"unearths" poems
In times of yore,
A name arose –
With vulnerable emerging markets,
The “Sick Man” of Asia!
But it has primed its cutback!
“Sick Man” was now a former name,
Call him this nation
To breed at ‘breakneck’ pace!
The snap back is faster
As global growth stirs in its revival,
And billions of dollars are in his shares!
Philippines vs. U.S.
With 7 percent, the peso was down for the year!
And we were knocked out!
It was more a reflection of global fears! –
About higher U.S. interest rates,
Then, the worries ‘bout the realm’s own fortunes,
Has to be forgotten.
Southeast Asian nation's prospects remain bright,
Likely to produce “predictable growth,”
Yes, the three stars with lone sun –
Now sky-scraping ,
With Filipinos making a stand.
Moving far..
From being a financial basket case,
The government has cut its debt,
Carry on! March on Filipinos!
(2/25/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
Either this town is without character, or my own lack thereof blinds
me to what style hums it into history. The brook's rapids are drowned
by the highway roar, central song that never passes through, spilling
over walls and roofs. A railroad collects rust between weeds, silent
authenticity. Impassive clouds remind me of other ways to witness.
And this is real, too; sadness accrues over store counters, fatigue
glowing in the pavement connecting all, cracked and rubble
facing skies a simulacrum grey. Inebriation, par for course,
a hidden semblance of a self-chosen haze within a haze.
Gravity, acoustic footfalls question my arrival here.
phosphene breath--
dark, dark mining town solstice
unearths inner rainbows
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
I can never compensate for the poems I have misplaced,
Yet I proceed to shed sincere ink upon an empty canvas,
and revert towards elusive answers.
I once again resort to the preferred instrument,
And stumble into a liberating trance.
However, genuine introspection often
Unearths wretched recurring recollections,
That have served as the creative source
For previous poetry collections,
Some of which cannot be read
Without a deep sense of dread,
Hence I flinch from acknowledgment instead.
How disoriented am I?
As disoriented as 20 year old Kimberly
Her derelict of a son is an embodiment
Of her youth blues memories.
How aimless it must be to venture
Amidst the sanctum of stagnation.
It was not long before even the architect
Began to disdain his own laborious creation.
Why wouldn't he?
He was a fool to build
A foundation out of complacency.
The structure is able to endure
Since it thrives off of a perpetual tragedy
Of self-defeating beliefs, lascivious senses,
And misguided aspirations.
Unfortunately, whoever it houses
Collapses out of utter exasperation.
An inevitable predicament I predict
Will confront me as soon as I deteriorate mentally.
The sanctum itself testifies to an aphorism
I recount hearing during a melancholic plight:
Truthfully, throughout the ages,
Fallibility has always been
Among humanity's playwrights.
6/18/13
(c) 2013 Brandon Antonio Smith
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
"How are you?"
Such an empty question, with an even emptier answer:
"Good."
I'd like to tell (you) how
Everything I (see) looks disgusting to me.
Watermelon seeds are like bugs
eating away at the raw, juicy flesh.
The ground is infected with muddy snow.
The melting of it unearths carcasses of lost junk.
Leaves are discs of decay.
The wind breathes smoky, tarry clouds by
– fogging up my mind.
Tongues are like slugs; kissing is repulsive.
Bodies are malformed clumps of clay, painted with egos.
Slimy egos.
The emptiness corrodes me.
It's about to get paradoxical,
how full of caves (my) heart is,
each echoing:
"You. You. You."
I'd like to tell you
how when I think of you, my mind immediately jumps to:
Our budding tu(lips) touching.
Embracing you,
the comforting muscles of your arms like sculptured masterpieces,
sheltering me in a warm bubble.
Your breath whispering on my neck, my skin replying with static fuzz.
When I think of you even the puddles of mud look like silk.
The clouds (move) by like pillows of the sky.
Leaves, sheets of oneliness, become one
in an orchestra conducted by the wind.
I want to tell you everything
(but you can't hear me.)
