"valves" poems
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava........
SO If you tell me your heart is "literally broken" just don't.
It isn't broken.
It just hurts.
It's just feels horrible.
Painful.
A feeling that hurts you and feels like your heart hurts so much that it's actually broken.
But your heart doesn't actually hurt.
It's just a feeling.
The cycle stills goes on.
It is still functioning.
So, next time you feel your "heart breaking" and literally being "torn apart",
Remember...
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.
From the Vena Cava to the Right Atrium.
From the Right Atrium through the Tricuspid valves.
Through the Tricuspid valves to the Right Ventricle.
Up the Pulmonary Artery.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the pulmonary artery.
To the lungs.
Blood becomes Oxygenated
Oxygenated blood flows from the lungs to the left side of the heart through the Pulmonary Vein.
From the Pulmonary Vein to the Left Atrium.
From the Left Atrium through the Bicuspid valves.
Through the Bicuspid valves to the Left Ventricle.
Up the Aorta.
Through the semi-luner valves.
Out the Aorta.
Oxygenated blood is sent around the body.
Blood becomes Deoxygenated
Deoxygenated blood flows from the body to the right side of the heart through the Vena Cava.............
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
The lights swimming in my head look like shimmering fish. I’m underwater. The pressure and the sand are so inviting. To just stay down here and watch the way my fingernails turn into an even paler pink. like my cheeks. when I first fall in love. And my name changes. I’m no longer Kalena. I’ll be whoever you want me to be, baby. Anything at all. If you want me happy I’ll leave the stories at home. Home. She’s bipolar and I’m depressed and in love and no one else is. My creases where I carry you are sore from all of your emotion. I’m consumed by your pumping heart and electric nervous system. The one that doesn't come in effect, when I’m around; when I touch you. The rock I sat on today was misted by my thoughts on how you won’t ever see me how I see you than how misted it was by the actual water. My stomach is winding and alls I want to do is shove you inside of me and bite your neck. To this beat. I want you to smile because I make you so **** happy. I’ll give you everything. Everything. I just miss laying on someone’s heart beating life into them. And wishing and praying you’re another thing beating the life in their entire being. I want your finger tips and valves. watch thousands of you bloom. watch that look boys give to pretty girls falling over your face with every birth. So I won’t ever worry about you dying. About losing you. Because I’ll just plant you when I need eyelashes to kiss. Or fingernails to chew and paint. Maybe I’ll just live through you. Call you my tree of life. Tree of life. I don’t even like trees all that much.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:45 PM UTC
Lie beneath the galaxy in a cathedral silence,
Stay up till the moon dives behind the beige mountains.
Rest on your beast, let the valves take a break,
Treat yourself with a feast, its the only time in your fate.
Slithering into my sack I rest under the canvas,
How peaceful it is far away from all the ruckus.
The monk's prayers bid me with good luck,
I'm off riding in the sparse cold desert.
I stop with the view of a disputed lake,
Miles long the jade blue reflects the golden tops.
In refuge at a monastery, fuel is a luxury,
I'd give up everything for a piece of this little heaven.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
with well worked hands
he pulls on the sea
like the hem of a pale skirt dancing 'round his lovers hips
it's what she loves about him most
the way that the tide ebbs and flows
with the rise and fall of his sun-stained chest
seashells
and gull feathers
and bits of fishing net
woven into his hair
like the threads of canvas sails
aqueous thunder-head eyes
look like they've seen the fall of every empire
and soon
they'll witness the fall of ours
he smells of salt-cured wood and the sun
and it's the kind of smell you'll never forget
nor properly describe
he moves like magic
like waves
lapping at the shoreline in the calm of dusk
with an anxious tongue
and an appetite that's never satisfied
he licks the wounds of any heart
he's strong enough to bare the weight of any burden
of any trash barge or sea ferry
ear pressed to his chest
like a conch-shaped vessle
the labor of his heart valves plays like sailor songs
in an empty cabaret
nerve-wrackingly beautiful
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
Flexibility is the presence of structure
In the absence of rigidity.
Like the valves in my veins
That keep my blood flowing in the
Right direction.
As limber beings we can sway and bend without snapping.
Even under intense pressure,
We are able to return to normal
When we call upon our inner strength.
Our minds, like muscles,
Must be consistently stretched and tested
To remain pliable.
Allowing us to become more accepting of ourselves and others.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
The past can make it so easy to relapse
not because of the past itself
but
running away from it
and burying it in the subconscious,
hiding it away and letting it silently
fest fest fest.
Is what causes you to be haunted.
---
Pain;
A raging sore, a deep wound, an eternal scar,
just wants to be felt; acknowledged.
So I try not, to ignore it
when I see the marks of the past; knives
digging into the valves of my heart; pain
even when it comes back
strong and hard and fighting
like a hurricane
carrying me away under water
suffocating the freedom in my punctured lungs
I will not let it destroy me.
—-
Its not because I am weak that I struggle with it
but the brain is strong; be aware...
For thoughts can make you a victim of your own mind
though I hope
there will be a time when
healing, that miraculous God-sent healing is at the end.
When
you stop ignoring the past
and instead start loving those broken pieces, the shame you felt,
the fear that crippled
and realise
it will soon ease, soon melt away, soon diminish
and you’ll remember
pain has no authority to hurt
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
This small green bear,
your name embroidered on its chest,
was never yours. It would have been
our Christmas gift to you,
had you lived a month longer.
The ones you would give
you had already bought,
wrapped, labelled -
thoughtful, organised
to the end,
to the bitter end.
We unwrapped them on the day,
smiled at your kindness,
wept at our loss.
Early Christmas gifts
that you had not organised,
that nobody could have anticipated,
went to strangers: your pancreas,
a life free from daily injections;
your kidneys, two lives free from dialysis;
your liver, divided, to a young girl
and an older lady, who would
quite simply have a life
they had almost given up hoping for.
Your heart, damaged by extended life-support,
not suitable for transplantation,
yielded its valves
to repair the damaged hearts of others.
Even bone and skin were harvested
for people you never knew.
That Christmas you gave hope
to so many people,
and to us the consolation
that they live on because of you,
and that you live on in them.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
I can feel you near me
Whenever you are close.
You're like an overdose on
E
My tank is on
F
I want to swim past your knees
And take one last deep breath before
Submerging myself
Into the salacious, incredulously insatious, Caribbean Sea-warm Oasis
At the apex of your thighs.
I will set sail ships in your eyes
Questing for you to magnetize me in the direction towards the destin of my fate.
The question is
Once I'm in
Can your Vaginal Strait
Navigate me
In the deep dark cavity of your hips
Or can your lips
Narrate
Irrigate me to the waterfalls of your heart
I want to split your valves apart and
Let
Love
Pour.
I want to anchor permanently on the sink-sands of your shores;
I want to be closer to you than I've ever been before...
I want you to feel me.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
I envied the cadavers haunting my nightmares,
watching those before me
spread upon a metal slab
bodies are hand-me-downs of regurgitated poetry,
with wretched closets in which I take their place.
This ventilator called "loved ones"
forcing breath into anguished lungs-
tragedies belonging to these poets meant something,
a desire to save the words written,
but never the one who becomes a eulogy.
Agony burrows inside of me,
conversations with my mother's ghost
still,
the living are possessed by
the dead's shortened tomorrows.
To die by suicide wouldn't give,
authenticity to hurt.
I am learning the autopsy of a soul:
extracting a heart from the chest,
as it's sense of belonging was never there.
An inability to weigh the words bleeding from valves,
aside lungs I'm unable to breathe through.
How ungrateful is it of sorrow to ask for hope?
placed in a pill divider to swallow,
muscles within my throat so tight.
Wondering,
How many times did I diminish my voice?
Inside the brain,
schematics of labyrinths with no end to betterment.
Surgeons reach for a soul,
an iridescence small enough
held in a gloved palm,
watching it writhe.
Placed upon a slide,
but even a microscope
cannot perceive the pain a soul hides.
Once more,
stitched with needle and thread.
Wilting of my own garden,
comes one day-
an incision is made opening me up.
My heart showed the same
blood-red ink, writing apologies
on the marble floor.
They opened my arm,
displaying a noose of veins.
In this moment,
they removed my soul
only to gift it to another
birthed from torment
ripped out of the arm's of their mother
& into the embrace of woe.
—V.H.
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 12:01 AM UTC
Some mornings, heartbreak is in your bones, settled deep inside though you can’t seem to recall sending the invitation.
Your rib cage stands like the bare tree of fall, the wind whistling through it’s frail branches, tapping on your window as if to remind you, you are alone.
Some mornings, heartbreak is in your skull, in the crevices of the pale blue casing that surrounds your every thought, the broken dreamcatcher trying to keep the evil away.
But ghosts can float between the bars, slip inside your deepest secrets, with no regret or remorse for making you cry out in the night.
Some mornings, heartbreak is in your spine, intertwining like ivy on a lamp post, leaving you begging for someone else to hold your own head up for you.
Comfort resides in the hours spent cut off from reality, for at least you have control of that, though the dreams leave you franticly reaching in the night for something unknown to even you.
Some mornings, heartbreak finds it’s way back to your heart, slides through the valves, into the ventricles, mixing with the blood that gives you life. Heartbreak gives you life. Heartbreak reaches every last corner of your body, crippling you and taunting you, but you are still capable of breathing on your own. Heartbreak may be a thief, but you are a statue, broken and crumbling around the edges but still standing after all these years.
Some mornings, heart break is in your body. It seems to make up the essence of you, but it is not your being. You are your being.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:36 AM UTC
It was a marathon race of
timeline. The days are bound and shot.
How do I come to you to express
my grief of the country
in tumult!
In shouting and screaming,
there was no magic wand to invoke
peace. Your mouth opens
and shuts like the shell valves. The
scollops― words, swim in
sea of burials.
The seriality was unconscionable.
It falls short of a stroke.
The blood splits. A riot erupts
to wet the lips of curved razor.
The sun retreats, to let
the stars find their sky.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 1:45 AM UTC
No one saw it coming,
that warm September day-
Not the workers at the pudding shack
Who mixed sweet treats for pay.
Not the Rookie at the pressure valves
Not the people in the town
It was the Rookies’ rank incompetence
That set in motion what went down.
Nine vats of Snack Time pudding
Exploded with a roar
Nine hundred thousand gallons
Went oozing out the door
The workers never had a chance
On this, their final day
Ending up like Easter bunnies
For a giant’s holiday
That mighty wave of chocolate.
Like a Tsunami hit the town.
Sweet creamy death swept over them
Deliciously, they drowned.
Others turned and tried to flee.
They ran for all their worth.
The swift were lucky to escape
This scrumptious hell on earth
The survivors of the snack slide
Lost all they owned in town
It was a diabetics’ wet dream
Everything was chocolate brown.
It was the worst snacktastrophe
Our land had ever seen.
Obama sent marines with spoons
The air force dropped whipped cream
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 10:50 PM UTC
In every moon there is a man
And in every man there is a heart inside of which lives a woman
Who doesn't clean
Who doesn't cook
Who doesn't serve him
Only lives within the walls of his heart
And within every woman living in a man's heart
There is a desire to be free
It is not odd to imagine her leaving
Merely odd to see her go
Riding on the back of an elephant
In high heels
With a bottle of Chateau de Michelle
And weilding the sword of a swallowing minstrel
Drunkenly yelling songs of a time in which she never lived
And that will never leave a man
Whether the next woman comes in riding a golden chariot pulled by blazing reindeer
Or mounted on a shark wearing a cocktail dress
And while he laments her going
She regrets her ever having left
So she turns around
Looks into the vast nothing behind her
Trampled under the weight of the elephant
Cut down by her drunken fit of rage
Burned and eaten by the coming and going of others
And she sees
That beyond the husk of the home she once knew
Lay merely arteries and valves
And no soft place to lay her head
So she dismounts her companion
Lays down her sword
Crashes the bottle upon the rocks
Tears the heels from her shoes
And limps into the desert
Looking for that which she had already found
While he lie
Filling the emptiness of his ravaged heart
With the tender touch of fleeting acrobats
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 4:56 AM UTC
I’ve been thinking about hands
a lot lately and how fingerprints are like
permanent, foreshadowing tree rings
etched onto our beings; I wonder if
the number of rings on my palms have any
correlation to the number of years I’ll live or
the number of years he’ll live or the number of
years that she lived. I’ve been thinking a lot about
life lines and heart lines
and if there is any stock to be found in palmistry;
I wonder how my fate line got to be
so muddled with my luck line.
I see my life the way a clairvoyant would:
in cut-up and choppy strips of film—
I should have seen the omens,
I should have read the smoke signals,
I should have recognized the cards.
Act One began on a waning crescent moon
and continued until its gluttonous belly
had swollen with light; I thought to
myself that craniums made of gallium
often melt the quickest, that blood filled
with plutonium often flows the slowest. I would
have given my body up to the pathologist free of charge,
would have let him dig his hands into my entrails for
some sort of divination, some sort of revelation—
I was never told to beware the Ides of June
nor the Kalends of November.
Act Two began with the birth of Jack Frost
and has been continuing without intermission for
the past four celestial cycles; I thought to
myself that heart valves made of sodium polyacrylate
often love the most, that sinkholes disguised as
fingertips often feel the deepest. He whispered
in my ear cliched words about not believing in
God, but how I made him feel blessed, and in
that moment I knew he was the oneiromantic being
that had been shadowing my dreams since 1996—
I guess you could say that, sometimes,
I believe in love.
There is an art to fortune-telling
there is an art to hands
there is an art to bones
there is an art to dreams, and over the years,
I have found them coinciding more often
than not. In my sleep, in notebooks, in
irises, in mirrors, in poetry, in small little sighs.
I do not know if I believe in fate or destiny, in
God, in auras, or in the Blood Moon Prophecy,
but I do know that I believe in you. I find myself writing
sappy verses and smelling your shirts and I do
not know if it is because I miss you or if it is because
I’m bored or if they’ve somehow
mergedintothesamething.
I’ve been wondering a lot lately about
where you show up on my hands; about where
he showed up and where she showed up. I want
to know which lines bisect and which lines fall
short; I want to know if the resemblance between
mother and daughter
continues into that of my palm lines. I want to know
if my life line matches hers and if my heart line
is even worth giving away—
find me in your crystal ball, make me
your sacrificed animal, look for my body
in the stars, and we will know that
it was all made to be.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
303
The Soul selects her own Society—
Then—shuts the Door—
To her divine Majority—
Present no more—
Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pausing—
At her low Gate—
Unmoved—an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat—
I’ve known her—from an ample nation—
Choose One—
Then—close the Valves of her attention—
Like Stone—
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the train whistles lull me to a dusty sleep
an ancient sleep
primitive and timeless as the sage
it tastes like rain
and reads like a folk song
and when the engine songs are gone
the interstate strikes up it's serenade
flooding my heart valves with gasoline
and valvoline
and the smile of what i can only hope to imagine are young lovers
with a fiesty case of wanderlust
and a puppy in the back seat
with a wagging tail
"happy trails" i whisper
and the stars flicker
and i smile
the walls let their secrets slide while they sleep
all those restless memories they keep for themselves
floating around
and settling in the parlor dust
they trust me just enough
to let me cradle them in my chest
woven between my rebar ribs
and my flat-tire heart
thud thud thudding as it speeds off into the distance
the dogs rustle the sheets as they rise
just long enough to sigh
dance a sleepy circle and a half
and put themselves back to bed
i finally crawl out from inside my noisy head
as the boy nestles up to my neck
and traces my clavical with his humid breath
and ropes me in closer to his chest
with his big bear arms
his heart sings like a fire alarm
stirring the brave to save me from the shadows
and chase the ghosts from my gallows
and he even lets out puppy snores in his sleep
the tune that finally pirouettes me towards my dreams
where the birds sing like drunken sailors in the mango groves
and the rows and rows of lime trees
my heart and mind innertwined to paint me a scene i've never even seen
not with my own eyes
it's so nice to think it's within me
and not without me
yes
for every sound, a source
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
The metal in this brass knuckle heart
punches my chest from the inside out
The valves, a semiconductor for the static
electricity of your touch
Who ever thought a defibrillator could be so soft?
And in the challenge of this love
I wonder what kind of mettle you're thinking
of now
And I think patience is found
on a molecular level inside the iron
in your blood
And love then, a stone ground down
from your ashes
I mean, pressure and heat are
what diamonds are made from
Tell me again of the struggles you shone through
And through that logic, we are precious stones
but so much softer than that
I want to hold you like the focused light
from a jeweler trying to make a sale
but so much more earnest than that
And what of the contradiction
between hardness
and softness
Because there is you
How can you be so hard
and so full of life?
How can you be so beautiful?
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
I've always been cold until I visited the Far East and you pranced into my life like a wild gazelle in the grasslands. I've always been cold until you laid your head on my chest while you fell asleep and the aroma of your cocoa brown hair intoxicated me to the point of snores and the most pleasant dreams I've ever had. I've always been cold until you wrapped your arm around my stomach and I could feel your veins circulating on the contours of my abdomen. I've always been cold until you looked at me with your macchiato eyes and my state of matter went from solid to liquid as I tried to construct myself back together like an artist sculpting an ice statue outside in the middle of May in Mexico. I've always been cold until your kiss electrified my lips like an underwater eel and I felt 12,000 watts circulate my body bringing to attention every cell that flows within my valves. I've always been cold like an iceberg near the Antarctic and nothing's ever changed that. Nothing except for you. Thank you for being my fireplace in the middle of an ice cold winter. Thank you for being my heat.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 2:26 AM UTC
Fermented undergarments
farmers markets, Targets, turn tarnish!
An angle of self-righteousness moves to left.
.
a group of cleft palates peel all the way back for the attic
after a thousand years of theft. (Arent you in awe?)
when hairless hands wrap and grab Tef – lon
get on one of the seven horses.
Hercules the matter seems urgent
Please
create morses.
.
Your Torsos show their bland position
portable valves, three of horse pistons.
so if they want violence, they certainly will achieve.
shout above the crowd and call for former foreigners – roll up sleeves.
in the white and black reality
we flee once we believe
.
but perfection is a perspective
the artist is just an elective and a given
IN GETTING BITTEN BY THE SOCIAL TAPE WORM –
we let the world squirm -
and turn
tighter in silky cob webs
the spider traps and they took laps
‘til the insect bled out
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
last night
as I soaked my feet
in hot water and fragrant oils
put on some
Bollywood tunes
and let my hips
start to sway
my head began
to swoon
and the binding
threads holding me so tight
inside myself
began to fray
my chest opening in
rips and starts
to reveal its valves
in engorged release
of dark magenta shadows
of teasing, gnashing inner beasts
while this was going on
the moon lit up
around me
in its eight different phases
its halves and crescents
shimmering
in incense-scented cadence
my fingers reached out
to stroke each one,
unique in its own heated glow
as I realized that
they will never cease,
these sequined
streams of joy
in embroidered flow
as long as we are connected
to the root point of self
the love pumps quiet fire
in our veins
even when trapped
in slamming undertow
pressed tornado slab
of pain
and I have had my face
pressed under watery surfaces
for such a long time
that suffocation
almost feels like
breathing
so it's time to
move these hips and thighs
and get this soulspark
reeling
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 6:18 PM UTC
I have love for you
Rooted in my jawbone
Your secret perfume
Convection heat in a back seat
I want your thin fingers
Tangled in the web of my ribs
I want to lose you
In the honeycombed purple layers of my heart tissue
I will cradle your head on my sternum
Letting my lungs do the work
If only
Your elbows were not so sharp
Then I would crave the dig of your fingernails
Your pastures of hair
The butterfly tremble of your lips
Speechless- words no longer hold the weight
My tongue on the novel curves of your sigh
Tasting the twenty summers of your growth
Trembling due to lack of oxygen
Trembling at the onset of lust
The kneading want of knuckle bones
Drawing me ever closer to the colors of light
Static in the stereo of the
Cerebral cortex
Bunched nerves
Shocked into submission
By your bleached bone canines
Open and breathe
The quick pinch endocrine valves
Releasing steam
Drape me with your skin
Wrap me up in your pulsing warm veins
I bleed blue
On every day of the week
I am deafened
By the rage of your heartbeat
I am stricken dumb
The symphony of your eyelids
Swelling in my chest a familiar lust
The wind from your eyelashes
Could blow us out of this winter
And right into spring
All the days of the year
I bleed blue
The dedication of your palm
On my cheek
Warms me like a leaf in sunlight
Peel me layer from layer
You will find no lies in between the pages
I am your machine
Waiting to be properly lubricated
I cannot wait for our first day under the sun
I can't wait to get you out of the fluorescent lights
Of the Assembly line
We will journey together to forgotten realms
And sleep beneath the strange constellations
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
Get me out of this jar of pain.
Tightened lid.
Pickled inside with devastation and destruction.
Blending in with the brine.
Seasoned by torture and violence.
Time to turn up the heat.
Pressure cooked inside.
Temperature rising.
Steam valves are about to burst.
Rapid boil begins.
Screaming release is heard.
Moments are building up.
Angst has set in.
Can not take any more.
Head explodes.
Was it all in my brain?
Casualty of society.
Tripped on the switch.
Pulled the trigger.
No more of me.
Lay here eerily quiet, gone.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
I want my heart broken open, apart on the floor
valves spilling out sunlight pouring out from my core
my warmth comes from you, your limbs and your spine
you pull me in closer to find what we hide
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Tracks upon flesh
Stresses released, valves now eased,
Teardrops of crimson.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 5:16 PM UTC
131
Besides the Autumn poets sing
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze—
A few incisive Mornings—
A few Ascetic Eves—
Gone—Mr. Bryant’s “Golden Rod”—
And Mr. Thomson’s “sheaves.”
Still, is the bustle in the Brook—
Sealed are the spicy valves—
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The Eyes of many Elves—
Perhaps a squirrel may remain—
My sentiments to share—
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind—
Thy windy will to bear!
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