"uniformly" poems
you began a man in your uniform
uniformly lined in manhood
but unmanned in your last line of defense
the soldier, bleeding in his solidarity.
his head held down by the weight of his thoughts
and his heart held high by his idealism
in this century, he bleeds for your sins
and you, bleeding for the sinners.
bleeding for the sinners.
bleeding from the cinders; burning holes in your flesh from the fire you'd put out in a last-ditch effort to save the "smokey the bear" imagery from your childhood.
didn't you know it'd burn down too
as you dreamt of being an adult
in this distant, futuristic adulthood
where you'd be bleeding out again.
not forming in singular lines
not forming anything but time
in the singular exsanguination of a generation;
they're bleeding for your singing.
bled out and torn about, they die.
dreaded and thrown about in the last ditch efforts of life, they cry out again to the demi-gods and goddesses they believed in for your sins.
they bleed.
Purely.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
The dead-bolts on the interior doors
Against the nephews most securely locked
(One is destructive; the other explores)
Ignored by their mother (usually crocked)
The brother-in-law babbles about his bowels
And surgeries over the festive spread
Ignoring his wife’s disapproving scowls
Detailing each grim therapy and med
The puppies are safely penned inside
Because of an incident with a crowbar
And a nephew who kicked and screamed and cried -
He wasn’t allowed to **** the dogs or bash the car
His mother comforted him in his tears
And glowered at me for telling him no
And comforted herself with a few more beers
Her special child is sensitive, you know
The brother-in-law’s colonoscopy
With lurid adjectives of graphic doom
Comes with the pie and more iced tea
His miseries circulate around the room
Then from the living room an expensive crash
“Not me!” “Not me!” More screams and denials and cries
An old family vase – it’s now just trash
“You shouldn’t have glass around,” their mother sighs
The brother-in-law offers to show his scars
He finds his shirt buttons, makes his move
We other men escape outside for cigars
Cigars!? The women uniformly disapprove
One nephew leaps upon a garden seat
And jumps and yells until it falls apart
Their mother says her boy is cute and sweet
“Are you all right, my dear little heart?”
The brother-in-law holds his tummy and groans
And tells us all about his flatulence
And just which foods lead to what moans
(Perhaps he should practice some abstinence)
The women come outside to cough and choke
With practiced puritan disapproval and sneers
About the satanic scent of tobacco smoke
The world’s best mother chugs a few more beers
The brother-in-law explains why he can’t drink
It’s about his digestion (be surprised)
And we shouldn’t smoke; if only we’d think
And we (got a match?) are properly chastised
Then at the end of this mandatory day
Of mandatory Hallmark merriment
All of them finally go the (space) away
And how did the mailbox get broken and bent?
But the brother-in-law pauses at the garden gate
“Say, did I tell you about my new pills…?”
And so dear solitude again must wait
While darkness slowly falls upon the hills
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
something twas awry with the piper's flute
a most inconsistent rhyme it did oft play
twas very much like an out of tune lute
he thought his flute twas cleverly cute
but a listener did detect its disarray
something was awry with the piper's flute
of the tune's sound the listener did mute
as it bought to the ear such dismay
he thought his flute twas cleverly cute
those discordant notes you can refute
they've a rather off putting sort of splay
something twas awry with the piper's flute
at all times hearing must be acute
for the bearer of the instrument may stray
he thought his flute twas cleverly cute
whence tones don't uniformly salute
there's a cacophony in the aural bay
something twas awry with the piper's flute
twas very much like an out of tune lute
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
I used to believe in diversity
until I was taught conformity
they installed a new identity
they made me follow uniformly
they took away my creativity
and expected me to embrace my individuality
I ask myself about their animosity
and wonder what it means to have equality
equality means
that We are all equal
We are treated equal
given the same and equal chances,
but no one is the same,
but unique in their own way.
There is beauty in diversity,
that's why we must inspire Individuality
,instead of conformity
with having people behave uniformly.
Give them a means to express their creativity
and not be put down because of their diversity.
We need world where equality is reality
and we have our own identity.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC
Very evening
In the west
Up to sky, I
can see a
flying birds
dancing for
the song they
sing together
Peee *** ***
*** hwuit hweet
Peeeeee hwuitt
Chwuee weeee
Are flying birds
uniformly, wearing
multi-hued feather
gown, dancing on
the sky floor
Oh! It's wedding,
a wedding party
of princess
white dove
in the sky palace
of Avesdom
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 6:57 PM UTC
I was born twice, yes I was born & reborn.