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 10:05 AM UTC
Junk sickness unearths this
Deep-rooted, oozing desperation.
Slack jaws,
Eyes
Bouncing in the back of your skull.
Tear through the paper flesh,
Scraping for a vein
Needing of
Molestation,
Mutilation,
Shredded from that constant need,
That whining itch,
To feel nothing
And everything all at once.
Praying for the earth to melt
Around the bare bones
Of the walking dead.
I am
But an observer
Stuffed in the back seat
While needles clog,
Blood surges,
Rage stirs.
I am
Just a spectator
To their universe coming to a
Creeping
Dull thud,
As they dream of better days that will
Surely come.
I am
Not sure
If it's possible to dig yourself
Back up
From the depths of a self-made grace.
I am
Not sure
If there is life after dope.
Lust swelters,
The shot is done,
We drive on.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
When I last tasted her,
her lips were still
a mysterious heavy.
A glossed *** shine
and her proud mother's grin
held me helpless-
a lioness jawing her cub.
A cowardly actor I was,
depicting a breathful, firm
man bored and unmoved
by this no more than textbook
show of affection. No.
She's mastered that text book and,
by chance, written a few of her own.
My theatrical mask was shattered fast
by the calculated clumsiness of her
apricot kiss,
revealing my boyish face
as the answer to the question,
who now is her masked man?
And still,
being a scientist not a philosopher
She unearths more enigmas than
solutions leaving her colleagues
balanced on the fence, waiting
in merciless anticipation for her
theories to be proven.
But the essence of a theory
is that it's unprovable.
I, being human, need only
answers to questions,
her questions
which she insists I answer.
For she knows I will always answer them for her.
She, also being human,
needs nothing else from me.
So she walks away.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC
Where is my saint in the clouds
Who has fallen from ether
To reconfigure my essence?
Where is my saint in the foam of the sea
Who has evaporated into the mist
And waits to be inhaled by me?
Where is my saint in the grooves of my past
Who paints with my tears
A portrait of the coagulence I feel in the core of my being?
Where is my saint in the eyes of the stars
Who refuses to shine
Until I’m sheltered in between the chaos of time?
Where is my saint in the pores of the ground
Who tacitly unearths a grave
And convolutes my flesh into the pith of the earth?
Where is the demon
Who was born from my negligence
And taints the deeds of my conscience,
Frays the seams of my being
And lays dormant in the cellar of all my possibilities?
March 2012
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
“The tree has fruit,”
Hands sticky,
Face smeared,
My stomach turning
“The fruit is rotten,”
Laughing, another in your hand
The first bite unearths no worm, no insect
Only the soft, wet peach-flesh
You’d expect from one of us.
“Isn’t it sour?
Isn’t it bitter?
Does the aftertaste not resemble
Pesticidal poison?”
Quiet now,
Only the sound of leaves shaking,
The pull of branch and the wobbly return,
The fruit’s fuzz against my fingers,
My lips.
I do not take a bite.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC
He watches; quiet, reflective.
No doubt he detected
The weight of my
Body-shaped shame.
My name similar to his,
Who now rots under sunlight,
Unabashed in his righteousness
To which I was blind.
I find myself here,
In a garden once perfect,
Now tainted with ******
I heard the scratching,
Faint at first,
So I turned and saw him.
The raven watches;
Quiet, perceptive,
His gaze so effective.
His foot scratches the ground,
Making a sound that feels
Almost peaceful.
He unearths the freedom
That I need him to show me.
Just below me,
The earth is opening up.
I grab my brother's limp arm,
Drag him away
From the evidence of his harm.
Further away
From the judgment of God.
The raven approves;
He quietly nods.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 1:07 PM UTC
After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won't
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the side of the road,
so the corpse-filled wagons
can pass.
Someone has to get mired
in **** and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and ****** rags.
Someone has to drag in a girder
to prop up a wall,
Someone has to glaze a window,
rehang a door.
Photogenic it's not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.
We'll need the bridges back,
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls the way it was.
Someone else listens
and nods with unsevered head.
But already there are those nearby
starting to mill about
who will find it dull.
From out of the bushes
sometimes someone still unearths
rusted-out arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.
Those who knew
what was going on here
must make way for
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.
In the grass that has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out
blade of grass in his mouth
gazing at the clouds.
—Wisława Szymborska
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
it's quiet, but there's still a sound I can't hear
I've been listening for days
but it doesn't seem to come in clear
like the dust that dodges my hand in the air
I can't quite grasp it, but i know it's there
is this the sound of indifference--
will I ever know?
or is this dust from the days
I refuse to let go?
it's quiet, but I'm tuning up my ear
this silence unearths these dusty tears
I can't crack through it, or even let it be
I let the silence dismantle me
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 5:28 PM UTC
we’re sitting in silence and i can feel it somewhere in my bones
can feel it somewhere that you’re going to leave me someday
that you’ll look at me with eyes of strangers meeting for the first time
(and for the last time, as far as they’re concerned)
you’re whispering against my ear and it’s resonating at the base of my
spine and you’re telling me you’ll never leave, you’re so dead in
love with me and i know that you are, i can hear it in your voice
i can see it in your eyes
they way they light up when you think i’m not looking
but you’ve got bitter settled somewhere deep inside your heart
and sometimes it unearths itself, sometimes it
cuts me in places i’ll cover and try not to show you
i’ll dress the wounds myself, don’t you worry about me
and i know you won’t
one day, you really won’t
you’re lacing up promises to me and you think they aren’t empty but
they are, darling.
they are.
we’re sitting in silence and i can feel it somewhere in my bones
though you’re thousands of miles away and you haven’t held me in months
that you’re looking at pictures of me with eyes of strangers
meeting for the first time
and you’re looking for the last time, as far as you’re concerned
you’re whispering against someone else’s ear now,
and she’s thinking you’re moving mountains in her, i’m sure of it
and if she doesn’t feel that way, you get away fast
you think you’re so dead in love with her and i’m
sure you think you are
you were always so sure of things
so positive you had it right
and you’ve still got bitter settled somewhere deep inside your heart
have you let it come out? has she seen your hidden darkness?
i hope you have someone there to dress your wounds
if it ever cuts you in places you won’t show
and i’ll try not to worry about you
one day, maybe i won’t
i’m lacing up promises to myself that i’m going to be okay and i’m
swearing they aren’t empty but
they are, darling.
they are.
-k.c.
10-03-2014
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
So, let me come here, buddy,
you know you're the best,
live n' die by you!
I need to tell you before
I anything else before
I ******* explode
(a moon-strewn comet-collision).
I love her. I've loved her cruelly or generously,
dispassionate or desperate,
I would ******* offer my soul still
in place of hers in some ******* hell.
I miss the focus she gave me,
the nights of swirling, slippery purpose.
I love how she couldn't stand me anymore,
that she was so consumed by herself
as to break my heart.
I wish I'd cried in her arms and said,
"Don't leave me, darling"
instead of just crying in her arms.
They say if you step on only cracks
you can break a curse.
Do they, Jay? do they, really, eh?
I've made my peace, I think,
with Pride, Pain, and Providence
and what I wouldn't do
for dark-haired smart who
skylight ignites chooses to--
the usual beauty she unearths.
All very scary but
I feel so strong
Maybe couldn't reason
but squirm my way
out of anything.
So strong I could give you a gift,
not old something-hand jackets or coupons
but the gift of my pride for you to prize.
Men do not live on bread and pride alone.
I want she & I to show each
other the world, share life,
and I love her, too.
Come join me on a mountain.
And, now, can you guess who called?
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 5:16 AM UTC
Circumstance induced thought
Separation unearths the truth
The web of now’s in which I’m caught
Spun, so slowly, in my youth.
The future is but a Child's collection
Full of the now’s and then’s,
The past, if subjected to inspection,
Will yield the children to men.
Forget what you were taught,
Subscribe to what you learn,
Subtle motives, control sought,
Follow what you’ve earned.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
Right hand, labours on. Burdened
by the clay of her body
A stubborn limb.
