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With white frost gone
And all green dreams not worth much,
After a lean day's work
Time comes round for that foul ****:
Mere bruit of her takes our street
Until every man,
Red, pale or dark,
Veers to her slouch.

Mark, I cry, that mouth
Made to do violence on,
That seamed face
Askew with blotch, dint, scar
Struck by each dour year.
Walks there not some such one man
As can spare breath
To patch with brand of love this rank grimace
Which out from black tarn, ditch and cup
Into my most chaste own eyes
Looks up.
Terry O'Leary Jun 2013
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
          (in front of spring a’ burstin’)
while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves
          near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’.
A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild,
          the alpha wolf wakes howlin’
then scents a lean and lonesome scene
          while on the lurk a’ prowlin’.

A cloud revolts with spangled bolts,
          and starry skies start closin’
as wild geese soar beyond death’s door
          neath naked moon a’ posin’.
Electric shafts, like fractured rafts,
          sail night’s cathedral caldrons –
their cracking curse makes herds disperse
          in random splayed and sprawled runs.

A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes;
          the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ -
with weary back, he’s lost the track,
          his bandied legs betrayin’.
The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair
          with mama left to mind ’em -
the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag,
          is on his way to find ’em.

The pack rejoins with weary ***** -
          perhaps its days are numbered.
In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight,
          with aches and pains encumbered.
As morning nears, with shaggy ears
          (one droopin’ down, hung over)
he’ll set the course with renewed force,
          for, yes, he’s still the rover.

When snow enshrines the timberlines
          and skies are ripped asunder
though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines,
          as gullies fill with thunder;
mid echoes in the mouth o’ death,
          they bid farewell the lair
while panting puffs o’ crystal breath
          float, hanging in the air.

Their path is black (they can’t look back
          for herds long gone a’ missin’)
as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains
          the sinkin’ sun was kissin’.
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
          he keeps ’em all in motion –
the speckled scars of fallin’ stars
          display the night’s devotion.

The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east,
          and hollow wind’s are sighin’
while buzzards freeze in gallows trees,
          a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’.
These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away,
          like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’,
by tilted head, white fangs tipped red,
          and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’.

With snout upturned the moon’s discerned
          as well as wafts a wendin’
and muzzled growls and shriekin’ howls
          mark wolves in quests unendin’.
With fragrant hint, the wolf’s a’ sprint,
          the pack begins t’ rally –
in swift descent they’ve seized a scent,
          that’s flowin’ down the valley.

The wolf moves on behind the dawn
          and shades the pale horizon
as she-wolfs vet his silhouette
          each time they lay their eyes on.
With trek discreet, a trail is beat
          across a river frozen –
when day’s complete, just mice to eat,
          a choice despised, but chosen.

A stillness jeers the shaggy ears
          (one droopin’ down, hung over),
while caribou, with much ado,
          drift, seekin’ blades o’ clover;
the wearied pack picks up their track
          (with stony stomachs pangin’)
through endless seas of barren trees
          with ice like daggers hangin’.

The wolf invades forgotten glades,
          the pack stays close behind ’im;
the caribou, in his purview,
          seem far too far to mind ’im.
Above, a baleful moonbeam wails,
          “oh god he’s gonna’ catch ’em”;
the scene is grim, the Reaper dim,
          the night has gone to fetch ’im.

A moanin’ mynah’s crying loud
          as birds of prey are preachin’
to cravin’ ravens prayin’ proud
          and wide-eyed owls a’ screechin’.
The wolf, unrushed, is breathin’ hushed,
          his hollow eyes a’ narrowin’
and focused hard in fixed regard
          on herds they'll soon be harrowin’.

The morning breeze is ill at ease,  
          a surge brings sudden silence –
then haggard swarms launch poundin’ storms
          and hurricanes of vi’lence;
the herd’s surprised and paralyzed
          all over hell’s half acre –
the leadin’ buck’s run out of luck,
          he’s soon to meet his maker.

The old wolf creeps, the old wolf leaps
          on prey he’s been a’ trackin’ –
a deer adorned with branchin’ horns
          is torn by beasts attackin’.
The morning quakes, a shadow shakes,
          tined antlers left a’ lyin’,
and spattered spots and scarlet clots
          repaint the point o’ dyin’.

A magpie flies with frightened eyes
          (on ebon wings a’ wavin’),
spies wolfin’ jaws and sated maws
          of wolves no longer cravin’.
The snowdrift clears, a cool wind veers,
          a dying breath, moreover –
a wraith appears, with shaggy ears,
          (one droopin’ down, hung over).

Dawn’s sunbeams crowd, ignite a cloud,
          its threaded strands a’ weavin’.
The pack awakes and twists and shakes,
          for soon it’s time for leavin’;
it’s bleak, it chills on shallow hills,
          as she-wolfs come a’ nuzzlin’,
but north winds scold, the wolf lies cold,
          the pack stands back a’ puzzlin’.

On crimson snows neath perchin’ crows,
          the pack abides a’ guardin’;
while nights are tight with Harpy kites,
          the she-wolves wait an’ harden,
until a groanin’ blizzard stones
          the barren forest stowin’
his shaggy ears beneath the weirs,
          with icy hails ’a blowin’.

The storm abates and terminates,
          the glacial wind’s subsidin’;
the past is past or passin’ fast
          and life goes on abidin’.
The herds, today, roam far away,
          not thinkin’ of the dyin’;
the pack’ll stray from day to day,
          ’a stalkin’ hard and tryin’.

