"trumpeting" poems
palindrome
*shivering stars with horn
moon trumpeting like
mystic swan sailing
the scintillating
galaxies
scintillating the
sailing swan mystic
like trumpeting moon
horn with stars shivering*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/11/2015
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
The burning flowers underline the sunset and
Dash before the fire (k)night catches them.
Ripe berries cheaply
tremble
but hopefully their vitality won't burst the pulp pulsating
beneath.
Crumbling flowers
crumb the floor
And Prisms of catching silver refract rose quartz and petal
and crimson
dust.
Bejewelled in Scarlet,
the air,
as the (k)night approaches, grows colder,
Unsure of whether he will bring
solace or strife.
In his chariot
he flies faster than the bees which buzzed around the fruit flutes
in the morning and among the trumpeting bluebells.
Stars fleck the (k)night
like freckles
and the milky ways resins stain his spouting steams lovely.
The (k)nights kind onyx reaches his crescendo and the floating moon danced drowsily through the cloud's spiralled tendrils
Which diminish as dawn
approaches
so their Tentilcles
droop to crinkled tissue paper sheathed in pink.
And so the (k)night
rides on into
The frivolous sunrise.
The lowing, glossy calves
in sage beside the ***** fields
cast a beloved ambience
As though
we are safe
in the knowledge
that the sky will remain
forever
topaz and the leaves
forever emerald.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
A petal haired army saluting the call of the skies
- it made my heart go to her
until I hope her into being
and I look into her eyes -
eyes that shimmer with every shade of springtime
with frolicking lambs and trumpeting daffodils
with the glint of her chocolate stained Sunday dress,
dancing and whirling with the matriarch blues of six generations
to know our dance, but to write her own song -
a song composed of notes she will fashion for herself in
flower petal perfume and dirt and birthday cake tummy ache
and she can write them in gummy bears or wiggly worms
in any way she might choose, on bill boards or in locked diaries
but it will be beautiful beyond words because its her way -
her way - choosing to skim cliff edges over mama's apron strings,
tearing frills on tree branches and turning back her watch to arrive home late
and you can bet when she dreams him in her sleep she won't be feeling that pea.
But so long as she takes her dreams to heart and cuddles them to life
and knows that she is perfectly imperfectly beautiful and remembers that -
that life is lived as much on cliff edges as it is in your own home
that dress tears and stains speak joy every bit as much as a photograph
that mama's apron strings stretch far and wide,
and that though the shades of seasons change, she must sing her song
and dance.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
these days
looking around the globe
one might believe that we are travelling in time
just in the wrong direction
regression as progress
seems to be
the dominant notion of the day
creating wannabees in various disguises
populist czars, sultans, nationalists, dictators,
assorted self-appointed snake-oil salesmen
and saviors of their peoples’ wealth and health,
trumpeting fences, walls, tough immigration laws,
etc., etc.
to keep out all those aliens
who otherwise are welcome
as our partners in the global trade
that seems to dominate the world of greed
so we can all be ourselves
whatever that might mean
claiming to solve the problems of tomorrow
with romanticized memories of yesterday
is hopeless and quite dangerous
do you remember
what that glorified past
actually was?
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
"There are animals in the road"
the traffic reporter said
"We're not told what they are
find another route instead"
And so I got to wondering
though I wasn't going that way
what the mystery beasties were
that were on the road that day
Were they a herd of wildebeeste
who took a wrong turn on the veldt
or perhaps a wayward mule train
delivering some sacks of spelt
Maybe a team of trainee reindeer
diverted from the North Pole
or a bunch of llamas from Peru
that fell through a wormhole
Or bears, or wolves, or lions
could be zebras or kangaroos
surely not beached aquatic mammals
or elephants trumpeting the blues
Exotic beasts seemed unlikely though
it was more likely cattle or sheep
though it could have been migrating badgers
moving goalposts somewhere safe to keep
Cynthia Pauline Jones, 27/10/13
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
pulling back the covers
dimming the lights
an owl calls
from the holly tree
just outside
of my window
the garden below
has grown beyond my control
weeds sprout vines tangle
in the summer squirrels gnaw
on the green holly berries
littering the courtyard
with half-eaten haws
in the spring mockingbirds
gorge on the bright red fruit
their florid songs
celebrating
light sky life sun leaf air
closing my eyes
I think back through the decades
to when I planted the tree
it was a time of hope
a time when we dared dream
of a world without
mortal enemies
when you could imagine
shaded islands of calm
hidden coves immune to rancor
now look at us
heads down lost hurtling
stumbling
under a trance
we have turned on one other
distracted by those
who grab wealth and power
under the cover of night
confused by the constant
trumpeting and alarms
blind to what we share
we retreat
into the darkness
of our fears
Tom Spencer © 2018
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC
elephants stomp with stone-laden feet
back and forth, back and forth,
creating cracks in my already-battered skull,
weakening the very foundations of my sanity.
their trumpeting echoes through cold corridors
flooding my thought capacity to the brim.
a tightrope walker stretches me, thin -
i feel the shifting pressure of her nimble feet
treading the territories of my weathered frame,
back and forth, back and forth,
my skin reddens beneath the incessant crossing
as the sinew within me starts to atrophy.
in my chest cavity there is a ring of fire,
manipulating my lungs and feeble heart to mere ash.
two golden eyes seen beyond the flames,
ready to leap through them - without the
inconvenience of fear weighing down his agile paws,
both capable and likely to tear my veins to shreds.
a grisly strongman has my bones in his grip.
he smiles malevolently, gloating his strength over me,
squeezing the life from my cartilage - awaiting the snap.
i am cognizant of the sound, but i won't flinch.
next, the imminent collapse of my vertebrae -
i feel them crumble to dust. he laughs.
but it is in the pit of my stomach the ringleader sits -
commanding me into subsidence with every crack of his whip.
i want to meet his eyes but he only averts my gaze.
his twisted circus nearly through, the audience begins to dissipate.
i stare through the blurred smoke, desperate for his visage -
when i see on one of his faded lapels, the embroidery spells out your name.
-m.f.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Though glass, it is rimmed with gold
around the cup, handle and even the
saucer. Skilfully painted chrysanthemums
of various shades; the vermilion horizon,
Spring's honey, songbird's magenta,
sangria's fine wine, a parakeet's breast
and the Aegean sea.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
And then, there are three sightly tea
caddies with lacquered wooden bodies;
one rosewood with red dancing fans,
one burr-oak with golden mountainous
landscape and one maple wood with
green bamboo. Ainhana gently removes
each of their lids by using the cloth, and
presents the pearls that were wrapped
in sun-kissed foil.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
She first lifts the rosewood caddy towards
me. I close my eyes and focus on the scent.
Without peeling back the foil, I know. It takes
me to the far distant Province of Yunnan,
past the snow-kissed mountains and rice
terraces to a very still lake. I noticed that
it began to bubble before a large splash
rose.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
At that moment, I meet the lake's Guardian,
the Imperial Wingless Dragon of legend.
With its wet emerald-kissed scales drinking
the sunlight. It's great body now entwined
in a wispy clouds as it stares at me with
eyes of liquid moons. Its tail crowned
with a peacock feathered eye-spot whips
around in the air, leaving an iridescent
trail of colours.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
With a great leap, he soars through
the air, trumpeting his great roar
that rattles the skies. Just as quickly
as he rose, he descends down with
a Pearl Moon in his brown claw. By
the stroke of its sienna-brown whisker,
the small Moon cracks, presenting me
it's contents, a long kept secret.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
The pearls are the colour of seaweed
with streaks of yellow and burnt umber.
With earthy notes whirls around my
nose, along with some floral sweetness,
burnt caramel licks, dragon spice and
a wisp of apricot. Ah, so I see! One great
guarded secret that he reveals to me!
His best pearls ferment in the womb
of the Moons! Purified by the Star
Virtues of Elysia's Harmony!
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
'Wonderfully rich Pu-erh Pearls,'
I say, my eyes now open.
'My Lady's nose is as sharp as ever!'
'I just know my tea,' I chuckle, 'it's
very unique in smell and taste. I will
save such fine broth for another day.'
Ainhana nods, places on the tray and
lift the burr-oak caddy. I close my
eyes once again and my mind
wanders yet again.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:20 AM UTC
Somehow the gate's been opened
To the urban zoo;
And the rural petting farm
Is something gone askew.