In tempered skin.
Still, her left
Passed in Spring.
It's gentle palm
Curls open.
Leaning into the
surly revolt of her body.
Summer swirled.
A haze of sun.
And delicate
forget-me-nots
Autumn threatens floods.
Swollen clouds loom overhead.
We brace for bitter winds
In the Winter of her life.
And the rain pours.
And the rivers carve a map.
And the days pass.
Searching the blur of her body.
A ****** wristwatch throbs
Pulsing past a beating heart
Mocking mottled skin.
And the rain pours.
And strength settles into the seat.
A soft creak of leather
Warms the room.
whispers of my presence
Saturate the cell walls
of her coma.
And the rain pours.
And unearths an infinite truth
A graceful dance. She flees
The wreckage of her broken body,
Expired lungs exhale all suffering.
A parting gift.
And the light guides.
And she sets sail.
And the light guides.
A compass tears through swollen skies.
And the rain pours.
And the floods rise.
And the banks burst.
And the rain pours.
And the rapids
Drag me into the gutter.
By Anna Grace Du Noyer
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 2:26 PM UTC
I dislike writing poems
I dislike them because they force me to dig deep
Deeper than I am comfortable digging
It unearths my uncertainties
Exposing soft spots in my facade
I base most decisions on information gathered
What happens when info is left out
I mean the IMPORTANT stuff
How can you make a critical decision
When people blindfold you from the truth
Most people think they know it all even the gray stuff
But from mouth of someone trusted, you doubt anything
Why do we use our brains so often
Our thoughts change like a clock's tick
Should we not consult out hearts a little more
It seems to change alot less frequently.....
Any storm can be calmed
Intelligence is useless with out common sense
Timing helps the substance pertain
Why drop the bombshell too late
Now all is left is the aftershock
Nothing can be effected just felt.....
It is useless, even poisonous
But hey a little smoke signal would have been nice
Silence is a hard hitter, trust me
Is poetry just our thoughts in code words
If so I might end up liking poetry
COI
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
every body
is addicted to something
& this body
seems to love
sadness
darkness
& pain -
this mind
unearths emotions
that cause
quite the commotion
to encourage a reaction
so intense
just to distract
from the silence
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC
Excited as a child on Christmas,
with footed pajamas,
and ***** hair,
am I to learn love with you.
Wayside wrapping paper unearths broken defenses and inhibition.
I am a present waiting for your truth to unbox and set free.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
With the onset of Darkness,
The mind unearths a Harness.
A soothing lullaby casts away the Unspeakable,
Embarking on a journey, Untraceable.
Ascending towards unattainable Pinnacles,
Making it astonishingly Mystical.
Courageously cruising over the Oceans,
Undeterred by negative Emotions.
The heart sways graciously like a Dove,
Unfortified, Thoughtless and full of Love.
A Fantasy erupting from the Heart’s Charcoal,
Unifying the Mind, the Body and the Soul.
Emerging from a state categorized Paralytical,
The heart experienced Love, Unconditional.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC
Established thought
unearths reputation as
a time-based construct.
Little wonder He is named;
Rock Eternal
&
Ancient of Days.
© Qwey.ku
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 3:23 AM UTC
Oh to be witty and wise
To see deeply with these eyes
To be brilliant
And fiercely resilient
But gracefully disguised
Oh to awaken my senses
Without hiding inside pretences
To find strength within
That would let me live in this skin
And to drop all needless defences
Oh to know what knowing’s worth
To value growth more than birth
To teach and be taught
But not to be caught
In the trap that endless seeking unearths
Oh to be worthy of admirers
To ignite passions flaming fires
To stir emotion
And hopeless devotion
But not let praise be all that’s desired
Oh to tread lightly and free
Comprehend weight but not be held by its gravity
To know humour and fun
Will infect everyone
Who spends any time with me
Oh crap I set the bar high
I shall have to live in the sky
Don’t think I can reach
The target I preach
But it sure will be fun to try
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 7:02 PM UTC