Born once on December the 23rd in the year 1990,
And I was born again on May the 7th in the year 2010.
I was born twice, quite unusual, but really true it is.
On December the 23rd in the year 1990 it was biological,
And I survived the accident on May the 7th in the year 2010.
So now you get how I'm a man of Ω-Birthdays, don't you,
Unluckily I fought and brought myself back to this world,
And I am so lonely now, it would've been peaceful if I died.
All of the world who had once been friends with me hates me,
Unlucky enough for me to keep losing real-world friends,
And I hate myself for being such a weird personality.
All the happiness is lost somewhere in this world,
Not unusual for me to lose happiness frequently,
And I must give into this arrangement and suffer.
All my suffering is on behalf of this indifferent world,
Time & Karma distribute sufferings uniformly here,
And I take the problems on myself as I can stand them all.
All the happiness in my account was just temporary,
Let me suffer all of yours problems today whosoever reads this,
And I guarantee you happiness replete when you read this to a grimace.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
XXVI
The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly
by a spirit of uselessness
which delights them—
all the exciting detail
of the chase
and the escape, the error
the flash of genius—
all to no end save beauty
the eternal—
So in detail they, the crowd,
are beautiful
for this
to be warned against
saluted and defied—
It is alive, venomous
it smiles grimly
its words cut—
The flashy female with her
mother, gets it—
The Jew gets it straight—it
is deadly, terrifying—
It is the Inquisition, the
Revolution
It is beauty itself
that lives
day by day in them
idly—
This is
the power of their faces
It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is
cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail
permanently, seriously
without thought
1.6k
Its late at night,
The most Awaiting dream comes to life,
My Heart in the space now wanders,
To feel the creator's wonders,
About the rays of light it ponders,
Origin of the universe it envies,
Treading is it to the planet of rubies,
Our GREAT GRANDFATHER, THE BIG BANG, has a highest record of Babies.
Meteros paas by around,
But they cannot hit me,
I am like a shadow here,
Everything passes through me as If I am smoke.
Hey I think I see a rainbow here,
Its a bit different in shape,
Long and wide straight stripes covering a million kilometers of the same seven colors.
I travel through black holes,
Saying, "Hey Mr. Black, You can destroy physical bodies, Try to challange this pure soul,
I have come up with some shortcuts here too, LOL,
How peaceful here the life is,
No rise and No fall,
I look at the nebula,
like, would look, billions of earth's clouds,
but painted in different colors,
The vaccum out here is so hypnotic,
A normal human would become psychotic,
Gravity here in empty pulls uniformly all over my body,
But its gentle while the pull preventing to rip me to pieces,
And then theres a road of white light which leads beyond,
But white is leading to black, this feeling's so sound.
Many small planets are arranged around it to give a bridge like effect,
Does this bridge lead to the ultimate energy,
The ultimate truth as the mortals of the earth say..
I take a step forward to commence the final journey after plenty,
Conjuring all the memories of my life to feel eternity.
As I reach the end in front of me is a small particle placed on a slab,
And the strongest of microscope above it to make it visible.
I turn around to look far away the glistening galaxies
Confined in an arrangement like nerves of a brain,
I give a smile to all my beloved,
And then touch the microsope,
It ****** me in,
And I got shooted from its otherside,
To be absorbed by particle and never to seperate.
"Hey Moksha, Wassup..?"
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly
by a spirit of uselessness
which delights them—
all the exciting detail
of the chase
and the escape, the error
the flash of genius—
all to no end save beauty
the eternal—
So in detail they, the crowd,
are beautiful
for this
to be warned against
saluted and defied—
It is alive, venomous
it smiles grimly
its words cut—
The flashy female with her
mother, gets it—
The Jew gets it straight—it
is deadly, terrifying—
It is the Inquisition, the
Revolution
It is beauty itself
that lives
day by day in them
idly—
This is
the power of their faces
It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is
cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail
permanently, seriously
without thought
1.4k
He manages to free his thoughts
as he gazes the television
for news from a distance,
while continuing to sample
his supper of rice,
and sauteed vegetables
on a aluminum serving plate.
The restaurant he owns
dimly lit this mid-afternoon
with ghostly lanterns,
and artistic impressions
of times past on the wall,
while customers
walk and gingerly pass
ordering from an eclectic
menu of indo-latin-euro-oriental cuisine.
A neapolitan of condiments
dancing among garlic chili sauce,
and mayonnaise.
Mahogany grained panel walls,
and formica woven
seats, uniformly
scattered among
porcelain white
plates; traditional.
Engraved Jade pieces
hung with colors of luck
on each entrance.
I approach the counter.
A sepia toned
picture of his family
hanging by his register
no first dollar bill
or recognitions.
Just family held,
through time,
as he hands me a check.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 10:29 AM UTC
the sign on the railway station says "Common Destination,"
the ties of our tracks are uniform, creosote covered, splintered,
spaced uniformly as is the wont of the arm-in-arm soldiers,
different regiments in the same army, though as they march,
some on the high, some the low road, in defense of the values,
right, right, right.
no believing in forever land, dreamt of poems forever burning,
real life farenheit bonfires lit by brown uniforms and such, thus,
now, when a poem completed and shared,
it is instantly disfigured,
by flames harnessed to lick
the slate page clean, immediately,
presenting yet another opportunity,
to protest, persistently,
endless be my own turnkey hands renewing,
my write to right.
my write to right,
my pupose; my only intent, even in love poems,
ogdiddy witty ditties, long dialogues with the creator, all purposed,
all written while standing one on left foot, are we not all
poets of the ways to increase the sum total of
righteous and kindness in the world.
'tis right to write,
but go further and farther,
write to right.
to ease, comfort, shoulder and hand extensions, be the lean-to,
the shelter when there is no shelter, for there is no
owning words, and no limitation on clear vision and
the right to write.
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
I scrub down the entrails
cast now in wire
forcing fast horsehair to form
audible friction,
with wood, metal, keratin, and navel craft
comprehensible tension;
and I study such tension to
form a portfolio of frequencies
from which to draw
and cause
emotion on cue:
to tease my tactile habits
is to hone my habitual expression (they say);
I ask the doctor and take this aural tool
--a theory of not colors but a fifth wheel--
as directed,
and use it to forge links between acoustic flailings
to turn feelings into gears that line up
just as the label instructs.
And so I train my instincts to match the mold taught in
this cramped and unfamiliar womb;
and I teach my hand to tremble uniformly.
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC
There it lay, abandoned for all to see.
In the dead of night, I have come to seek;
reveling in the unadorned beauty of
a little red wagon.
The gleam of the water reflected from the stifled red;
the splendor of the day, uniformly admired;
the brimming moon, spilling light unto us.
Amidst all, the sand, the shore, the path;
the little red wagon.
The beauty of simplicity,
all captured in the directness
of a wagon
perhaps forgotten.
The little red wagon,
glorious in nearly every which way.
Thank you for the splendor of night,
shining furtively upon your handle.
I shall now part ways.
For it is that I now see the many paths that yet
lie untrodden.
Floating midst the sea of sand and the stars of night was quite simply
a little red wagon.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 10:35 PM UTC
Electric bulb glows brightly
proudly converting electricity
to light and heat.
A single water drop
Shatters the glass, the pride
the price it pays, as heat distributes
Non-uniformly, the expansion
uneven.
Only a faint glow of tungsten
filament remains still thinking
wondering, Only if it had remained
switched off, of pride
the drop would have gently
trickled down the glass surface.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
It's a phrase I often playfully use to describe my queer self.
("Were you ever?"my beloved Alison uniformly says in jest).
But now it seems unusually apt in another way:
As I swann around this empty house, the decor, the photos, the ornaments and old perfume bottles overwhelm me.
My head is brimming with memories as I glance past these fragments of our shared lives.
My loss is palpable and yet inescapable under this roof.
She surrounds us on the walls, hanging over us with her beaming smile amidst the family photos.
I want to escape but I can't:
In a mad way I want to believe that something of these relics around us can bring her back somehow.
She did after all carry something of the old Irish paganism with her.
But, no, this ancient shamanism is sadly absent in a room drowned out by every token of Catholicism you can think of.
It's all too much for this first born to take and yet she is still here in the tiny gaps of these precious artefacts.
Hidden away where you can't see her.
So, no, being honest right now - I'm not quite straight yet.
The head and heart will realign soon but not with this gnawingly painful grief.
Pray for me.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
An ember left to burn within
Without a thought to let you in
Years have passed and hearts worn thin
We still remember
Who knew passion would burn again
From that small ember
Out of sight and out of mind
The lives that we had left behind
Beat us down, were so unkind
Hearts left unbeating
Yet, now the sun begins to shine
With this chance meeting
Two hearts united with elation
With just a simple revelation
Words not mere communication
They wrap us warmly
Falling hard into temptation
Uniformly
There is no maybe, there is no doubt
There is no way to do without
How were we to figure out
We loved each other?
Time brings clarity about
For one another
A warm embrace leads straight to passion
No going slow, no need to ration
No betting chips, it's time to cash in
On the hand we're winning
We leap forward in eager fashion
To a new beginning
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
1
I will drive you to the beach today,
Because winter has outstayed its welcome.
We have no tolerance for rude guests.
After all, it’s been a pair of months since
We had our last snowball fight.
We can undress to the least amount of
Decent clothing the law permits.
We will take sandals that clap our heels
Uniformly with our strides through the sand.
I’ve already packed our wicker picnic basket.
We will have ham and cheese on white bread,
Because we both agree peanut butter is unpleasant to smell.
We’ve cuddled all winter long to keep warm. Now,
We want to hold each other for the innocent pleasure
Spring promises. Now, we’re going to the beach.
2
She and I held our anticipation together
With every rotation of our odometer.
We—together—would enjoy the simple pleasure
Of watching the overbearing nines
Give way to a fresh thousand.
She pretended the AM stations
Received alien transmissions at the ends
Of the dials. When we listened, we heard music.
She had the idea to buy one another
New bathing suits. Now, I wear too short blue trunks
With green dots, speckling me like an ill duck.
3
Skipping, and kicking up sand with uncommon grace,
The sun began to set as she pranced around
Our fire. The blaze was burning out, as the sky
Took the light away. I could only barely make out
The purple of her new one-piece, that so starkly
Contrasted with her pale legs.
As the sun almost hid beneath the west, like a fawn
Her silhouette casually strolled my way.
She held her head to the stars, presenting
All of her neck. The only sounds we heard
Were the tide and her toes crunching sand.
She stopped, just toe lengths in front of me,
Arching her head back, as if deep in thought.
Her mouth opened like a growing crater
And when, in her shadow, I joined her skyward stare,
We—together—both watched the Moon come out.
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 5, 2010 at 8:00 AM UTC
Quiet, the bamboo grove—
from each drooping leaf-tip hangs
a drooping dewdrop...
The same footprints,
coming and going, coming and going,
along the long trek path,
changing shape,
uniformly...
Naked feet tapping down the steps,
I halt—the pond in dawn-chill haze...
Mynahs a dozen—
hop, hop, hop, pick...hop, hop, pick—
dewdrops on wet grass...
And in the visitor’s room,
the chair tilted at this angle,
I see,
reflected on the window pane,
the entire stretch of an empty corridor—
Surely, a great omen!
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC
In tedious fashion, as uniformly descried,
stumble these thoughts with bumbling pride.
And though they would, in sequence, march fluidly,
each solo intent breaks tangentially.
A web will insert with some links between chains
And focus diverts into scattering trains.
Manifest indeed, your yield must unwind
in cacophony, useless to the mind.
Don't think these excuses and don't think me excused,
nor elaborately spoken, nor plainly confused.
I push full comprehension in a manner unwise
because thoughts about thoughts are a thoughtful demise
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
There is no greater force than to consume a burning sun
The chemical reaction measured but the megaton
But when slowly done in a most diabolically methodical fashion
Each helium neutrino ripped apart by atomizing pure passion
Like helpless water circling down a drain pulled hopelessly in
Time will move ever so slowly once within
With no beginning......and no end........
Every particle similarly blasted into basic atomic makeup
There is no bearing size of space for matter to take up
With each consumed substance its dark potential uplifts
Uniformly placed all things amazingly fit
In a place where nothing so exponential should sits
All melting into an event horizontal pit
Every last light will parish.......not one bit will survive........
This force will never desist
Yet everything will still exist
On the great spinning disc of time
That has merely yet to reverse in our puny mind
To bang all possessions in unpredictable directions
Never really thinking of correcting imperfections
Because everything has always been there......and never was.....
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
I’m sinking.
At that night the grass
is embracing me velvety.
And it seems to me unreal
that I’m an island sprung
in milky ways.
Yes.
That night I’m spilling
with the tide.
And the joys of directions
into the worlds are fusing
in a kernel.
I’m breathing uniformly and deeply
under the arch of your arm
and a cradle.
The original:
Във тънка мрежа на звездите
се отпускам.
През тази нощ тревата
ме обгръща кадифено.
И нереално ми се струва,
че съм поникнал остров
в млечни пътища.
Да.
Тази нощ разливам се
със прилива.
И радостите на посоките
във световете сливат се
в ядро.
Дишам равномерно и дълбоко
под арка на ръката ти и
люлка.
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
May 20, 2011
May 20, 2011 at 10:39 PM UTC
Liberté, égalité, fraternité.
L’ homme est né libre,
Pourtant partout il est enchaîné.
An eternally torturous question,
Oozing out of our minds like an infection;
Are we all equal?
Perhaps not when it comes to skill;
Some can lead, some can thrill.
Some can cook, and therefore feed;
Some can run, some can read.
All of us can do something –
No standardised test,
No uniformly assigned competition
Could ever possibly measure
This unique treasure,
The human ability to set off on an endeavour
And achieve astounding feats.
So, then –
Are we born equally endowed?
Perhaps not; should differential talents
Be stimulated, encouraged,
Voiced aloud?
A resounding yes, a thousand times yes!
We should only accept being under duress
When of forced labour and working to exist
We start hearing less and less,
When that concerted effort is directed
Not at striving at surviving
But at truly living, not just slowly dying.
Truly living is about doing what you love,
Being able and free to do so,
Learning that which you don’t know
And expanding that which you do know.
This is not our reality –
We are all born exactly the same,
Yet the country you were born in
Hell, even your family’s name,
Are things that determine
Where you will be positioned
In this foul, ***** game.
This is where we aren’t born equal –
In our right and access
To freely engage in the pursuit of happiness.
There is a seedling of potential in all of us,
One that can be grown –
Let it be known
That all seedlings can become a mighty tree,
If given the following three:
A space in which a fertile mind can be cultivated,
A community in which love can be propagated,
And the freedom to exist without being incarcerated.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
Time frozen, eternity's remnant
A kiss unbroken by the threads of fate
A bond unshattered by the weaves of destiny
A moment untouched by the strings of life ethereal
Time frozen, eternity's remnant
Their lips caressing one another so graciously
Their hands interlocked together so uniformly
Their beings resonating as one so perfectly
Time frozen, eternity's remnant
Uncertain future created afterwards through unknown factors
Uncertain future sustained during the unclear present
Uncertain future diminished before they truly became one
Time resumed, eternity's progression
Reality sabotaged by instance of luck
Reality abolished by happening of chance
Reality undone by development of coincidence
Time resumed, eternity's progression
Moved on from childish thoughts
Became more than desired
Left behind as nothing more than a still frame
Time unfrozen, eternity's remnant
Initial beginnings—eager love which knows no bounds
Time resumed, eternity's progression
Followed events—realizations of the truth and awareness of reality
Time collapsed, eternity's absence
Final ending—comprehension that a pause in history cannot define its entirety
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
“...But didn't your mother die too?
Back before we came?”
Some thoughts, Dad?
That day for you?
How was it?
Tell me how you woke in gray –
dressed so uniformly in it
Tell me how you turned away
from all those helpless flowers on the ground
Came back empty to her kitchen
Still filled with the smells of her
Let me see her! Hear her!
Once!
With any words –
besides the ones about the meat juice on her dress
The roast flung back
to splatter rage
upon the gentle curse
I see reflect
in my own image
across the table from him...
I want to know about the picture on your bureau
Do silent eyes still tuck you in?
She has a kind face that seems unending
I understand why things have gone unsaid
Do you know?
I have been wondering
Sneaking in your room
to pull her down from heaven?
To melt the years
of frosted glass between us?
to touch her face?
To look into her grayish eyes
pretending for a moment – she can really see me
To lay my head against her calico embrace?
Celina Arnell Rodier, 1872 – 1941 (Dad's Mom)
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
Waves traveling uniformly in the culmination of reality
Elusive perfection never meets our eyes
It is carried
In the messenger of colors
Reflecting within these portals
Directed towards the medium of awareness.
I am within the vast expanse of harmonious order
Breathing in the cosmic bonds
As a composition of ancient dust
Experiencing the mystery of happen
And the equivocal breadth of our surroundings.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC