behind a privet—
a mama and her cub
no longer breathing in sync.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
I am darkness
a souless being trapped
within a world of expectations,
where we live for nothing
aside from our need to please
whomever we deem fit to be
worth suffering for.
Death looms around every corner
sneaking and leaking through
the walls and into the cavernous slits
dug deep into the unstable barriers of my
demented, sickened, disturbed mind.
I see nothing but never-ending black space
spanning for miles in every direction
but, sometimes, a flicker of light illuminates
a single line across my path
scratching through the key holes of
the hundred of doors, always locked,
protecting the world from my wrath and
holding me hostage
until Insanity offers its hand
to lead me to my only escape.
She is light
the brightness I've seen so rarely.
Her world, one of complete coherence
where everything serves its destined purpose
a cold world I know not of
but she is always so warm
so happy
and knows nothing of
the torment caused by that
blinding, taunting ray
trespassing into my world
my darkness
my home.
Sometimes, though,
it breeds hope of a better future
where her purity and
my evil nature can collide
morphing into an electrifying New
and it can be ours, together.
Then the beam dissipates
and I am alone,
again
until my nightmares welcome me back
and devour my soul until I drown
in my own destiny.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
I was a banana slug
caught trespassing
in the center of your house.
I felt nervous and
out of place when
you found me and
put me in a jar then
stared at my slimy sunrise body.
I thought
surely this will be the end of me
I will be killed.
through the glass I spied
your heart beating
for me as you picked it up
like a carriage and
carried me back to
a turquoise valley that
was familiar and beautiful and
released me in the rain.
looking back I remember thinking
about what all I must go through
to get back inside your house.
because I loved the way you were staring at me.
the way your heart was beating for me was new.
and now that feeling is lost.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
Ex's
I am a part of all of them
even the ones I hate.
Maybe especially the ones I hate.
They are transferred paint
after the fender ******
at the unfortunate intersection
of fate and bad timing.
Not enough damage to make a difference.
Not even enough impression that
you care to be bothered changing your schedule
to repair it.
But every time you leave the house,
and on every lap around the chariot,
you see a trespassing color screaming
of either their bad decision.........or yours.
Sometimes it seems there are more accidents
than pleasant Sunday drives.
I suppose most encounters must be accidents
until we find the uncluttered road to our destiny.
L.E. was life shift
and napkins.
I didn't even know I needed napkins
when I had paper towels in the house.
I Jones for napkins these days.
D.B. was college
and fashion.
Shiny shoes moved her to the soul of my feet.
Now Kiwi polish
smells like foreplay to me.
N.R. was forbidden
and my piano teacher.
I hated practice, she loved to kiss
The oral exam was one of my best finals.
I like tests more than most people today.
J.T. was a cougar
and Tchaikovsky connoisseur.
Maturity was uncovered, along with adult lessons
about carpet knap and fireplaces.
I am Pavlov's dog in the strings of Symphony #6.
L.J. was adventure
and abandon.
She is a grassy carpet over a live train tunnel
in a memory I should regret, but don't.
She is the crossbeam in my permanent smile.
I am an estrogen inspired creation
finding purpose in soft fleshy motivation.
I am who I am
because of their compunctions and compulsions.
They scraped off on me
in the kamikaze journey to fight loneliness.
But in the dive I learned -
grace is humbling when you don't deserve it,
toilet paper has a perfect delivery direction,
I get the right side of the bed,
you shouldn't say anything
you don't want to hear again,
it's my job to take out the trash,
shutting your mouth sooner than you think
is almost always the better choice,
you can never have enough closet space,
and some experiences are so good
that you should never try to repeat them again.
She may be gone forever.
And we may not be able to have
a decent conversation for the rest of our lives.
But God knows
I'll always have napkins.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
The sun is hiding away from the Moon
The dish found the courage to divorce the spoon
Little Bo Peep is left alone with her sheep
But doesn't know if they are going to stay
Little Miss Muffet is crying into her curds and whey
Jack cheated on Jill
So she pushed him down the hill
The grand old duke heard the news
and locked her up in jail
Humpty Dumpty was having a snooze
Fell off the wall, now can't afford to pay the bail
The Poor old egg is yet to be mended
So the fairytale has ended
Goldylocks accused the bears of being violent
But she's a trespassing theive so the town stayed silent
The wolf got tired of knocking the pigs houses down
So they go to the pub and it's always his round
Some have broken hearts and some are befriended
One things for sure, the fairytale has ended
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
the pull of a stare
a flicker of sparks
eyes meet so sweet
caught in the stare
cheek to lips a gentle brush
desire delivers in the click of a lock
hands clutch tight on your neck
a gripping strength, a slow squeeze
the mind dazed, a hunt to breathe
hardwired impulse, to a raw surging force
reaching, touching, the rise stricken
claws at hands in a grip
the steadfast capture
enforce of an iron reap
the heat and hiss of a monster
sounds a sharp slice in your ear
tears fall for God’s wretched care
the kiss dry's upon your cheek
final is so clear
a silent suffocation
an impression sincere
pain defends the will to suffer
wounds heal and fade
separates the mind free to fear
a look of your outline is everywhere
turning quick to catch the heavy stare
caught off guard bows down to despair
the power deprived is no longer mine
broken twisted places it deep inside
drowning beneath a shallow surface
paralyzed by the danger of your kiss
stopped by a red light remembrance
fingers still search and retrace
the dignity ravaged in a waste
incapable of trust
I live buried alive
I look for you everywhere
I sleep on the furthest edge of a cliff
I wake trespassing the abyss
Terry D'Arcy-Ryan
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
The sheep are swimming in the Nile; they must be living in denial!
Denial is our best friend, the constitution we must amend!
Guns are our mortal enemies; their only use is to commit felonies
To stop these tragedies, we must impose harsher penalties!
There is no wolf, we will not die; there’s no need to put your life on the line
Sheepdogs are for the paranoid, those who live in a void
Remove the sheepdog and the enemy goes away, to happiness this is the true way
Ban the wolf with a no trespassing sign, surely we’ll be fine
Respect and common courtesy, the wolf will live in harmony
Close our eyes and he goes away, all we have to do is pray
Our herd used to be bigger; we don’t ask questions as long as our denial can deliver
Until our children are in the fire, then the sheepdog we require
But the sheepdog is out of practice, we fired him for “malpractice.”
Ruined by us, he looks no better than us – but he’s not like us
The sheepdog is weak; his sheep made him an antique
But his mind is strong and he’s eager to **** the evil and wrong
Wolves are predators, feeding on the weak; it’s denial they seek
The sheep will never fight, but pray the sheepdog is able to take up their plight
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 6:56 PM UTC
Towards the endless horizon,
Accompanied by gold sunsets;
Here lies: the sea –
Luminous and transparent.
Heaven’s cherubim.
I; the impure, mortal soul,
Mesmerised by the captivating
Sight, took a step – trespassing.
Enchanted by the warmth of the sea –
I bathed.
Born anew: cleansed;
Given a second chance.
Nevertheless, did I?
Corrupted by mortal emotion,
I refused my new life;
Stained –
The blue sea with
A crimson sight.
What once were transparent,
Now is obscure.
Tainted with impurities.
It responded.
The sea was,
No more, a tame creature;
Rather, a ravaging force.
The portentous waves,
Dragged me away,
In the depth of the sea.
Shrouded by darkness,
Blinded by my own corruption,
I lost sight…
The golden sunsets –
Mere figments of my imagination.
Alone.
Resentful.
Caged.
By my own emotions.
I lost sight…
Now; I lost my life.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
Scuffing shoes slowly make their way towards a hazy destination.
A few jokes break the relaxing silence of lovely company.
Searching the clustered banks of the shoreline.
Illegal trespassing.
Breaking glass.
Hairless tennis *****
Years of smoothed and broken decay.
No wind.
Rising tide.
All ours.
Happy smiles.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
In school, they used to teach us phrases like:
The fast car, or, The big tree.
But never did they mention the man who,
Upon losing his education like his keys,
Takes a fast car into a big tree-
On purpose.
Then, in school, they taught us drugs are bad,
*** is dope, crack is wack.
Yet never did they once speak of the father who,
Uses drugs to feed his kids,
so that they grow and feed their kids too-
Through purpose.
And, in school, they showed us pictures.
Of Syphilis and AIDS,
To scare us.
But, once again, the graphs and facts were missing,
As though seeing was trespassing upon some truth-
Some purpose.
So I pick up a pen and write:
A suicide story, a poem from the block.
And I sketch a Polaroid of a shaken scene,
Of the things I am not. So that I,
Yes I may lead a life-
With purpose.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
I recall hearing that term once in high school,
"Urban forestry", a paradox, seemingly and yet,
That is exactly what it is.
Strips of land sanction to be aesthetically pleasing.
For whom, I have not a clue.
I would have preferred a lane or so,
Over the regular 8' by 1' square of trimmed trees.
I also grimace within the grace
Of those knotted furled fists toward a sky asking WHY!?
After a much calmer gardener had pondered the same word
Underneath his humming chainsaw
(Though probably for a more debatable material world)
Amongst other cuboid amputations.
Not to mention those solid soldiers
Whose attention is really standing dead in plain sight until
Wrinkled pavement is not enough ground to hold.
Then our hero makes local news in an inhumane, absolutely atrocious,
Final act of trespassing, vandalism, homicide, and suicide.
Of course nobody saw it coming.
Undetected and decayed for half a decade.
With so so many Ys it is easier to yelp for for those Xs
Crossing against our assumed perfect grids and parallels
To those stories of stacking passed from older cries
For HELP! Though those did not settle quite so well
So I proceed passing over a particularly loud leaf
Amidst this dry pondering
And snap out of the whats and whys and wheres
To take another look around at my illustrious
Urban Forest.
Unto a more practical pensive test,
Which side of that phrase,
Burdens the winning emphasis?
Well, still warblers and sparrows to inspire a song
For how this within time shall also pass along.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 6:48 AM UTC