As spring sneaks forth upon the north,
          they’re lean without their leader.
A she-wolf (bound with belly round)
          strains neath a budding cedar.
Upon the morn a whelp is born
           (the future forest drover)
in new frontiers, with shaggy ears
          (one droopin’ down, hung over).
Such faith, conceived by truth-revealing trials
Would open up the way for sojourn hearts
Which, too long groaning, some contend the while
And fix not, pierced through with searing darts
Of cruel despite.  The back and not the front
Too much pursued, then turns away the thought
Which, rightly meek, could otherwise wax blunt
The plaint of sorrow, though not falsely wrought.
The vale they pass, and must, which set before
Is flood with tears of loss for grace remiss
Unkindly given, faithfully now born-
Both cheeks for smiting, doubly felt love's kiss.
Forbearing calls of tempted wrath, uncouth
They still the soul with love to love in truth.

Miners do not bemoan their lot or odds
Toiling amidst the mountains for the boon
Of rare and costly things, nor curse the gods
That one is later rich, one richer soon.
Attentiveness they hold who sooner reap
The treasure that's around them secret sown
While into every crevice careful peek
To pluck what heedless others pass unknown.
Life is not slack to proffer all the glee
Of finding underfoot their stainless wealth
If but the waking heart might, pious, see
The subtle vision slipped their soul in stealth.
A fool to Fortune's ways too tempted cling
As others own great price in common things.

What is a plowman’s good who does not know
To rend the fallow starts a noble work
And sluggard helper who rose not to sow
For early rains, and still the labor shirks?
All seasons come upon a certain time
Accounting naturally important ends
Then run together, pending to adjoin
And pass one into each toward that they tend.
So bides the heart, all dispositions moved
Proportionate to their respective toil
And meets the trials of reason, thorough proved
To blend experience for richer soil.
Such faithfulness lays hold upon the tares
And garners truth in joy of harvest tears.

The carpenters, with line and cornered rule
Perfect their plan, all purposes befitting;
Discerning every plane, they make it true
To need and art, nothing good omitting.
Time, space, and material, they well acquaint
To suit what in idea they have known
And do not reckon aimlessly to joint
The forms of care which discipline bestows.
Determining at first, their soul aspires
With upright means to prove a steady norm
In outward style, contracting the attire
To fit, more solid, ‘gainst the pending storms.
All ends appraised, no castle in the air
They raise integrity’s undoubted lair.

The shifting winds of glancing pride toss-on
The ship of fools ambition ere the port
Of youth is left, though life will not disport
With careless confidence and ****** throngs.
Awake you sleepers, grab onto the helm
Of discipline and keep a watchful eye
For them false prophets' quackery that o’er whelms
The halting reason; now, the trial draws nigh.
Set sail for deeper waters, brave the depths
Of judgment, yet retain a stern relief
'gainst piercing cynicism, which has cleft
Many strong hull upon the siren’s reef.
A hero braves the dark, where Dagon preys
To pluck the pearly gem from wisdom's lay.

Seeming and unseemly, like and dislike
The teeter and the totter is such play
Of mind and meaning, cause and mirrored sight
Which founding can confound the night with day.
The child is parent to the man while life
On loss is nourished; so a fusion rules
The universe inverse, returning strife
To compound allegory, deft endued.
Now what in words the wise of men contend
Consistent with or contra-wise contrived
Truth veers centripetal as spirit bends
The line’s division into circumscribed.
So Hermes’ message, as with salty might
Transforms the fixed in point of solving light.

The trials’ invocation always lends
Two ways to go, all faithless thoughts determined;
Another’s liberty of life extends
And once encompassed, all sure hope resounds.
What outward and destructive ways are there
In boasted things and ****** aspirations
Darkens careless souls that proudly bear
The cruelty of reckless estimations;
Though as an envoy of the light there’s one
That demonstrates a proven dignity
In all the world, illumined as the Sun
Their character’s sublime prosperity.
Such paragon of peace must ever live
In conquest of the other's death and sin.

As donning faces for the shift of things
Accommodation is the passing rite
That opens up upon the newest things
Where right or wrong, as given's, always nice.
What dogma won, in things of captured worth
Then fails for certain as both night and day
Impose fierce gauntlets which, ordained by birth
Initiates into humanity.
Whether comes fair or foul, truth ever is
Between what was, perhaps that which shall be
Where nothing good's received, nothing given
Except that proven by integrity.
More prudent hearts, in seeming-self discern
What loss to own, what gains to yet forgo.

No longer bothered in the waking hours
To vex the soul with thoughts of cruel reproof
They lighten every gloom with kinder bowers
And firm affections for shared primal youth.
Life’s promises they keep and sooner turn
On admiration of a sincere care
That judges not but, ever ready, learns-
What good or bad, by name, is common shared.
So being one within a true respect
They dare no more contend with right or wrong
Nor weary coming days with old regrets
But thank the night as harbinger of song.
At last to love in truth and constant live
By word of grace, their best of care to give!

Confessing nothing rash to vainly give
An estimation of life’s fleeting span
They overcome the world and constant live
In each, uniting, as is fit to stand.
Too soon, contesting banter comes about
On winds of contradiction, outward born
For inward wreck upon the teeth of doubt
As partial men from better self are shorn.
But owning what is due in right respect
Of station that sets all among the stars
So puny, comes a night to recollect
Those cares that found and folly each discharged.
Without more striving then, their way bestows
A humble truth, in love more plainly known.

So comes the proof upon transcendent will
To study every thought and whispered care
In what is sought and how may grace distill
The phantom soul; from private ways to bear
All things of good and evil in compound
As strange concoctions are at first the mead
Of sojourn ways, from ancient roots to bound
With vital links of continuity.
No star of vacant hope to glimpse at first
Where subtle intimations strike the mind
For sacred unction, urging on a birth
Through shadowed veils of self and misty kinds.
Once found in each, born by integrity
They compass perfect care to open up
The fount of golden youth while manhood’s key
Unlocks the treasures of salvific sup.
Such ripened grace of knowing, rightly heard
Stores up the nations, garnering the world.

A vision in the heart of Man, more true
To magnify the deed and, pure as gold
Proved equity of faith in each that holds
As dung all things which strife of pride once lured.
Allied and filling up the high measure
Of righteousness, with precepts born of love
It rectifies the will, drawing treasures
From Hade’s misty shrine and dank abode.
Thereby to light their lamps and truth reflect
The awesome wonder of life’s unity
While nothing of their tears to yet regret
Nor grant a loss to love's great sanctity.
Great mystery, though measured in the known
It rises, all in each and each in all!

Who knows what by this awful sight is spied
For proofs more sturdy, sought upon the word
To shape the justice of their dawning days
And lift to yet new life the palling world?
More subtle than the silent creep of time
It slips on by like whispers of a dream
To walk amidst the hustle and the grind
Of souls, too careless snared by cruel disdain.
Not here or there with proud insistency
Nor couched in dainty flirting of the mind-
A form of light and golden verity
Clothed in itself, itself a world sublime.
Substance of being, hope without a fear
This faith, indemnified by countless tears.

Ten thousand times ten thousand worlds employed
With weight and number, light and vast devoid
Before this fairest seat could faith enjoin
As heaven’s solar dame to the sublime.
Compressed within its bowels, the work's distress
From many tons of ore brings forth one stone
Which rare carbunculus the sage invest
With value, their beloved to adorn.
But this and all true wonder has not shown
What men and women may, in time, bequeath
As one pure breath of aurum spirit, born
To comprehend and compliment the rest.
Great agony has justified the odds
In consequence of Man, revealing God!
ConnectHook Oct 2016
Deplorable: that's her election
as it veers in a ****** direction.
Though some mention Lewinsky,
it's really Alinsky
revealed as her true predilection.
http://tinyurl.com/gwkvjbq
The vane on Hughley steeple
    Veers bright, a far-known sign,
And there lie Hughley people,
    And there lie friends of mine.
Tall in their midst the tower
    Divides the shade and sun,
And the clock strikes the hour
    And tells the time to none.

To south the headstones cluster,
    The sunny mounds lie thick;
The dead are more in muster
    At Hughley than the quick.
North, for a soon-told number,
    Chill graves the sexton delves,
And steeple-shadowed slumber
    The slayers of themselves.

To north, to south, lie parted,
    With Hughley tower above,
The kind, the single-hearted,
    The lads I used to love.
And, south or north, 'tis only
    A choice of friends one knows,
And I shall ne'er be lonely
    Asleep with these or those.
Rowan Deysel Feb 2016
The euphoric parallax, the vast.
The concealed, the intangible known.
The indifferent future, the decaying past.
The inconsistent, looping drone.
The lengths of our splendid slumber.
With both laugh and loathe entwined.
Bears witness to the wonders
Of our consciousness - sublime.
The falling from a heightened frightful.
The embarrassment of youth.
The promise of danger - delightful.
And the grand purpose - aloof.

All is vivid. All is bright.
All the colour stains the light.
All things hazy. All things merge.
All connected. All converge.
In the early, in the old.
In the fresh and the fatigued.
In the clear and the controlled.
In the apt and obsolete.
Where days come to end their lives.
To bask in the blurred glow.
To steer the sky behind our eyes.
And allow our liquid thoughts the flow.

Time's waste - the wondrous tragedy.
Mourned hour after hour.
The inescapable catastrophe.
The sad, slow devour.
Sight, to the dull of eyes.
Stability, in the earthless turn.
Tranquility, in every sigh.
Truth, in what we're yet to learn.
Here you hear the happiness.
And the sadness of the stars.
They share a song - synonymous.
They sing to us from afar.

Stumbling through the shapeless silence.
Merging with the mangled mess.
Tampering with the truly timeless.
Engulfed in what we can't caress.
The vague and subtle sightings.
Through the chaos of your plan.
Into the long wait for nothing.
Which kills the heart of man.
In the all encompassing loom.
Where you can finally be alone.
Your mind - a fragile bloom.
And the void, your only throne.

A state of elasticity.
A transparent mirrored wealth.
The nook of all necessity.
An eternal nocturnal self.
Where does this calm originate
That seems so unprepared?
Who truly can appreciate
The blankness of its stare?
Imagination meets mere memory.
Rearranging what we think we know.
Distorting what we want to see.
Inspiring how we hope to grow.

Now see the minds that wander.
With the twisting of the trees.
With the certainty of thunder.
And the warm, empty breeze.
We have to leave, we have to go.
Back to where we loathe but know.
We want to breathe, we want to glow.
We want the reap but not the sow.
The change that you so fear.
Roams the halls of this distortion.
It pauses, sways and veers.
In ceaseless, cruel contortions.

There is something that here dwells.
Something small. Something real.
In our greetings and farewells.
In all we see, hear and feel.
It writes itself on our faces.
It penetrates into our sleep.
And although we can escape it.
Into our subtleties it seeps.
On a buoyant float of black.
The black of vacant oceans.
It throws what we still lack.
Into monstrous swirling motions.

From the canvas of infinite infancy.
With broken wisdom blushed.
Forgotten almost instantly.
In your dazed, waking rush.
To a mountainous climb of morning.
We share the sun of skies.
For it wears the warming.
And the opening of eyes.
But how fine the line is drawn.
Between the sleeping and the aware.
Between the smiles and the forlorn.
Between the dream and the nightmare.
st64 Dec 2013
for the growing angel came to visit Earth


1.
beautiful wing-span of such width, white and strong
with powerful-light in the eyes beaming out gentle-rays
hover in the sky’s energy who welcomes this pacific-source

wondrous-silence of the trees and the splendour of the sun
merry-chirping of birds and the secret-gift of the breeze

whispering messages in air-passages Man can no more sense
the angel looks forward to see more of God’s *beautiful creation
….


2.
and the (lucky) angel is granted the benefit of several landings…..


(on school-grounds)
click.. click.. the sound carries beyond the window
hoisting upward, the bright-light climbs onto the ledge
strange sight to see a grown man taking pictures of a boy
oh, perhaps he is a photographer
but why then, the boy with fear in eyes, has no clothes on.. ?


(on college-grounds)
kick.. kick.. spit.. spit..
young people tumbling around on the ground
perhaps it is a game
no, why then blood on the girl and many sneer-faces beating with brooms.. ?


(at end-of-year party)
presents gaily-bowed are exchanged and smiles offered
but silent-sniggering as the semi-inebriated time the punch-moment
perhaps, this is all jolly, yet some end up hurt and run in shame
no, why engage in harm as this sick-comedy prank gone wrong..?


(in a darkening alleyway)
two young women rush to catch the train ...


(in a young child’s bedroom)
an aged-man makes a routine visit...


(in a moving vehicle carrying a family of four)
vicious arguing in front of children… car veers off…


(in a kitchen where a single-parent feeds two kids)
communication to one kid via another....


(on a construction-site where dust lives comfy in lungs)
on the back of poverty, the well-to-do whip some more.....


(in an overcrowded crèche, gummed-eyes of innocence look up to keepers)
hasty-feeding in queues and abed thin-blankets on cold-floors....


(outside a liquor-store, them who succumb to numbing-promise)
many cold down-the-nose stares on the passed-out ....


(in a geriatric-home, hours before her family turns up)
squeaky rubber-shoes get reminded to do offhanded-cleaning of *****-smells....



3.
angel, you learn much… fast



4.
the boy looks to the window, prays this comes to end
how many more months of this horror
couldn’t even tell his mother of the stern-teacher....
did he sense a grace-light there.. by the window?
(he cannot be sure)
when lightning strikes one heart of one


the girl finds a higher-voice in the grit of courage
redeeming others before their pending-fall
by breaking the ugly-code of silence



5.
(we are gathered here today, dear mourners
to remember our esteemed colleague…)


(what a massive turn-around for that bully-group..
no-one can believe their many sudden-good deeds.. )

and..

a young mother breast-feeds her baby
a father teaches his son to read
a teen helps a crippled-man cross the road
an artist inspires ghetto-kids with free-tuition
a politician privately oversees a park for kids
an addict finds his answers in time
an adult uncovers vital-clues in his deceased-parents' albums
a doctor goes beyond duty's call
a neighbour eases suffering of beloved-pet




6.
dear angel.. / / / what have you learnt?
hazard lurks on the edges of existence


dear God.. / / / was I once there?
oh, what have you created?


dear human.. / / / no words, only benedictions
for tears don't feed the poor




and once, an angel came to lift the grail-heart of purity
thank you, angel

you poor thing.. see how you lift off on heavy singed-wings and..
fly home to grace









S T, 18 dec 2013
hmmm, yes.. perhaps angels can bear the face of anyone ------- who will be the wiser?




sub-entry: mercy-walk

mercy me, oh mercy my..
please.. come take a soporific-walk with me?

oh, mercy be walkin' with me.

:)
K Mae Feb 2013
There is no closure.
Death joins and veers life's flow
We continue
stumbling, sliding, climbing
each stage as best we can.
I cannot know depth or breadth
of your grieving path
Shamed I believed I could
Nor can I know my own
until it rises
flooding body and mind
pummeling down
I cannot map its course
only know there is no closure.
English language remained father's maid servant
Who played with her beauty for thirty five years
He passed it on to us to take , to the bear brunt
We loved to be on the line to embrace the veers

We have a claim of native with spark of language
To cross the barriers it has provided us the bridge
We salute to our father who has given us courage
And helped us to portray and celebrate his image

Let be specific and clear in the standardized stance
Let us not give to any Tom,**** and Harry a chance
Let us with the help of a powerful and strong glance'
Celebrate the prime occasion with intoxicated dance

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Montana May 2013
He veers to the left when he walks
in and out of lives
up and down city streets.
His gait clumsy
and haphazard
bumping passersby
and knocking glasses off tables.
Slack jawed stares and
excited whispers;
unphased
unwavering
steady in his unsteadiness.
He meanders down alleyways;
breaking hearts
and preconceived notions about
what a vagabond should
or shouldn’t be.
Atlas Jul 2017
Our relationship was like the part in a movie when two people run towards each other and the main character looks so unbelievably happy and they close their eyes and just as they are about to embrace the other veers right and jumps into the arms of another.
Hal Loyd Denton Feb 2013
An effusive elaborate scheme the colors advance to bright spellbinding allure then they achieve
Depth of quality by cutting back to softer hues and then the natural dark green is the bold
Touch that succeeds with total symmetry showcased in a view perfected by glass the prism
Most fitting not only to see but to be captivated by perfected expression it is a metaphor for life
The master designer chooses his subjects well one infuses another then by degree others
Foreshadow and glorify it blends tangible and intangible into intelligent coherent order tasteful
And sublime the hint and the elusive wonder all is needed is the wind to bow and ****** it into
A profusion a veritable concert that stirs with appeal life is in motion the players advance and
Retreat each speaking lines unique to themselves what sensations speak tendrils on a garden
Trellis held and fixed a gesture that plays and portrays intricate details the mystery that plays so
Well the stealing of morning frost then the blaze and then restful dying rays that spell comfort
The field rolls and contorts this brandishes excitement exuberance veers and plunders life
Become exploration trails hidden thickets hide and hold expression that is pent up ready to
Explode what vesture we wear it grips our friend’s astonishment is read on their faces but it is
Like a house of many mirrors because their lives are having the same effect on you some days
Are uneventful others are storm tossed with grandness the riches of an all contained realm
Spasms convulse like waves of the sea we stand forth to puzzle and dream what does it all
Mean the sanctity reveals plumes that are invisible that are far reaching and they have given us
This course of endurance that belies longing we grow soft and an inner glowing surpasses the
Stringent the misfit that moans against conforming we are treasure that exceeds all expectation
Life is rich we are its brightest colors and light night is for brooding the day is for shinning and
Divulging the secrets found in the brooding time we accost others we signify to them not only
Our own worth but there’s also fetching is the spray that magnifies the sky we are the bursting
We are the aliveness that is found each day in our lives that is the dooryard of discovery



----------------------------------------------------------------­----------------
Victoria Mogolis Feb 2013
A babbling brook of blood
Veers violently and viciously.
Slipping silently through sunsets,
The trials and tears of the terrified
Add adversity to the adamant tide.
Hunters hound the hunted,
Sacrificing several subtle souls,
And manically murdering men.
Forever on the freshet flows,
With darkened death as deluge.
Fuji Bear Jun 2014
Love is like,
A man born without arms,
He lives his life accepting his disability,
But Constantly jealous of those with arms.
he sees people with arms of every variety; skinny, tattooed, bruised or muscled, and even some like him.
Everyday he watches people use and missuse their arms,
Yet Barely appreciating the mere existence of their own arms.
One day, he hears about a new procedure that could give him fully functioning prosthetic arms.
He is hesitant about the cost and risk,
but decides he must try.
A week later after a successful surgery,
The bandages finally fly free, and so do his arms.
He flexes and bends them every way possible,
testing the boundaries of what feels like a new world to him.
There is an endless beauty in their function.
He feels a joyous wonder,
to experience the touch and precision
of his sweetly sensitive fingertips caressing the surface of anything in their reach.
For the first time, he finally knows what true freedom feels like.

  Months pass as he becomes familiar with a new world under his fingertips.
But as time goes on he begins to notice occasional malfunctions in his daily tasks.
He thinks hes losing touch with the connections used to communicate with the main circuits,
But doesn't think it could get worse.
As Weeks pass more connections falter between him and his once perfect partner.

The day starts like any other winter morning,
an icy cold, cloudy drizzle.
He's driving the windy back roads to work,
rounding a sharp bend in the road, when he suddenly feels a spasm ripple through his arms
ripping his hand from the wheel and all control.
His car veers off the roadside cliff
leaving gravity to doom him to an icy river below.
The car careens through the droplets of rain in the air.
His world slows down as the car begins to plummet downward,
only seconds before impact.
The freezing icy rain and air rip
through the broken windshield,
but nothing feels colder than the betrayal of the arms he once held so dear.
And in that moment,
he wishes that he'd never had arms at all.
My longest poem ever.
Daniel A Russ Jul 2010
Tapping the vein
at the section of upper and lower arm
striking the needle deep,
jagged and rough,
upon notice that Second
isn't a one-way street anymore.
Must have changed while I was gone.

My Malibu,
swerving viciously to avoid the old Grand-Am
finds its way into the right lane
the only lane
fitting like a glove on the wrong hand.

Ahead, 475 dictates my exit.
A detour, the sign says,
with little ostentation,
even more accuracy.
The highway vomits me away,
chewed and confused,
an exit before my usual.

Though the path ahead
veers straight as a needle,
it's two miles downwind.
Two miles behind.
Great symbolism,
I tell myself,
pressing ******* the accelerator.
jo spencer Feb 2013
Eye sore at  Cisco
the weight of the World veers unwaveringly.
Careless whispers prevaricate,
what was strong
now senses its own weightlessness,
floating on, circles loosen,
traces of people deep in our recesses
slip through the  minds flotsam.
bucky Dec 2015
luminous and trembling, he
walks like the soles of his feet are made of moonlight, he
***** you like he's trying to tell you something, he
shakes and shudders like he sees something you don't, he
is everything all at once, fragile and overwhelming, a dive without air, he
wraps you up and doesn't let go until he burns alive, he
dissolves in your veins like surgical thread, he
****, he
god, he
could build on this for hours and still be ready to swallow you down, he
cant ******* breathe without touching you, he
lets the sun bruise his back a thousand different shades of pink and still comes back for more, he
calls you when his voice is crackling with exhaustion and sticky with hunger, he
lets you sleep inside his ribcage because that's how he keeps you warm, he
shivers in the dark and wont let you take care of him, he
tells you you're some precious pretty thing as he veers into a ditch, he
needs seventeen stitches and a transplant with a name you can't remember, he
always shatters on impact
Matt Bancroft Feb 2013
Where along did the line become dotted?
When did the line become crossable through gaps?

Steady white line, double parallel yellows
Following this lined street till I find the end,
Till I get to the bottom,
Till this drawn line stays constant and cannot be crossed.

Who was the first to cross this line that is so drawn on my soul?
That so moves me to boil with red convection and spill
Drips down my pan side face. Third degree flame ignited pain
In every line of bone and vain in my body.


Walking by playground filled with shouts and laughs,
Stomping little feet, hands of monkeys.
Nothing but joy and impressions, pressed into the skin.
Children are so easily impressed.

The blacktop filled with lines is the child’s whole world
Of lines to frolic at four-square or hop-scotch to the jungle bars.
On the way to the cafeteria to lunch with pink and blue tennis shoes
And lunch boxes of Snow White and Buzz Lightyear
Listen when told to stay in line.


Listen to:
Lines of scratched skin. Lines crossed.
Lines of makeup drips. Lines crossed always remembered.
Lines of people trying to forget
Being line crossed by one who found a gap.

In the middle of that same bad dream
I always try to wake you up before it happens.

To you who veers the line, you who crossed
You who stings, you who injures:
When and where I meet you,
I will show you these lines.
I will teach you.
Alex Cassidy Oct 2012
When I deleted myself off the face of the earth
And it still spun
And you were still there
But I was gone
How could you, how could…they
Keep on
I always expected one after the other you would all come crashing after me
Like children playing follow the leader off a cliff
Or the carts of a train jumping one after the other in rhythmic timing when the engineer, asleep at the
wheel, veers off tracks and goes over the edge of the mountain
Yet here I am
Lone at the pit of the valley
Staring up, not at the heavens as I hoped,
But up at you, and your life
Going onward
How can you mourn me
Say you ever loved me
If you can go on with out me
Here I am, in all your triumphant glowing glory I couldn’t even go on with you
You said I was everything to you
I picked up so tenderly each thought
Sentence
Syllable
Sound
You laid on me
I was so eagerly in love with you
And now my heart is breaking
And my tears melt my body into the hauntingly dark soil
Where other wayward people must also lie
My breath, now, has long expired
And you are not coming
So as time passes
And you grow older
And meet other women,
and shake hands
Shake hips
Write your stories
Stagnantly, I remain
My decomposing, hallow body
Dissolves into the earth
The wind quivering, and wailing above me
A friend and I who both contemplated suicide at the same time. My musing on if i was the first to go, and he survived.
Joshua Phelps Jun 2020
We all have goals,
We all strive to obtain them

We try our best to stick to the path,
And avoid obstacles at all costs.

But we realize that life isn't always a straight line.

Sometimes it hands us a curveball,
And our direction veers off course.

Once again, we're back at where we started.
And that's okay.

It may not be what we wanted,
And it may not be what we asked for
But we make the best of what we've got.
And try, try again

In these uncertain times,
Self-reflection isn't unheard of;
It's almost like a great pause.

With the world around us slowing to a crawl,
The stress and anxiety are getting to us all.
We find that brief moment of clarity,
A revelation that, maybe, we're not lost after all.
In the wake of the coronavirus pandemic, I realize that I'm not the only one going through a major shift in life right now. We're all going through this. We will get through this.
craig apogee Sep 2015
patience and desire
eyes on the prize
even though it seemed lost
true gold lies deep in the glow of those hazel eyes

a tale that threatened with tears
and the dread of heartfelt slips
veers towards the tessellation of your body
head-to-toe with my lips

overwhelmed by fears of turbo-charged love
and at which stops this train may be calling
yet trepidation is drowned by exhilaration
as this new adventure is dawning

hips on hips and longful gazes
hearts singing unheard notes
your hand in mine, side by side
we sail forth on our choice of cupid's boats
Akemi Feb 2018
holdover from the air cools bitter awash of dark and a turning horizon without centre. where i entered an empty frame across distance and skin like smoke. ive been having nightmares of cosmic terror a sublime loss of control like paper tearing in the chaotic drifts of broken eddies and other everyday things an inward open mirror a sunlit line wavering to heat disintegration dispersal erosion and death. ive been reading uncanny fluctuations in the sign of things in a power too great and sparse to comprehend overwhelmed by haunting finitude as time veers into collision and the fleeting panic of yesterdays blood. i find myself shaking at the thought of contact the electromagnetic law of repulsion built into the fabric of my flesh eyes turned away like a promise all language from dead stars. dragged along these orbits my skin trembles and i am hateful. faces blur in passageways half-lit rooms smudge across the surface of my memory until i see nothing but the colour of what was tightening the cords of my ribs stumbling inflexion. in the precession of traffic light blurs through my sleeve and i realise i was invisible all along and that i did this to myself and that nobody can help me and that i did this to myself and that i will retreat further and further and further because if it hurts to be abandoned it hurts more to be approached and misunderstood. the masks the words the acts the plays and beneath it all fear cruel mounting hopeless wretched fear eyes turning fingers running over and over until they break the lines of my face a *******. i turn the clocks upside down. i take the batteries out of all my electronic devices. i break the locks on my door. only then does morning come.
we fear the silence because it signifies nothing eyes turned in the moment of contact the nauseating fear che vuoi what do you desire what do you ******* want from me slippage between words and words and words endless barrage what do you want what do you desire without origin arising at the edge of chaos between being and nothing what do you eyes turned to the wall fingers fidgeting no purpose no purpose no end

