"tundras" poems
I peruse exhibits through the modern art museum
Nails hammered into wood
And trash strewn on the floor
I couldn't help thinking
What the **** is this ****
These can't be the champions of modern art
Moonlight and Arrival morphed my empathy and perspective
The theater is fine
Music is there for those inclined to discover it
So what about visual art?
I know a few things for certain
Nails hammered into wood never changed my perspective
Nor does seeing a garbage can in a museum affect my empathy
Trash is not art
Trash is trash
Waste meant to be thrown in the proper receptacles
So as not to obstruct our view of true beauty
I will concede that
Beauty can be found in everything
Depending on analyzation variation
But those that live an examined life
Constantly see silver linings and sour grapes
Experiencing comfort in tundras to the point of banality
Those visions are much more interesting
in their organic state anyway
As opposed to an interpersonal expression of the seemingly obvious
So what to hang in an art gallery?
I have my own opinions
At this point in time
No visuals elicit more emotions
Than dank memes
When I'm consuming art
Questions are innate in my consumption
Is this a vessel for empathy?
Is this examining the human condition?
Dank memes meet those criteria
Satirizing the powerful
Highlighting emotions and virtues in ourselves
That we're either proud or ashamed of
Memes share a common thread with poetry
In the sense that everybody can create memes
Or be a poet
I get the impression that
Universality of art diminishes it's importance
In the minds of patrons
There's an element of truth to that
But what makes art special is quality
And what makes art truly special is high quality
And that's what belongs in museums
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC
Yet I Am Ready
Watching the waves eat away the castles made of sand
Staring at the way wind is churning at infrastructure land
like a big bad wolf who found the fear and lean foundation of a brick house
I am ready for her hand
I am all ready
Traversing fields filled with fruitless wonders
burning tundras rolling thunders
A Man attempting to put out its grand made funeral pyre
with nothing but a Jack and Jill bucket filled with reverse osmosis electrolyte infused hydrogen oxygen expired prayers
I am Ready for no man land
I have a radio already
Listening to Nokia raven chirps and bubble bee gyrations.
Evergreens whispers as wild blooms break concrete and asphalt and building plans
giving smiles to homeless man and woman
dreamers flowering in the night lights that were supposed to replace stars
I am ready
for the woods to takeover the hoods
for bear feets to take over the streets
for napkins to become extinct
to write with my god-given red ink
so that my being will dye into stone and dirt
To leave my DNA on my mothers belly and hear her cry
As she covers my mouth closes her eyes tearful from radioactive winds
let her know that I loved her and hugged her every chance I could
I am ready to give up me for we have not given back enough
We have devoured the essence and forgotten how to seed and harvest
the nothing has become us
which is why Earths flesh is colored rust
like blood mixed with scratching dust
we have bruised the body
and wonder if we can blame something someone else
but US
Every time the finger points the object of our deflection disappears
Rearrange the letters she was trying to help us HEARt
Rearrange the letters EARth is trying to make us Heart
I'm trying to make us Ear
These MTHFCKRS are among US.
We have bred them with our love lust
still unaware that they a fungus
These MTHRFCKRS have become US
they save a life to **** it from us.
they manufacture fakes to stunt us
These MTHRFCKRS have become US
Ideas devoid of what we need to come up
She must go now and rip it from us
We must shed our blood just to fund us
Cause these MTHRFCKRS have out done US
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 5:58 AM UTC
Waltzing under red moonlights
as thorns tear tongues. We laugh
with black roses reposed in the mouth.
Severed Bonds serve savour songs, as Love leaves longing letters in ponds
of heavy healing hearts.
We waltz still, not as statues but temperative trumpeters tailing tundras with tabinet tufts.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
Bedpost gold.
Common contours.
Bare blankets unfold.
Unraveled slack.
Treasured hazel tundras gazing back.
Hollow silver.
Lavender lace.
Stitched up smile.
A diamond ace.
Balanced on a crystal brim.
Faded toil.
A violent grace.
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 1:00 AM UTC
She wore the wild winds
Like wasps in her hair
Flinging locks furiously
Letting them settle
Wherever they will
Long and gorgeous
Raven black and full
Crushed poisonous rose petals
To further blush her bloodied lip
Knees scraped with grand adventures
Arms bruised with strange activities
Feral and fearless
Catlike climber with such feline agility
No landscape was to daunting
No night life to haunting
Just beauty and wonder
Seeing her eyes wander
Seeing each stone turned over
Seeing each sea shell collected
And carefully inspected
No tea parties
No fashion runways
No mindless musings
About prince charmings
Princesses or queens
But books and dreams
Scarlet schemes
Rivers and streams
That ran as far as she could see
She watched it all
Each daring doe that darted by
Each bird that perched or took flight
Each fish that shimmered searching nearby streams
Nature was her discovery
Life was her poetry
As the oceans battered the shores
As the tundras whitened the landscape
As the stone strewn pathways
Searched for new towns
As the mountains strained to touch the clouds
The wild wind warrior woman
Conquered it all
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
the women who came before me
were hurricanes of great power
so when the men of their time would see them, they would run away and cower
the women who came before me
were lush forests of great size
wide variations of kindness
leaving all in awe with their beautiful baby blue skies
the women who came before me
were frigid tundras of snow and ice
chilling all who came near to the touch
because the women who came before me
didn’t always like to play nice
the women who came before me
were the golden glistening sun
no matter their color, their religion, or who they loved
their radiant beauty blinded everyone
the women who came before me
were the moon, solemn and wise
always at peace and a state of zen
drawing people in and out with their eyes just like the tides
the women who came before me
were all the sparkling stars in the sky
connecting together to form constellations
beautiful enough to make you cry
the women who came before me
were so strong and so wise
they rise
they rise
the women who came before me
showed hope even in their cries
they rise
they rise
they’re souls will remain sewed
into my heart and the skies
they rise
they rise
because the women who came before me will stick by me until I die.
we rise
we rise
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 11:13 AM UTC
the beauty of english nakedness, look at it for long enough
and you get to retract or at least crab-walk east
into the pincer plateaus of the frozen tundras and see
again, proustain afresh in the cork-lined room:
what bothered me was the acute stress on the faroese a -
english really is a blank canvas: or a complex canvas with
many unique distinctions of individual words - perhaps
the dementia crisis in english-speaking societies -
also why the accent diversity between all those who come
to learn it, and those who live in the zeitreich
of the absteigen sonne - but theories are theories.
so back to the blank canvas, which allows so see
the dynamics, although as i said, the acute faroese a
(acute, because derived from the latin verb of needlework /
puncture) - ~etymology (approx. because not
related to words but phonetic units, i.e. letters)
thus reveals that the latin accents died, truth tooth
of the phrase latin is a dead tongue - but not as dead
as when you see remnants of the transformation,
in that certain latin activities (verbs) spawned the stressing
revisions on letters to appropriate the nordic and germanic
slavic, *** and celt into its ***** acute to puncture -
like the polish acute o (ó), meaning to puncture the o
and make a U sound, although when otherwise acute is
needed, but the geometry is less obvious it means not to stress,
but sharpen, cut-short, exfoliate into a range of onomatopoeic
comparisons: sneeze - wheezing - high pitch flute -
play the clarinet - pincer the tongue - pliers -
god knows what instrument i'm really playing: ć, ń, ś, ź -
cut the letters from cen nan sap zed into the uniqueness
of the actual first letter, go into roman do re mi fa so la
****** musicology) rather than greek omega omicron
alpha beta. so this acute faroese a, what bothered me
was the suffix -áp... the p you see, if the accent dynamic
was to end with a german umlaut -äp or with a
māori macron -āp... i would have said the p...
rather than ending with a b.
*"heimlich" tongue-numbing d.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Thank you, my friend;
for reaching out
into the night
for seeing me through
into morning's light
a little flash
of my phone light
Thank you, friend
for letting me know I am seen
for letting me know
how much I mean
for communicating,
across the wires
how much I'm dear,
that I'm desired
This means more sometimes,
than one could ever know
especially when your very bed
has become an ice floe
especially when the one
who is supposed to warm you
embrace who you are
and enjoy, not ignore you
who is supposed to ignite you
with kisses
keep your body hot
is next to you, but really not
I can extend my hand
and hope to tease
Instead draw it back,
shocked by the freeze
For the sheets have become icy
arctic winds howl
my cat could be a seal
or polar bear on the prowl
the breath from your snore
rises up as steam
for it is so **** cold
in this iced-over scene
I'm so sick and tired
of this gelid room
So weary of my heart
being pierced by harpoons
I have tried to work my magic
apply balms to the scars
to prevent the ceiling
from growing icicle shards
And my bedroom is shaken
like some chaotic snow globe
moved by invisible hands
that search and probe
for now I am an ice princess warrior
with my map unfurled
researching ways to flee this frozen world
The kayak is ready
as I set my sights
on warmer tundras
as I weave my lightening
and spread
my thunder
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 2:21 PM UTC
I slash open
the fine lines
of my veins
to let in the
starry breath
of night
fresh and fiery
as a snap of chaos
left out
in the firmament
to chill,
the frigid air
weaving an
icy filigree
upon the black
cooling my blood
soothing the
night creatures
that swerve and sway
beneath my skin
restless as tiny demons
always locked away,
within
They emerge from
their hibernation
into the gelid
crackle of air,
zipping over the
sheens of ice floes
unstopped by sudden
change in climate
frozen moss between
their claws, their toes
In this icicle-dipped
troposphere
a burning
descends upon
my tastebuds
just as if
you have
kissed me
the ebbs
of time seemingly
bringing you closer
an energetic wrapping
up and through
my being
like the breathiest of
polar mist
and as I gaze up
at the tiny
wisps of light,
lustrous as the
full moon scattered,
the astral plane
whirrs deep within me
stirring up my womb
ploughing the fields
of my mind
creating riverflow
from icy drought
soothing the
cuts and fissures
and rocky edges
of my aching
prophetess
heart
Fragile yet callused,
toughened with time
as it beats
beneath the ice
soft as the inside of
a wounded animal
blessed by its hunters
for making itself a gift
to the tribe
apparently
your warrior's
palm alone
can melt it
down
and sometimes,
as I get
lost inside deeply
wild tundras,
suddenly
I'm
found
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 6:54 AM UTC
burst to the slow summit of motorways at dawn
there's a freedom here
golden sun off blinding laurel bridges
people with no need to rise so early
no greater need than you
do you ever think it
when you're going so fast
do you ever think that you could die
do you ever will the combustions
and metals that carry you
to meet their absurd shadows
stretched out before them
faster than you, but getting shorter
and getting slower
roll away the glass
embrace the roar
magnify it
and feel the chill that is not.
the light washes the trees of who they are
the avenues of salute
from obsolete lamps
that draw you into these little cities
whose peoples are the steel and the concrete
whose bridges are megaliths
that ancient whispers foresaw
cutting brilliantly through seafoam wheat
my mother always looked at me peculiarly
but, god! - she tried
i fall to reality with the rising sun
but not of loosening night
simply of greeting stasis
anaemic-light-tunnels
built in visions of what the future used to be
false days in darkening motion
that make the tundras seem so small
and marries the hue of beauty, of brutality
here, upon a hill, something red-brick
there, beyond the mist, something stone
perhaps a church
i care not
the age of the concrete speaks to me
the distances wrap around me
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
Icicles dribble down the tip
of my nose as frost fogs
the humid corridors of my mind.
Tundras yawn before me
and sea-foam green ribbons
helically orbit one another.
Streaks of yellow roll between
the spiraling bows in the sky.
Stars twinkle slowly, just beyond.
An icy howl jars the halcyon
serenity as a harbinger of
hardships and blizzards.
But I am not of this.
I carry a hearth in my chest
and open my arms to embrace.
Ah, and now she steps down
from the gathering clouds;
her gown rippling as it unfurls.
Her aurichalcite eyes echo unsung
songs until I can't bare the separation.
My unstrung heart beats on, begging
for another verse from her slightly parted
-- but how much they open! --
lips lying, parabolic, atop her chin.
She meets my pleas succinctly:
her out-stretched hand offered
in tribute to another kindred soul.
My mind is fixated, not a thought
intrudes on my contemplation
of her exotic inebriation.
Does she know what she's done?
How every movement makes
me stutter, slightly, shuddering
(unavoidably)? How could she
understand this intoxication
which I don't even hope to know?
I suppose that's all man can hope for:
a single day, maybe not more than an hour,
where "love" can even be considered.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
.
One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses. The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.
One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man. Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh **** small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC
your days are filled with nothing but Pain
and you're dead inside - so numb - no hope of being kissed awake
from this Land of Emptiness, dark and dreary
where the air is so cold and chills your bones
and it's all just an absolute Nightmare
except there are no Scary Monsters;
just the foreboding voice of The End -
its silence screams your Name
and haunts you as you trudge
along the Frozen Shores of your Heart
there is no Oxygen here - no way for you to breathe
you're perpetually choking and you can't start a Fire -
can't warm your numbed hands - and there is Nobody
out There to ease the aches that this Solitude brings -
It sweeps over the Tundras you've come to call "Home"
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses. The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.
One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man. Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh **** small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
Bottled stars
And extinguished constellations
Melting heat
Warming welcome
Dangerous sparks
Bottomless pain
Hidden behind
Blue shifting tundras
struggling for purchase
So blue
They'll pierce you to the core
Of your being
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
I will
melt a thousand suns in my mouth for you;
sink a thousand seas in my stomach for you;
freeze a thousand trembling tundras in my calves for you
eternal frostbite;
live for you.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 5:58 AM UTC
One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses. The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.
One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man. Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh **** small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
I recognize my privilege.
I recognize my uselessness.
I recognize my inability to function.
I recognize that I may not be capable/disabled physically. But I am emotionally and mentally.
Though most of the voices are dimmed and quieter than before. They are not gone.
I feel them at the back of my mind.
Pressing at the barrier that is inforced by medication.
My self-loathing is stronger than ever though.
At every and one situation where I keep failing them.
At every and one situation where I keep being a disappointment.
At every and one situation where I am a disgrace to my mother's memory.
I know I am garbage.
I know I am worthless.
I know I am privileged
And Gods do I know I don't deserve anything I have.
Maybe I am proving that ***** right.
But the thing is.
I didn't ask for this.
For whatever broken thing that makes my DNA.
I didn't ask for this existence. This life.
I must have done something terrible in my past life to have been born so broken and in disrepair in this one.
I want to throw up. I want to die.
I don't want to be a part of this collective.
I don't want to breath anymore.
Let me drown.
Let me break my body into pieces against hard asphalt.
Let me suffocate in a car filled with gas.
Let me hang from a tree in the most secluded part of the park.
Let me drink the poisons under the sink.
Let me starve myself until my heart gives.
Let me burn underneath the hot sun until only the crows come to great me.
Let me fall from the highest point of a cliff.
Let me drink all the pills in the bottles to numb me to sleep.
Let me slit my veins vertically across my arms.
Let me puncture an artery so I may bleed out.
Let me
Let me
Let me
LEt mE
LeT Me
LET ME
Let me breathe into the icy tundras of the north where my lungs will freeze and toes will turn blue.
Let the bite of a most wondrous creature in the humid south taking me into fevered dreams.
Let me bite the built so I swallow it whole and paint the walls, red, pink, grey, and wet.
Cant, you just let me pass on and away?
"No," says the instinct to self preserve the only thing that keeps me tied to this place.
May 25, 2019
May 25, 2019 at 12:30 AM UTC
Numbing chill
Amongst the gale
Ice cold breath
Trembling still
Heart be lost
Buried in snow
-
Tundras melt
Icebergs weep
Fingerlike rays
Warm on skin
Breath of life
Thaws a heart
Found by a beacon
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 12:14 PM UTC
One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses. The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.
One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man. Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh **** small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 11:37 PM UTC
Art knows no racial borders
Nor any ethnic boundaries
It doesn’t give two *****
About gender lines
Or ****** borders
Art bleeds and blends
From the deepest darkest ravines in the south
To the highest and whitest tundras of the north
It ***** with love in all of his most tender corners
And with all of her naughty spots
It flows from one gender to the next
Intermingling leaves us tingling
With the mystery and majesty of life
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
If I leave this house tonight
I'm going to get a ****** and ******
I've been playing it straight far too long,
I've been walking this line far too long.
Keeping a check on the freedom of my mind.
Oceans to the west
Tundras to the east
Stars spinning out there
Quick sand beneath my feet.
Wrapped up in obligations
disguises and costumes
fake jewlery
fake smiles
routines and rituals
Keeping one foot going ahead of the other
Too scared to stop
Too alone to go on.
Freedom to the left of me
Disaster to the right.
How am I going to find revolution
at this time of night?
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
My old darling, she sighed,
as she relinquished my affections
roses and keepsakes,
delicacies and carnal delights.
Your pining weighs heavy,
she whispered in fatigue,
I cannot bear your sorrows
as I kiss you goodbye.
Holding my slack-jawed chin, she smiles,
this will be the last time,
for there is a world to see
that's bigger than you...
Her kisses needle
like the deathly caress of winter.
Her lustful embrace
like the coils of a python.
Even inside she is jagged and unforgiving
as is a cave sought out in desperation
discovered to be the abode of a black bear.
Yet I need her.
I cannot let her go.
I insist, take from me my skin,
my soul.
Whatever you need to stay warm.
Whatever will cover your hollow form.
If I should shiver, it is in my fear of your abandon.
If I should cry, it is the milk upon which you shall suckle.
If I should die, it is only that you may feast.
But please,
let it not be the last time...
Is it mortal anger that you desire?
Do you crave wrath in its divine fervor?!
Is it a devil may care grin you favor?
Do you lust for my cold shoulder, akin to tundras and the endless expanse of space?
It'll be fine, she says,
there are plenty more fish in the sea.
Fish for you.
Fish for me.
The last time!
I bellow,
any moment could be our last!
Any breath can become a rasping choke for life!
Any midnight stroll could turn you into roadkill!
Any night of the soul could be your last grip upon sanity!
Any romance can become a suicide.
Any last time could be your last time alive.
You say it's the last time?
Then our love is surely dead,
and I am that ghost wandering in those halls,
looking for you,
calling out in vain,
for you have moved on to the after life.
After us.
Last time?
I guess there's a first time for everything,
even the end.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 4:45 PM UTC
An expanse of characters unknown to me is all I can percieve.
There is no prompt dictating my choices, and therefore none shall be made.
The day and night have become one, and heaven and hells interests coincide.
Tangled forests, icy tundras, calm plains, and inexplicably dark areas exist sporadically everywhere.
Indifference fueled by emotion makes for a strange perception.
There is no certainty that I can discern from the tangled mess I see.
The characters shift and change color into an amalgamation that almost appears solid.
You can see figures shamble in the distance who constantly dissemble their motives with a facade of good intent.
As choices shall not be made I let them pass me by, but without my unease being assuaged by their lack of presence.
As they pass I look again to the characters that make up the empty space on the ground.
The nearly solidified characters become words: creativity, speech, calculating, organizing, and creating.
The words fluctuate in location, and start to become paths to the different places I can see.
They appear fractured by incomprehensible darkness, but the path can still be tread carefully.
Is sitting in silence what I should continue to do, or must I choose to abandon the indifference where I took shelter?
Must I tread a path that is broken in my own mind simply to achieve more uncertainty?
I will end up on a path someday, but what word the path is given is the last question.
Will my unease at these figures be ameliorated when I take the path they refuse to tread, or must I follow them through the straight line they walk?
The word is stretched too far for me to understand, but I question it's competence due to it never breaking.
I'll move any day now from this perch of indifference to where I can read more words.
Though some words may cause me to feel pain and others regret, I understand the consequence.
I can't stay as I am though because there is no reason to sit when there are choices to be made.
This world must be explored, and I must know what the characters mean.
I want to know what will make the world that I can see change into a world I can understand.
Even if it means repairing the words that I covered in darkness.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC