"unrhythmically" poems - Hello Poetry

each day lasts forever.but the weeks are forcibly torn out.crumpled into the void like unwanted notebook pages-the years are the most frightening-just to slide by them.folded over like the rolled edge of a dull pocketknife. imprecisely honed. imperfectly lived. [memoirs of a boy scout drop out]there's something suffering (in the way you do those things) stumbling into the musky, razor-blade winters of jack london's finest fantasies.like a ghost seen walking in circles around the perfect spaces in-between the empty moments of gentle speech.mumbling softly over the warm murmurs of crackling embers delicately pacing distance between themselves(so as not to burn so quickly.)the hot tangy slurs of blood dripping from downward facing fingertips.teeth gnashed together, translucent grey flint-wheel sparks springing from the shadows-flaring nostrils coupled with rapidly expanding lungs.breathing in the ferrous red-a single hammerfallpulsation. arms interacting with the bitter indifference of the cold that snaps open the veins throbbing wildly in clumsy hands-letting the animal spirits trickle out unrhythmically-into jackson ******* droplets. onto the pristine snow.

0

Nov 6, 2012

Nov 6, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC

k_faye

numb.

each day lasts forever.but the weeks are forcibly torn out.crumpled into the void like unwanted notebook pages-the years are the most frightening-just to slide by them.folded over like the rolled edge of a dull pocketknife. imprecisely honed. imperfectly lived. [memoirs of a boy scout drop out]there's something suffering (in the way you do those things) stumbling into the musky, razor-blade winters of jack london's finest fantasies.like a ghost seen walking in circles around the perfect spaces in-between the empty moments of gentle speech.mumbling softly over the warm murmurs of crackling embers delicately pacing distance between themselves(so as not to burn so quickly.)the hot tangy slurs of blood dripping from downward facing fingertips.teeth gnashed together, translucent grey flint-wheel sparks springing from the shadows-flaring nostrils coupled with rapidly expanding lungs.breathing in the ferrous red-a single hammerfallpulsation. arms interacting with the bitter indifference of the cold that snaps open the veins throbbing wildly in clumsy hands-letting the animal spirits trickle out unrhythmically-into jackson ******* droplets. onto the pristine snow.

2

Three climb the hill behind the house: my master with the yearling cow and me. The dawn-light glinting sidelong off the heifer's glossy hide is a memory of the morning star reflecting its own shadow. As we walk out past the fence gate posts into the winter pasture (now in bloom), the gray grass swells in the fickle breeze. I hear the sea swells move across the grain and splash against my side unrhythmically. The man, who walks with purpose in his stride, holds limply wood and steel there at his side or shifts the load to point into the sky. The quiet beast, chewing, climbs the hill from sunrise-side toward its falling down. I guess she thinks this Eden, (this meadowland unspoiled) and she the sole inheritor of a paradise of grain. But here where we can see the earth stretch out beyond itself, we pause and tie the yearling cow to some eternal oak. The dawn-light in crescendo echoes off her onyx hide. A crimson sky offsets a gem of silver on the rise. Now wood and steel rise coldly through the chilled mid-morning air. Chewing she stares down at me her sombre bovine stare. He raises up his single arm and heavily exhales. Her stare now without object falls beside the hallowed tree in rippling peals of thunder that vibrate through the dew. She lies where she belongs upon the earth, black hide and life-blood mingle with the dirt. Now two descend the hill into the yard. My master's path is to the barn to finish what's been done while I wrack my mind for how she might have sinned. I don't think I will climb that hill again. I don't think I will climb that hill again...

0

May 15, 2017

May 15, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC

towardheaven

Witness

Three climb the hill behind the house: my master with the yearling cow and me. The dawn-light glinting sidelong off the heifer's glossy hide is a memory of the morning star reflecting its own shadow. As we walk out past the fence gate posts into the winter pasture (now in bloom), the gray grass swells in the fickle breeze. I hear the sea swells move across the grain and splash against my side unrhythmically. The man, who walks with purpose in his stride, holds limply wood and steel there at his side or shifts the load to point into the sky. The quiet beast, chewing, climbs the hill from sunrise-side toward its falling down. I guess she thinks this Eden, (this meadowland unspoiled) and she the sole inheritor of a paradise of grain. But here where we can see the earth stretch out beyond itself, we pause and tie the yearling cow to some eternal oak. The dawn-light in crescendo echoes off her onyx hide. A crimson sky offsets a gem of silver on the rise. Now wood and steel rise coldly through the chilled mid-morning air. Chewing she stares down at me her sombre bovine stare. He raises up his single arm and heavily exhales. Her stare now without object falls beside the hallowed tree in rippling peals of thunder that vibrate through the dew. She lies where she belongs upon the earth, black hide and life-blood mingle with the dirt. Now two descend the hill into the yard. My master's path is to the barn to finish what's been done while I wrack my mind for how she might have sinned. I don't think I will climb that hill again. I don't think I will climb that hill again...

42

In the motion of waiting, my inside rot. In the action of breathing, the air grows hot. And in the patience of watching fools after fools None dared to reach and claw on my skin. To swore off touch aside from the skin my fingers hold. To swore off hearts aside from mine that beats within me. I fear I do not crave for human flesh anymore. I am my own temple and my own worshipper. Mirthfully to celebrate of choosing to celibate— The liberation of the hunger that consumes me. Perhaps, this is the love I was meant to find. To beat alone in this world filled with others— Unrhythmically, matching no ones rhythm but my own.

0

Nov 23, 2024

Nov 23, 2024 at 6:34 AM UTC

asilvaspoetry

intimacy of celibacy

In the motion of waiting, my inside rot. In the action of breathing, the air grows hot. And in the patience of watching fools after fools None dared to reach and claw on my skin. To swore off touch aside from the skin my fingers hold. To swore off hearts aside from mine that beats within me. I fear I do not crave for human flesh anymore. I am my own temple and my own worshipper. Mirthfully to celebrate of choosing to celibate— The liberation of the hunger that consumes me. Perhaps, this is the love I was meant to find. To beat alone in this world filled with others— Unrhythmically, matching no ones rhythm but my own.

13