oldgray.bandcamp.com/album/slow-burn
topaz oreilly Sep 2013
In the darkness he felt threatened
the tables turn as he veers away,
ages usher had  nothing on time -
just the haunted side of jade,
the fossils turn of anger
a packed mass of double take
impenetrability stakes the  hills.
topaz oreilly Oct 2012
The Cri de Coeur
screeches urgent emotion
but their Exclamations
are unpicked , back to determination
Did the Revellers needlessly pay for this their Summer ?
But for Capricious truths
they now run fickle and jarred
naked is the heart of the matter,
a hastened path runs counterintuitive
as empty silences often veers
ungrounded.
Julia Mullin Jul 2013
How deep does the dread go?
As deep as the fear goes
How far does the fear go?
Much deeper than the shadow

With a pick and torch light
Find the gem that will shine bright
May be day in this sun blight
In the dread it is midnight

Keep the flames burning ember
For the chill of December
For the hope to remember
For the dread to dismember

Only light burns the dread fear
Only light makes the path clear
When the light sparks the dread jeers
When the gem gleams the dread veers

Who knows where the gem grows?
In the hollow of the shadows
In the dark where the dread goes
In a place only hope knows
S S Jan 2017
Clacks the train on pre-made track
Taps she on and on all day
Wheel on rail, turns wheel on rail
Never wavering from laid out trail.

Clacks the train on pre-made track
Oft taking souls both to and fro
Alas unseen goes the weary rail
As metal cuts through the nestled nail.

Clacks the train on pre-made track
The unjoining joint harked too late
Souls on board feel blinding pain
As loco veers off its destined lane.

Clacks she no more on pre-made track
Unhinged, undone, has no path, no role
Bent beyond all blacksmith skill
Now left soulless, without way or will.
my timid tournefortia,
whose peripatetic scent matadors
the mad men.
whose laughter veers away the impossible,
of whose flame will gander
like flotsam in a sea of aloneness,
you are a danseuse in the
misty moonlight.

     perpetual in the night illume,
    perched in the deepness of
      sad walls calling out the
   azure. my little tournefortia,
      it was such joy to have lived
   when you have blossomed.

--- as all flowers go, you too, have gone - flagrant grows regard, like a prancing flame
    of blue my eyes are frantic and
    anew --- i seek new flowers.
B D Caissie Aug 2019
The memory of her face you held so dear, has gone away...
That gentle caress that calmed your fears, has gone away...

Heavy onslaught, clouds of cinder made a brume above.  
The stars in the sky that navigate frontiers, have gone away...

Bleach white canvas, metaphorically cleans the slate.
The painted past, the way your brush veers, have gone away...

Empty your pockets, take everything, give it your all.
The energy, desire, the charisma and cheers, have gone away...

Skyscrapers tall, city streets, flashy lights and cars.
Thousands of trees, tranquility, forests for years, have gone away...

Crippling car crash, broken soul, fingers frozen.
Their musical genius, symphony for the ears, have gone away...

I take nothing for granted, for life is far to short.
Countless walls of whom etched “I was here”, have gone away...
Ghazal
The kind that picks you up and drops you off in a different state of mind

The kind that leaves you lost in the right direction
it has unexpectedly taken

A kiss so purposeful and sound
Even the force of the wind nor the stares of passersby can break it

The kind of kiss the brain is stubborn to erase
because with every eighth minute
the present veers off its natural course
to travel back to that enchanting space

Back to him and me
planted in front of The Liberty Tree
Back to the heated discussion between lips
and to everything felt and poured out in our kiss

To hello and goodbye

To stoked intensity

And to the eloquent expression of elusive chemistry

2016 ©
Inspired by a first and last date.
Brandon Cook Oct 2015
Stepping out for a midnight snack
As its stomach roars like a lion
Taming the jungle
As it stalks it's prey
With adrenaline pumping

It smells and sniffs
An alluring scent
As sweet as honey
It's hunger enraging it
Like a stone cold killer

Licking and smacking
It's lips as it lusts
Over the smell of blood
Quenching an uncontrollable thirst
As it's prey gets closer
All humanity disappearing

It hears the feint heartbeat
Of another as it grows nearer
The temptation grows stronger
As the lust looks for an outlet

Crouched like a lioness
Hunting down a gazelle
Readying to pounce
Willing itself to stay down
Coiled like a viper
Ready to strike

The sweet scent
Daringly close
You could almost taste it

It starts to snarl
Barely audible
Not a creature could hear
Not even a mouse

the sweet scent
So close its tangible
It's eyes narrowed
It's head cocked
Like a loaded gun
Daring to fire

rummaging it's paws
Into the earthborn soil
Sizing up its prey destined to pounce  
It billows it's growl
To a narrow roar

Coiling back
Latching it's claws into the earth
Lunging
Letting out an earth-shaking roar

The chase was on
As the hunted bolted
As did the carnivorous apex predator
It's instincts honed in to the prey
The creature heard the heartbeat
Of its dinner
Grow denser
Grow harder
Grow faster

The predator smirks
The enemy grows weaker
Dodging trees
Jumping rivers

It knows if it makes one mistake
It'll be all over
As the hunt veers a left
The stalker flanks it

With a final lunge
It's jaw meets the jugular
Of its dinner
The prey squirms and whines and wails
Then silence

A sickening crunch
Breaks the deadly silence
The chase is over
Deyer Mar 2017
A car speeds down the highway;
an aching heart beats on despite constant
complaints. The car veers left on a straight road, tires spinning on gravel;
the heart housed in, surrounded by
disease. Slow, plodding, it beats a little slower
with every passing day. Momentum
carries the car, spinning then rolling,
bits and pieces flying in all directions; the heart grows weaker still, others keep coming because a dying heart shouldn't beat alone. The car takes one final flip,
settling upside down, glass broken, seatbelts still in place, dents, scratches, scrapes and newfound bruises; the heart is slower still,
pained peace settling until, veins showing, baggy eyes, wrinkled hands, it stops. The car, leaving black marks on straight highway; the heart leaving a slightly different imprint. It all
stops,
Kiernan Norman Sep 2015
I need more souls around.
Look-
the knife I chewed up sharp
sways and dangles a glaring charm,
(and a charming glare)
double knotted on a piece of rope and
tucked under my shirt.
It bruises my breastbone when I jump.
I’m always jumping.

I don’t cut paradise into pieces anymore.
I take it all in with one quick bite.
I’m hardly chewing;
I never learned to savor
and it hasn’t rotted me out yet.

Late last week I had an idea.
I told the room:
(thirty eyes squinting,
a dozen minds listening,)
‘Let's get together and refuse
to acquire a taste for civility.’
So what do you think?
I was only speaking to you.

I've been playing a private game
all summer and I keep scoring.
I wear long skirts and eyeliner
and keep my mouth shut.
I trapeze across centuries and well traveled
roads with my long hair
and track the pontential and power
assigned to my quiet smile
and gentle pout.

The world can be mine with a
flick of my wrist, a lick of my lips-
But I don't want it:
i'm here to expel, not to endure,
the point is to leave as light
as possible.
I won’t win until I have nothing left to carry.

Tonight I'll just seer sailors;
soldiers call to me
like I’m their sole daughter, their soul daughter,
dripping green jewels and deep, brown
curls onto tan toes and
dancing in the road-
(eyes decidedly closed,
rush hour.)

I gulp in smoke from their pipes
while spinning circles in the dirt.
My voice trails over tree branches,
my lungs smolder and ashe.
I smile sweetly-slow.

When I do meet their gaze-
(measuredly striking; a tender,
lingered look which veers me from gypsy to divinity,)
they tense.
They call out
You are my Odyssey.
You are my Wild Waves.
you are my Purple Heart.

Skipping stones over oceans and puddles,
I keep nodding and careening.
I keep coursing and coiling,
keep slurring my words,
refusing my name
and pocketing your promises.
I gave up on air-drying my skirt,
(You are not what I’m thinking of.)

I’m only a little bit of what’s left--
everything we tried to know,
everything we only read once-
everything we left in footnotes of
essays, under passenger seats
and tangled in the bed sheets
of that swollen-heart name
no longer spoken.
I'm only the woven wires
and reins braiding bold
acrylic cities across knuckles
and palms, flashlight
illuminated and glowing.
It's new skin shimmering in the
daylight, pearling over
and throbbing awake
in places only I can see.
trying different style
kristi robertson Sep 2012
Just because you've drifted away in a different way than I doesn't mean there's any difference in our reasons why. So narrow on the straight away,  the normal ones point and say,  "Look at them. How sad. What a waste. Hope they get their lives together one day." So when I saw your too thin frame, eyeslids hung and movements lame, comatose to your own name, I thought "look at her. How sad. How could someone blur so much of their life. What a waste." My face should sting and my ears ring from a slap after a remark like that. Up, fast, and going, not drifting but rowing, still veers as far off straight arrows as down, gone, and not knowing, drifting and still slowing. And would I not be just as got as she if only availability limits were showing. I silence my judgements.I know if it were I, no factor to go and stop me before I die, I'd go down straight up and goodbye. So next time when I look at me in a mirror that reflects what people see I need not think it unlikely if they wonder who rightly they see. Me or she?
I am alive when you touch me, for I touch you

As you know me, I know you

Watch me as I lean into or away from

One element, open to another; who in turn leans into

Or veers from my earthy scent and rough caress



We all are seeking

Yearning to explore, be explored

To understand, to be understood

To penetrate, root into and connect with life

Stretching limbs and roots into the unknown

To touch and to know we are alive


There is roughness

That is part of truth

A toughness that comes with survival

Traces are left behind when we expand into each other's worlds

We are affected by all who come to give, who come to take

Bent branches, faded foliage, scarred skin

Do these markings make us less or more

— The End —