"tripwire" poems
With regards to Thomas Sayers Ellis
Look at the
Lucent lava lamps,
Dark craters
Hiring hands.
We walked,
Mimicking magma.
Hot, why is
This heat?
Forget Vulcan
And his illusion
Of kaleidoscopes,
A rip tide
On the shore
Of our conscious minds.
We held fire,
Pretending to swim
Underground,
But only out
Of pure respect.
Some had boots
Made with
The clippings
Of funky tripwire,
Others wore suits
With goggles
Clamped to their faces,
Gripping like
Bay Area earthquakes.
One-by-one,
Jang-strangs were
Attached to us and
Hurled into the Pit
With rhythmic rituals,
Waves of S and P
Flailed away
Like flags.
One nation
Under a new.
No one looked away
From the fiery daze.
No one wept.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:31 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
blank stare
balancing on spinal columns
tripwire produced by mitochondria
four million breaks
i have the answers to the world carved into my torso
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
"Between an uncontrolled escalation and passivity, there is a demanding road of responsibility that we must follow."
-Dominique de Villepin
If I had a nickel-plated
anything, I'd eat it
and tell everyone
I'm a robot.
If I had a head full
of wires, I'd roll my
eyes and say
They're called cords.
If I had a crate of screws
and nails, this town would
have a lot more to worry
about.
If I had the bones of a
tiger, I would miss my
stripes every time.
Tripp'd on the tripwire.
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 4:33 AM UTC
seven wonders: the phenomena of the human condition in seven parts
1. the broken heart
the “humpty dumpty” syndrome, where you couldn’t be put back together again
the replaying your last words until I *****
the part where I was drunk on your lips
and now I’m just drunk.
the part where you pretend this pain isn’t tangible,
that you can’t die from the break; from the flowers growing in your lungs
2. lost
a child, wayward
a blank space and the search for gravity, stability-
it’s the theme of your nightmares,
the thud thud of a tiny, panicked heart.
but, you don’t know the real definition of lost
until you’re a nomad in your own cranium
3. loss
4. disaster
nature obscura;
picasso reimagined.
the breeze pushes the seat of a swing set,
and in that moment nothing aches more than the way that swing misses children,
or how the ground yearns for feet.
chernobyl: a mass eviction
5. war
desolation; annihilation. this is what we’ve become.
I don’t believe in god (maybe nobody does), and
in this game of chance, a tango on a tripwire
there is no space for a deity;
telling ourselves that fighting for your country is a salvation
as we try to justify holocaust
6. ignorance
as the sunrise sets the clouds on fire
you try to reject the possibility that not all is good
it’s a comfort;
it’s bliss;
it’s your coffin and your funeral
7. death
better to burn out than fade away
a spray of stars, smouldering ash
we all have to go one day.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
when god closes a door he opens a window
so home is a ghost town, open your eyes
(I see right ****** through you)
so neverever leave me neverever stay
tripwire tourniquet (I never meant to be this way)
when god puts his foot down he takes your hand
in scripture in the starlight - here
I'm better better lost than loved
(when god kills a flower he rips it by the roots)
so I neverever left you (cause I neverwoulda stayed)
I hope I pray you didn't love me that way
so my ghost sits in the kitchen and
(someday I hope you'll run)
when the river comes give up, my love
(I'm gone I'm gone I'm gone)
when god builds a home he buries it
red cheeks sad eyes (I neverever meant you to stay)
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
deep fried kool-aid in a purple Intrepid
the scepter of our Grief; falters
the Orion of our Agonies in the Least-ville of our Nova !
i'm about to outshine !
but before i can condemn my most recent assault
on God's little Plan.... I thought i might Jam the Signal
with a volley of Pretension
in the wane Valleys of the Seldom
and the Orange Jews.
i'm in my hard January and your Carnival, rivals my Fantastic...
you'd rather my dark be sunlit travesties, to Parade before the court of Desire
behind a chain-linked rinse. these snowflakes
are the ones with teeth.
not the ones you meant.
blue whales can hear us Dying, from Here.
And You still Think i love you
the haggard crags of our elliptical wards against a Pleasant Breakfast
the scuttled broth of sour tyranny and Nonsense
you abscond with -
the virtue of our wizardry, aligned with Hostile Invalids
From Beyond !
have i said much ?
have i begun to plunder the tripwire epiphany
of the rogue star from the Unknown ?
I'm in my hard January and the Spring in Winter's failing
is a Crossing.
And a Dread
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
I've dropped a weight
A larger anchor than fate
When I tell myself I can't escape
Bound by my brain’s mistakes
The future is a starless sky
Here in my tripwire mind
When you come to deliver me
Remind me to respect your loyalty
I might forget and wind up, silent
With no consciousness left to care
Left to care about your warm touch
Left to care when you pick me up
I’m scared, if you can’t be there
in the middle of the mayhem
the results of my tripwire mind
fading away at the worst of times
When you come to pick me up
Your touch will be the way to the
Heavens above, the Heavens above
When I think I’ve had enough
Never enough of your loyalty
in your love, your love
The loyalty in your love
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
Stretched out my
sight line
like a tripwire trying
to catch someone
off-guard
and you
wandered into it,
stumbled slightly,
yet still
I was the one
who fell.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
The day sits waiting in it's pear-shaped
room, one of the vacant eyed occupants of other, older,
occupied chairs.
The day crosses it's knees, one leg
over the other as a white flag,
resignation.
The day wants it's peace,
it fought the world wars, caught it's reflection aged,
tripped over itself
calling itself out, a
tripwire
unravelled.
This day knows it won't live tomorrow,
knows it's wanted blind and poor, so waits
waits
in a waiting room,
wasting the room's air in an exchange of
silent
blows.
This day is counting down it's losses, putting
all of it's seconds in a jam jar.
And there are screams never externalised, legs never uncrossed,
paperweights weighing less than those they push to the floor, and
this day is
screaming,
this day is
flailing
from the inside out in the form of folded linen,
inconspicuous on a plastic chair.
This day holds
up the moon,
hears it's laughter and falls through the cracks
in the tide.
His knuckles aren't
connected to his fingertips and
shoulders feet apart
from the spine,
the spine crossing one leg over the other in a pear-shaped room
with fingertips tapping at themselves, writhing into an hourglass formation.
This day is holding
up the walls.
Count this day lost when your eyes skip it, miss it, dance past it
in a waiting room.
Count this day screaming
when you wake up tomorrow.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
Nosy Knuckler, too tough
for the rugged, tugboat huffing
the mud puddle's summit.
Home-bound with that lighthouse
stumble; strapped to the grin
with a sailor's plummet.
He's white face like the page he evades; weighted down by the surplus day-to-day What's the race?
Buckle down inertia coupled
with Challenger assertion
ushers in a mind tripwire explosion
of tick-tack proportion.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
--------
I’m sick & tired of people/
I want the company of angels/
So I scribble over faces/
And they all think I’m crazy/
Story of my life/
This world could break anyone/
I need a brake... anyone?/
Not of the psychotic kind/
CRASH!/
Jump through a window like a flaming hoop/
A thousand dead mosquitoes on the floor/
I hate the smell of elephant/
Mousehowling at a painted moon/
And even if the grass were fluorescent green/
I’d still find a rabbithole to fester in/
Rat with wings perched on alligator head/
Tripwire heartstring crocodile tears/
The fabric of time is a rag with holes in it/
I wear it like a ghost, and see things/
I shouldn’t... but it’s never too late/
At least that’s what I say to myself every night/
Then can’t wake up in the mourning/
Sleep deprivation distorts my perception/
Black, cracked mirror image staring/
Back at me.../
And what does it mean/
When our movements are out of sync?/
And what does it mean/
When our movements are out of sync?/
And what does it mean/
When our movements are out of sync?/
Imperfect loopage/
Fluid karma in my cold veins.../
Replica still there in reflection/
Soaking wet, and talking backwards/
Hardly ever straightforward/
Mostly kinda roundabout/
Something about our cell?/
I’m hella lost in translation/
But something like.../
Never stop trying to detox/
And when you wanna punch a wall/
Beat dead horses to a ****** pulp./
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 2:39 AM UTC
I had a butterfly net
Hoping to catch a friend
But little did I know
The net was full
Of holes
I had a fishing line
Hoping to catch a partner
But what I did not know
Was the bait
Had swum away
I had a wire trap
Hoping to catch a soulmate
But somehow
The tripwire
Was broken
So I gave up hunting
And packed my things away
Ready for the dust to settle
And for me to
Be alone
But instead of that
I myself got trapped
In your loving arms
And sweet soft smile
I am caught
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC
Love is like an abandoned building
It can come crashing down at any moment
Trust is like a tripwire
One false move and its all over
Honesty is like me
Sometimes your wanted and other times your not
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
Revenant of my mind
Lurking in the rotten hollows etched in my memory of a rainy day
Tripwire strung through my subconscious
The taste of coffee in my mouth
Warmth in my hands,
white steam and cold air.
You rise from the dead
turn it to ash
howl into the void
claw with dead broken fingers
as I suffocate the though of you
and take another sip
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:49 AM UTC
The man had a terrible temper,
Would rage at the skies above,
Would screech and howl, like a midnight owl,
He’d been unlucky in love.
He’d stomp about in the village square,
Go out, and look for a fight,
The villagers always avoided him
When he’d roam around at night.
Then he’d come and knock at my own front door
Demanding to talk to Jill,
I’d hear her say from the passageway,
‘I don’t want to talk to Bill!
I’d had enough when he beat me up
And my heart would never heal,
Just tell him I’m sticking with you, my love,
I know that your love is real!’
He’d punch the door, then he’d stand and roar
So I’d slam the door in his face,
He kicked a panel across the floor
And I said I’d call the police!
I heard him muttering as he left,
‘Come out, I’ll give you a fight,
Tell Jill she’s dead if she’s in your bed,
I’ll call in the dead of night!’
I took the hammer and nails outside
And battened the shutters down,
Then strung an electrical tripwire that
Would pulverise the clown,
‘The man’s as mad as a meat axe, Jill,
Bi-Polar, that’s for sure,’
‘More of a schizophrenic, Jim,
‘Be sure to bar the door.’
We’d sit in a petrified silence in
The cottage, every night,
Listening for the slightest sound
If something wasn’t right,
The roof would creak as the timber cooled
And the wind soughed through the eaves,
We even strained by the window panes
At the patter of Autumn leaves.
‘How long are we going to put up with this,’
I said to Jill, one morn,
‘He’s tempting fate by the garden gate,
He’s been there since the dawn.’
‘I’m going to have to confront him,’ said
The darling of my life,
I hadn’t proposed to her just then
But I hoped she’d be my wife.
She walked on out to the garden gate
And I heard him raise his voice,
I couldn’t quite make his words out, but
He was giving her a choice.
Then Jill I heard in a voice that stirred
From the depths of a gravel pit,
And he went white with a look of fright
And he left, and that was it!
‘What did you say to the maniac
That he turned and went away?’
She smiled, and cuddled on into me,
‘I think I made his day.
I said that I’d go back home with him
But I’d poison his meat and drinks,
Or slit his throat when asleep one night…’
He hasn’t been back here since!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
Besotted winged pollinators
roistering barrage drowned
amidst general insectivorous cacophony
indistinct auditory signals communicated
intermingled with bounteous wafting fragrance
midwifed edenic floral pullulation
sensate admixture viz colored spectrum
amidst unrehearsed extemporaneous
orchestral suite bedded lambs
amorous ewe man like bleating songs
nature all aflutter actively socially vociferating
profuse living color rainbow pastiche
teeming soundgarden smorgasbord
cornucopia ignites mordent Utopian aural swath
visual vistas stilling spellbinding
spilling riotous carpeted web
uniting doubting Thomas's existentialism
despite unanswered queries
asper diverse modalities each specie evolved
to survive despite countervailing destructive forces
generating plethora pandemonium ironically
promulgating harmonic exemplary convergence
Highland Manor concourse aflame with new life
parented by instinctive imprimatur anonymous patents
now genetic mapping usurped with untold outcome
analysis bred crispr discovery Earthlings fiddling
glorifies honied indemnity Judeo-Christian kudos
leaves of grass kudzo resistance mutation immunizes
biosphere once prolific differentiation shrinks
becoming monocultural setting virtual stage
catastrophe plus food shortage would become
global debacle predicated, sans virulent
viral and/or bacterial strain renting asunder
tripwire unspooling delicate webbed whirl
already widely compromised more so
since Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring
**** sapiens population explosion
pits profligate predilections planet Earth in extremis
dire crisis cavalierly dismissed humans
in hot pursuit racking up superfluous wealth
***** deeds done dirt cheap - tricking
mother nature, who will unwittingly
spring scrumptious feeding off scrimmage
forcing capitulation or total extinction
meanwhile fostering long tall floral inflorescence
a composite having sessile flowers
apiary abuzz, cuz queen bee
can no longer wax bereft of royal jelly.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC
Between me and you
This situation is dire,
This letter a cry for ceasefire
You wrapped my heart in wire, tripwire
I tried to walk away but it snapped, it set me on fire
What I would have given to have never tasted desire
Of a falsifier like The Killer’s messiah
My daddy doesn’t love me anymore
Because religion and I had a war
And I left out his front door
But you, I idealized you up on a pedestal
No wonder your love was inaccessible
And I was expendable
You seem to think I can handle silence
My mind is sounding sirens, sounding sirens
Do you read this and think compliance?
But I see you in corners of mirrors
In the faces of the drinkers
And in the reflection of liquors
Your name on the tail of their whispers
God I swear everything here is a trigger
And you’re the killer
I’m not better than her
Or any of the others
What do you smoke more of?
Cigarettes or your lovers?
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
let me tell you what's wrong with you
in position
over you
let me tell you what's wrong with you
as you drown
in tripwire and honey
let me tell you what's wrong with you
don't put me in this position ever again
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
To the tune of 'The Dreidl Song"
(Can't leave out my Jewish Friends)
Claymore, Claymore, Claymore
You’re made out of C-4
Claymore, Claymore, Claymore
I put you out once more
I put in place a Claymore
For our security
And when I squeeze the clacker
Ball bearings they will see
Oh, Claymore, Claymore, Claymore
You make a big kaboom
Claymore, Claymore, Claymore,
You send them to their doom.
On our little Claymore,
it says ‘Front Toward Enemy’
And when they pull the tripwire
Their Paradise they'll see!!
Oh, Claymore, Claymore, Claymore
You’re made out of C-4
Claymore, Claymore, Claymore
I put you out once more.
Dec 21, 2021
Dec 21, 2021 at 8:20 AM UTC
Asper daily expounding fostering
inchoate manifesting mod
er writ writing quality,
solitary scrimmage tackling
undertaking, yielding whir
ring, sputtering, kickstarting, and
buzz-feeding at competitive, communal
crowed did metaphorical trough,
where household named author's
top New York Times best seller
tier, overshadowing under
rated genre bending, breakout aspiring,
story board qualifying,
opportunistic newbie man
use script artful dodgers
mere dust collecting drafts,
anticipating to stir infectious interest
incumbent - at mercy,
tripwire activating quint
essential key, which anchors print
ting projected uncertain
popularity first edition,
awakening, guiding, nosing
asymptote analogy steering
reader toward nascent
scribe, where paper
back writer wannabe,
toils away incorporating subtle
(hook, line and sinker) techniques,
(albeit apropos literary
ploys, a true test tum ment,
viz sophisticated gambits
to massage late tint
prestidigitation abra ca dab rah,
sine non qua cogent
see kant, and tangent triggers
modest mien fortified, exemplified,
and downplayed akin
to unassuming Clark Kent
in his cape ably nonchalant
transformation into superman,
and/or more pointedly,
some original heft leant
to set apart striking
poignant implement
exhibited by aspiring
writer daily revising,
albeit gal or gent
his/her uniquely obscure
trademark, but
eventually keen agent
assays non-boastful writing style
im prim mature print,
sans unassuming swiftly tailored
harried style seduces seek
curing sincere overnight reverent,
well deserved kudos
comically marveling
at thee most im portent
salient strengths, per
hops hue moored opulent
quality instigates
affinity toward nascent,
bar riddle be, bill leading,
bud ding scrivener,
not necessary alluding
to a hypothetical outlier
thus, any similarity between the
above statement and
a living person perchance named
Matthew Scott Harris
purely coincidental.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 1:10 AM UTC