The wildebeests and monkeys
Are leading lambs and lemmings,
They're trumpetting their call,
I hear them through the concrete wall.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
~~°♡°~~
He had died upon a cross
Three days laid to rest
Women came unto His tomb
With a vision blessed
As they saw the stone was moved
An angel then appeared
*"Why is it you come to seek
A man who is not here?"*
They looked into the tomb and saw
The cavity was bare
The shroud was neatly folded
But Jesus wasn't there!
The joy they felt beatific
When Jesus did they see!
They obeyed His next command
To meet at Galilee
In amazement and some fear
The women ran to others
Proclaimed the news Christ was alive
To the waiting brothers!
And two of the disciples
Did walk to Emmaus
To find the Lord amongst them
Though their eyes they could not trust
When they could see, and found it He
Said, "Our hearts burned within us!"
Then Jesus came, good as His name
To folk who were to wait
He showed his scars, the telltale mars
Sat with them and ate!
He led them up to Bethany
Blessed them all around
They were amazed, with His hands raised
He was lifted from the ground!
Can you imagine trumpeting?
Can you hear the sound?
Could there be it's equal?
In glory to be found?
Jesus rose to heaven
*The clouds were then His
CROWN*
SøułSurvivør
(C) 4/16/2017
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 1:21 PM UTC
~
***TRAVEL TIME TROPICS TRIP TOURIST TOWN TUNNEL TOLL TICKET TAKER
TAXI TOKEN TRANSIT TRAIL TRANSPORT TRUCK TRACTOR TRAILER
TRAIN TRACK TROUBLE TEST TERROR TRAP TRIBAL TURF
THINK TALK TRY TRANSLATE TONGUE TIED
TEMPER TAMPER TIMEBOMB TICKING TRINKET TRADE
TARIFF TERMS TWINKLE TAX TREASURE TOTAL THEFT TAKEN
TWISTING THROBING THIRSTY THROAT TECATE TAVERN TWO TEQUILA
TRES TACOS TASTY TORTILLAS TEN TEQUILA TABLE TAB TIP TINA
TAWDRY TROLLUP TATTOO TABOO TOE TAP TICKLE TEASE
TERRIBLE TUNES TENOR TONES TRUMPETING TROUBADOURS
TWENTY TEENS TICK TOCK TARDY TIME TIRESOME TESTIMONY
TOTALLY TRANSGRESSED
TUMULTUOUS TRAVELER***
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
I could have come Goose stepping through that door on eggshells
With an anchor in the old ways, and the wind of change in my sails.
the crux is; decide what you want foul demon,
I can shield you from the fire or burn bright to show you the way,
but I will never burn out and I will never blow away.
So go snare some other paradox boxer
or lay in the brier patch of tangle choice
you once forced into my sides.
I do not permit you to handcuff your heart to my wrists,
and the baggage? Can stay at indoors.
The persistent demand of my presence pushes me into the love affair with the lies I tell myself that make you bearable.
I make no apologies for my vacant smile,
you bought my body not my soul.
And the clocks and deadlines made me to fix a do not disturb sign on my mind.
With the ultimatums delivered to me ear-trumpeting the feelings that already echo in my diminishing proud walk,
The spine slump didn't take long to take hold.
These are not poses.
This is who I am,
or at least who I used to be,
Or at least who I should have been,
But for the game of Chinese whispers Played with champions of the rumour mill and the ghosts they've created.
Removed from the hiding places are the scars and the tumours, I've been curing them in the sun.
If you came to me looking for a hero stance and a place to live at the foot of a mountain called meekness, then I will let you down.
I was bowled over by the crud slides long ago,
And now like all great insects,
I've wriggled free of the muck,
Striving out from under
more like Frankenstein's Monster
thriving in the thunder.
And making an exit,
whether you like it or not.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
Being so far
my brain begins to wander
trying to retrace the roads you took away
The trumpeting of metal does not startle
my hungry soul
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
Goodnight anthropocentrism—
Mitochondria swim in your stardust
But Contraverse awakens on the
Frontiers of the Valerian Kingdom
At the gnarled staff of the Oil Sage
Taking root between the Earth’s furrows
Springing forth fountains of sweetest Nard
The Jewel of Jatamansi emerges glistening green
In it the eye of the beholder finds the
Seeds of a once forbidden dream
Germinating in the juices of this Gem
Out of it the silent roar of a thousand fields pressing
Aromatic oceans through bursting buds
Of Lavender pagodas rapturously trumpeting forth
Framed by stacks of soft sweet musky Sage
Broad and leathery like elephant’s ears
Curtained with a soft cascade of Orange blossom snow
The sweet kiss of Neroli on your brow
Imbibing the senses with paralyzing pungency
Tangling tendrils to heartstrings
And pulling us beneath Rosewater pools
Floating breathlessly ensconced in a dream
Primordial songs whispering wordlessly,
“Wake whenever you’re ready . . .”
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
I am a
plenipotentiary
of your heart
but not your tongue
Which whips
with shout
Inflicting
all this
doubt
--
Try not to see my glaring mistakes
when uncaring I am trumpeting arrogant aches.
--
I became lost in channels of the self and now-
I have smoothed out my spikes,
inverted my aversions, diluted my delusions-
I have incrementally expanded my positive mentality.
I am the Xenolith within the conglomerate
uncomfortable with chafing sand.
Displaying dependability with the straightening of back,
gone is lithe youth's unbecoming stand.
I shall trust inappropriately and love exponentially.
I shall treat you, The Stranger-
even stranger
like family.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
On golden fields
your painting so vivid
vibrant
bespattered
far and wide
burgeoning with hope and cheer
and mine eyes behold
Your orchestra
performing
a beautiful golden-yellow symphony
trumpets trumpeting
powerful
intense
sometimes a little boastful
perhaps even narcissistic
and mine ears respect
Across your gilded seas
the bells toll
heralding new beginnings
composed
in unison
together
but not
wandering lonely
silently drowning in unrequited pleas
forever holding faith
and I, your witness
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 8:35 PM UTC
Pale, filtered
Moonlight streams
Through the windows
And strokes her
Face as she sways,
Back and forth,
To the music,
Every note caressing
Her ears; little
Lovers coming
And moving on,
Making her cry.
Small rivers
Appear on her
Moonstruck cheeks,
And I want to
Reach out a hand
To wipe them
Away, but the music
And my shyness
Keep me in
My secluded spot behind
The curtains.
Her elegant figure
Continues to sway
In some entrancing
Way, a siren call,
But no man will
Meet her request.
The music is lulling
Me to sleep, and
I still see the slow
Swaying as my eyelids
Drift shut.
A trumpeting announcement
Calls my attention,
And as my eyes spring
Open, I see the girl
Is gone.
I have missed my chance.
As though she is still
There, a call beckons
Me to where she last
Stood, and I rush to
The very spot--
I take in everything:
The very moonlight
That kissed her where
I might have,
The smell of her
The panes were
Taking in where
I might have,
The cool, crystalline
Glass that caught
Her tears where
I might have.
As I stood in my
Small grievances,
I felt a small hand
On my shoulder.
I turn, and see
Her standing there
In all her glory,
Commanding my
Attention by asking
For none.
I stared at her hand,
For I could not meet
Her eyes, and
Followed the fingers
To her delicate wrist,
To the prominent elbow,
To the proud shoulder,
To the graceful neck,
To her quivering chin,
To her blossomed lips,
To her peeking nose,
To her dazzling eyes.
I made it there.
I saw they were made
Of the rarest of emeralds,
Shining beneath a brow
Of inquiry:
Who might I be?
Without words,
We understood
One another,
She related her pain
Of family and lost
Relationships,
I of heartache and
Rejection.
We stared at one
Another,
Unsure of what
To do.
Our bodies moved
Simultaneously
Towards each other,
Where our heads
Bent, our fingers
Met, and our lips
Locked in the sweetest
Of embraces to the
Tune of the
Waltz.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 4:04 AM UTC
~For Pradip~
*who reminded me:
We are all God’s Trial & Errors*
tender is the tendency,
so finitely human,
infinitely foolish,
to overlook the
obvious,
let us not delve into our
particular peculiar idiosyncratic knots
in our hair and personalities,
all natural,
inherited or ill begotten
in voyages to far away,
like our childhood
***Thus,
we are all mistakes of a sort***
with natural fault lines,
accumulated dings, scapes, bruises,
furrowed crinkles that took us
years to perfect
We are flawed like diamonds,
valued by these natural flaws
by graders with loups who uncover
our flaunts, our clear air bubbles,
the more flaws the better,
because these attributes make us
most interesting!
you may be blonde,
you may be exotic
perhaps a lovely shade of
iridescence,
but lucky you whose scars speak
out and others wonder why,
they are so interesting
let us design a large animal,
seemingly ungainly, yet keystone to
their environment, so others may
profit thereby,
yet insanely quick on lumbering feet,
no hands, fingers, but a long snakey thinge
that multiple functions for
breathing, drinking, feeding grabbing, smelling and
trumpeting their presence
to foolish beings in their neighborhood
let’s us not debate
whose design is
an efficacy par excellence
so we be
ungainly, too tall, too
this or that,
even too flawless,
a specialized curse of sorts,
we are the product of
a sophisticated design laboratory
that makes many models,
each variegated, always different
so get down on your knees *********
and praise the design engineers
who created you to be
full of
& by elephantine trials and elephantine errors,
thereby making
us each,
a special pronoun,
an I
blessed
by definition:
though not in any dictionary:
unique,
flawless!
**
**^you are the most
flawless poem
you have ever written
and will ever ever
write***
Dec 7, 2024
Dec 7, 2024 at 3:59 PM UTC
A lonesome threshold,
yesterday was light as confetti / from a wedding that
bled in thirty litres of martyred roses / How long are
three hundred steps from a church, to stucco walls
the colour of sorrow?
Soil, the tint of blood,
ichor of mountain Gods, deveined for lost embrace
of roots / Wind whistling away regrets in the dust of
liberated souls / Would it sing for her, embalmed
in the bowels of earth’s sanguine hum?
April heat, weighted with a dirge
of tears salted in ocean / rusting the trumpet
and violin strings / Who will tune the piano for mass,
now that those musical men sailed before her,
in paper boat memoirs?
The Goliath tree rooted in bones,
a giant on such sustenance / gatekeeper of souls
tethered to fleshy sinews in beds of solitude /
Will she be interred in fruit, as he suppers
on her animated putrefaction?
Suffering, twice a child,
once a lady, she didn’t stay long to be swaddled
in linens of pity, cottons of commiserations /
Where will I store the enameled chamber *** for
when I grow up to be her likeness?
Nightshades, funneling viscous memories,
trumpeting in a pastel wilderness, alkaloid racket
waiting to sound in the poisons of prayerful echoes /
When will they bloom, toxic with grief of a swelling past,
so I may sleep as soundly as her?
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 6:18 PM UTC
Plane Poetry: I go to Barber
aisle seat C 14,
an emergency exit row,
forced to solemnly swear
that for the extra legroom,
I will solemnly assist to open
the exit door, me first as my reward,
and keep my terrified screaming
below an elephant's trumpeting mating call
what hast this to do with a trip to Barber?
you Brits and Aussies, ever economical,
say went 'to hospital,'
leaving we Ameddicans
to dignify that august institution
as going to
The Hospital
Thus advised, be apprised, a
Nota Bene Benidictus:
I go to Barber,
Not
I go to the barber.
Samuel Barber,
Adagio for String Quartet, Barber
If unfamiliar with this piece,
you will recall it well
if "Apocalypse Now" registers at all
If not stop immediately,
return to Go,
start here,
www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRMz8fKkG2g
be prepared to surrender your mortality,
listen and if effected,
if you find yourself on your knees
weeping, recalling the days of loss,
the early empires of hope,
the first kiss
of your firstborn
and unknowingly,
the last you gave
a loved one
if you have the courage to
be touched and impacted,
as I,
then welcome back to
right here where why...
*I go to Barber
where violins soar me heavenwards,
where violins rip open sores long since scarred over,
I go to Barber
and float, eyes sky'd, as water
fills and departs my body simultaneously,
I go to Barber
to know that art can rise beyond,
that my weakened, wrecked human flesh, surpassable
I go to Barber
to harmonize my disconcordia,
romantic lyricisize my waning days,
I go to Barber
to voluntary confess, admit my impoverishment,
to acknowledge that they, my days, yet are capable,
I go to Barber
to remember and to forget,
to mark and unmark time
I go to Barber
to be created and recreated,
to be destructed and despaired
I go to Barber
to acknowledge, as human, better is forever possible,
for of the god spark, yet unextinguished
I go to Barber
because there is no plane as fast as his slow adagio,
to transport me to the who I am and should yet be*
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
I should not be the only link, the eccentric link, between attractions and deliberate repulsions. I should not be a main character-accomplice, just a simple supporting character-extra, who can be dragged here and there but will not let go, because he tries to live according to his own laws and prosper as long as he can. As an obedient rebel, the trumpeting, hysterical archangels of the Future often sound the alarm above my head.
- I have already changed my course quite often out of necessity, because the World would have expected this of me, even though the "some" knew well that it would be much more difficult for me to balance alone on my lame, club-like legs on the edge of the donkey ladder of Existence. In the fearful cosmic, arranged bends of the road, there can no longer be anyone left who would extend a helping hand as a sign of help, saying; You lived as a human, so we will treat you as such.
Because often I no longer know what the invisible Fate is planning for me, who was a simple mortal in this mud bowl all my life. My eyes would still drink in - if they could - the truthful foam crowns of exiled, foamy seas, where man could finally find redeemed harmony and peace. Virtual silences hardly guard my steps; as if digital sentries were standing watch everywhere. Moving target-human blue It is still unbelievable that they know anything about the personality of individuals.
From sight to blindness, not only the base, vile suspicion against the long-preserved Universal instincts grows in me, but also the haunting vision-image of the One-Beloved has come in and out in the wandering ghost-hour; because my unfulfilled desires are also constantly drowned by the wedding of uncomprehended dreams. The vain camp of self-willed people would increasingly tighten my throat like executioner's ropes. But don't be mistaken, I will catch myself one day and hide from here into the Underworld!
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 12:26 AM UTC
Spring rejoices to
The trumpeting daffodils'
Triumphant fanfare
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:20 AM UTC
The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed
Trumpeting, he ******* and triumphed…
Did he, has he?
Thumping his way forward,
Jumping through the hoops of word and phrase,
Razing those that blocked his ways,
He dazed the lot.
Crazed, ablaze – or not. But hot,
He took a stand,
But didn’t seem to understand (and may not still)
That energy attracts a gangland:
Thinking not that crowds could form,
Become a throbbing, clobbering or bombing mob:
A swarming army.
Young we heard,
You can’t take back the caustic word
Once in the air it’s there!
So rather than lie down
Crowds gather,
Drawing to themselves an anger,
War uncivil,
Civil war
once more,
And monies that he’s vowed to earn
Will burn in costs for crowd control, police patrol.
The day that Trump was voted in
May not, in fact become a win -
For reasons manifold and sundry.
The Day Trump Tr-i-ump-hed 11.11.2016
Our Times, Our Culture II: Special People, Special Occasions,
Arlene Corwin
Nov 11, 2016
Nov 11, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
My room
is full of elephants.
Trumpeting prophets,
whose footprints have been lost
in the gusts of greens and groggy eyes.
Or thrusts of thought pumping jagged sighs through lips left ajar.
My face
is full of fleshy hands,
to hide in when the sand is dropping.
standing water lullabies, my mind’s collecting flies.
Pillow fists and sheets to choke, my skin’s already turning blue.
With wistful tunes from ceiling fans, I’d rather stay in bed alone.
My eyes
are ****** yet again.
With salt at least Its genuine.
But fruits fermented, grass ablaze at least I can escape.
Id love to hide, to run and run, I see myself hitting the ground.
To scrapes and scraps of memory from nerve endings gone limp.
This room
is full of elephants.
I try to cover ear canals.
This silence is uncomfortable and I look down the ledge.
I hate to be a ****** and I never mean to ruin nights,
but if I stand alone tonight,
I’m terrified of what I’ll do.
Trumpeting and trumpeting,
please dont leave me in this place.
Im clumsy and can’t trust my feet,
I’m aiming for the grass.
To hug me as I contemplate,
the dawn is a cacophony,
and Im just getting home again,
to feeling out of place.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC